To Hear a Nightingale

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘He, did you say? You did say he?’

  ‘Yes, my darling. Yes. It was a little boy.’

  It was Tyrone junior. It was their boy. It was Michael, the name which he was to have been called. And Michael was no more.

  Cassie wept. She turned on her pillow and wept into it. She now realised that she would much rather Michael had lived and that she had died.

  At some time she must have fallen into a deep sleep. Because the next thing she knew it had got dark. And Tyrone was standing at the opening of the cubicle, talking in low and urgent tones to another nurse, a nurse in a different uniform, whom Cassie then recognised as Sister.

  ‘I will not have my girls spoken to in such a manner,’ Sister was saying, albeit without much authority. ‘Nor will I have them manhandled.’

  ‘She’s lucky she’s still alive,’ Tyrone answered. So quietly that only Cassie knew how angry he was. ‘And I strongly advise you, Sister, to think before you say anything more. About anything. That nurse is not to be let back in here, you understand?’

  He looked at the woman challengingly. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and dropped her eyes almost at once.

  ‘If that nurse goes near my wife again,’ he warned her, ‘I shall have her sacked. And you too.’

  ‘Mr Rosse—’ Sister began.

  ‘Two of your governors are personal friends of mine,’ Tyrone interrupted. ‘One word from me, and you’re without a job. Now where can I find Doctor Rigby?’

  ‘Doctor Rigby is off duty, I’m afraid, Mr Rosse.’

  ‘Probably just as well for him. But you can tell him, when he comes back on duty, that I’m filing a complaint against him. For negligence.’

  ‘Doctor Rigby did everything within his power to save the child, Mr Rosse.’

  ‘Except operate early enough. He should have operated yesterday. As soon as he discovered it was a breech, and while the baby was not yet engaged. Even my vet could have told your Doctor Rigby that.’

  Tyrone then dismissed her, and came back and sat by Cassie’s bedside again.

  ‘Tyrone—’ Cassie whispered.

  ‘Sshhhh, now,’ he ordered. ‘You just go back to sleep. I’ll be here.’

  ‘I should have died, Ty. I should have died, and you should have had your son.’

  ‘Nonsense. That’s nonsense, Cassie, do you hear me? You’re never to say that again. You’re not even to think it. I can always have another child. I can never have another you.’

  Then he leaned over her and kissed her gently on her cold forehead.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said.

  There was a girl in the next bed to Cassie, waiting to have her child. She must have sensed the moment Cassie felt like talking, because for a day she said nothing to Cassie at all. She just read her paperback novel, and chain-smoked. Then in the evening, although Cassie didn’t turn towards her, or make any indicative move, the girl suddenly spoke to her.

  ‘Are yous all right?’ she asked her, with that now familiar Dublin twang. ‘’Cos I heard what happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cassie answered. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Do yous smoke?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Do yous mind if I do?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  That was their entire first exchange. The girl obviously knew instinctively that Cassie didn’t feel like talking so she just left her alone. Now and then when Cassie shifted position in the bed, she’d find the girl smiling at her, and she’d do her best to smile back, although all she actually felt like doing was crying.

  The next morning, after Tyrone had reluctantly returned to Claremore, Cassie sat herself a little higher in her bed and pretended to read a book. The girl in the next bed took this as a cue for further conversation.

  ‘I’m Kathleen,’ she said. ‘Kathleen O’Donnell.’

  ‘I’m Cassie Rosse.’

  ‘Was this your first?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘Jeeze that’s rotten. It’s always rotten, whatever they tell yous. This is my second as well.’

  Kathleen then had a bad attack of coughing, which enabled Cassie to take a better look at her. She was, as Tyrone would say, but a slip of a thing. To Cassie she appeared no more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Even through her advanced state of pregnancy, it was quite clear that she was badly under-nourished and, by the time she had finished coughing, that she wasn’t very well, for she was as white as the hospital sheets, and had dark grey rings under her eyes.

  ‘What’s your other child?’ Cassie asked. ‘A boy or a girl? I’ve got a little girl.’

  ‘Mine’s a boy,’ Kathleen answered. ‘Sean. Sean Patrick, and yous wouldn’t think it, but I miss the little divil. Me auntie’s lookin’ after him, the bitch. God she’s cruel. She’s the cruellest woman in the world. I should know ’cos the bitch brought me up. She’d beat yous so hard yous couldn’t get out of your bed except be crawlin’ on your hands and knees. But I couldn’t leave Sean Patrick with his father. Jeeze his father’d have him fallin’ in the fire. Or runnin’ under a bus. The stupid old man.’

  ‘Your husband’s older than you, is he?’

  ‘Isn’t yours?’

  ‘Yes. But not that much older.’

  ‘Mine is. God he’s damn near sixty. Me auntie married me off to him for a few quid. And all to inherit his stinkin’ old farm.’

  She suddenly stopped talking and Cassie realised that even though she’d turned away ostensibly to light another cigarette, she was in fact crying.

  She waited a few moments before asking the girl what the matter was.

  ‘I shouldn’t be sayin’ this to you,’ she answered, ‘God forgive me. But you see, Mary Mother of God, I don’t want this baby! I never did! I don’t want this wretched child!’

  ‘Why not?’ Cassie asked carefully.

  ‘Ah because!’ Kathleen sobbed. ‘Because I was going to leave the old bastard! But with another child, jeeze how the hell can I? How the bloody hell can I?’

  Kathleen started going into labour at ten o’clock that night, but by the time Cassie was woken the next morning at half past six, the bed next to her was still empty.

  The nurse whom Tyrone had expelled from Cassie’s cubicle was on duty. And despite Tyrone’s warning, she still delighted in tormenting Cassie whenever the opportunity arose. Now she came to the bottom of Cassie’s bed and smiled at her. But as always the smile was on her lips only.

  ‘And how’s Mrs Rosse this morning?’ she said, shaking down a thermometer. ‘Feeling a little less sorry for ourself, are we?’

  She put the thermometer in Cassie’s mouth as she opened it to reply, and lifted her wrist to check her pulse.

  ‘It’s hardly the end of the world, you know, what happened to you. You’re married and can have more babies. Can’t you? Because you’re still alive.’

  She stood above Cassie, by the side of her head, so that Cassie couldn’t quite make out the expression on her face. She left the thermometer in her mouth for far too long deliberately, while she called across the ward to another nurse.

  ‘Mary? You remember the woman who lost the little boy a couple or so days ago? Mrs Rosse here? Well, you can please come and strip her bed. Over here, please.’

  Then she whipped the thermometer out of Cassie’s mouth and shook it down without even looking at it.

  ‘Out of bed then, Mrs Rosse,’ she ordered, moving away, only to stop by the door and look back.

  ‘Oh and better luck next time!’ she added. ‘That is if there is a next time!’

  Cassie hadn’t even the strength to walk. She slowly swung her weakened legs out of bed and sat on the side. The other nurse came over to help her up.

  ‘You don’t want to pay any attention to Nurse Riordan,’ she whispered. ‘Everyone hates her, and we’re all only too happy she’s been dismissed.’

  Cassie smiled as the nurse helped her dress, realising suddenly that Tyrone had obviously been as good as his word.
<
br />   ‘Any news of the little girl in the next bed?’ Cassie enquired. ‘Kathleen O’Donnell?’

  ‘The poor soul had a terrible long labour,’ the nurse replied, doing up the back of Cassie’s dress. ‘But thank God she was safely delivered half an hour ago. She’s another little boy.’

  Cassie thanked the nurse for her help, and sat on the small wooden chair by her bed to wait for Tyrone. Across the ward, two women lay chatting, with their newborn babies at their breasts. One of them caught Cassie’s eye, smiled shyly, then looked away in embarrassment.

  They’ll be taking their babies home with them, Cassie thought. They’ll be taking them home, and putting them in the cots that have stood waiting for them, and dressing them in the little clothes they’ve been knitting during their long and often boring confinements. They’ll be taking their babies home. The cots will be filled. The clothes will be worn.

  But the blue room back at Claremore will be empty.

  They’ll be taking their babies home.

  But my new blue nursery full of all those handmade clothes will be empty.

  Cassie sat on the plain wooden chair, then suddenly dropped her head into her hands and sobbed publicly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She heard voices in the study down below her, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Not that she was greatly interested. She was really only interested in staring at the walls and the ceiling, and thinking how much she hated maroon. She couldn’t imagine why she had painted the room that colour. It was like dried blood. It was like a womb.

  That made her laugh. It was funny to think of her lying in a womb. Lying staring at the walls of a dark maroon womb, while outside she could hear the voices of the people as they waited for her to be born. Well, she’d make them wait. They could wait as long as they liked. As long as she made them. Because she wasn’t coming out of this dark maroon womb. And they weren’t going to take her out either, by some brute force. Because she could stop them doing that. She could lock herself in. Then there was no way they could make her be born.

  Tyrone found her by the door as he opened it.

  ‘Where’s the key?’ Cassie asked him.

  ‘There isn’t a key,’ Tyrone replied.

  ‘There used to be a key.

  ‘There wasn’t ever a key.’

  ‘Then will you get me one, please?’

  Tyrone had her back in her bed now, and was tucking her in. Cassie was crying, as she begged him for a key. But Tyrone just kissed her head and said there was no need for one.

  ‘But there is, Ty!’ Cassie pleaded. ‘There is! I must be locked in here, you see! Then they can never take me away from here!’

  He was giving her something to drink, something pink, that fizzed. Cassie smiled because she liked it. Because she knew she could go floating again. The key stopped being so important, as she felt her body lighten, and she knew that she could smile at Tyrone again.

  ‘Erin’s going to come in and read to you while I’m out,’ someone was saying. It was Tyrone. Cassie smiled at him.

  ‘I won’t be out long, and Josephine’s sleeping. So Erin said she’d come in and read.’

  Yes, it was Tyrone. She could see him now. He was so handsome. Cassie smiled at him again.

  ‘Doctor Gilbert’s just been.’

  You remember that smell of tobacco, Cassie? That must have been old Doctor Gilbert.

  ‘He says you have to stay in bed.’

  Cassie, are you smiling? Yes, yes of course you are. You’re smiling because the doctor understands. He’s making you stay in bed because he knows you don’t want to leave this room. Your womb.

  Tyrone watched Cassie as he sat on the edge of their bed. She was looking at him, smiling in that still vague way. Smiling at him without seeing him, as she had been doing now for nearly three months.

  He left her sleeping and went downstairs, where Doctor Gilbert was helping himself to some more whisky.

  ‘There has to be something else we can do, Doc,’ Tyrone said, taking the decanter and helping himself to a drink. ‘She’s not showing the slightest sign of improvement.’

  ‘There’s the electric shock business I told you about,’ Doctor Gilbert replied, looking out of the study window and across the newly mown lawns. ‘But – and quite wisely so to my way of thinking – you’ve said no to that. So there we are.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Tyrone said, knowing full well that it was. Either they let time take its course, or they risked Cassie’s finely balanced sanity by a course of electric shock treatment.

  ‘That’s the size of it, I’m afraid, Tyrone Rosse. Now tell me which of your two horses is going to win at the Curragh on Saturday.’

  As it happened, they both did, thus breaking Tyrone’s sequence of thirty-two successive losers. James Christiansen’s horse The Walker duly obliged, finally, in a nursery stakes, and Willowind recovered her form to win the big five-furlong sprint by three lengths. But it had been a terrible season otherwise, disastrously so for one which had begun in such fine style. The virus had taken far more out of the horses than even Tomas had predicted, and although the horses worked sweetly and strongly at home on the gallops, as soon as they were in a race they collapsed. Tyrone got sick of the sight of his good horses trailing in last behind greatly inferior ones.

  He had managed to get Charmed Life to the post for the Epsom Derby. But he was uneasy in the market, drifting from 5/1 out to 10/1 on the morning of the race, and finally starting at 12/1. Two furlongs out, Tyrone and Leonora thought they had the bookmakers proved totally wrong, but once again the bookies’ information service had done them proud, as Charmed Life, from looking every inch the winner, suddenly blew up and finished next to last. He did the same thing in the Irish Derby, so Tyrone decided to give him a short holiday and bring him up again for the Champion Stakes in October.

  It was a totally frustrating summer, particularly since all the tests they ran on the horses came up one hundred per cent negative. It was, as all his other training friends told him, the long-term effect of a particularly nasty virus.

  So it was with great relief that he watched his two winners being led in, especially since The Walker had been the last horse to go down with the virus, and now he was the first one back in the winner’s enclosure. Tyrone did have one further worry, however. He was due to take two horses out to race in Milan the following week, but since Cassie was showing no signs of any improvement whatsoever, he was extremely doubtful about leaving her, even in the capable and caring hands of Mrs Muldoon and Erin. Fate, however, in the shape of Lady Meath intervened.

  Tyrone saw her in the bar after Willowind’s victory. She came up to him, and congratulated him warmly, saying how delighted she was to see Claremore back in the frame again. Tyrone mentioned he hadn’t seen her on the course for a few weeks, and wondered if she’d been away.

  ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I’ve been ill. I’ve had a cancer, but thank God it doesn’t seem to have been malignant. I’m completely recovered, so there’s no need to pull any long faces. How’s that pretty young wife of yours?’

  Tyrone told her of their troubles, while Sheila Meath listened to him intently. Halfway through, she stopped him.

  ‘This is far too important to talk about on a racecourse,’ she said. ‘Stop in for a drink on your way home.’

  By the time Tyrone left Sheila Meath’s house that evening, he felt better than he had done for weeks. Sheila had liked Cassie on the several occasions they had met and Cassie had reciprocated her feelings. So it was agreed that while Tyrone was away in Italy, Sheila would stay at Claremore, and see what, if anything, she could do for Cassie.

  ‘I know a thing or two about these problems, Tyrone,’ she’d told him over their whiskies. ‘I won’t go into details now, in case I’m proved wrong. But I think I may know how to get to the bottom of this one.’

  And so Tyrone left for Milan, safe in the knowledge that Cassie was in good hands. Cassie had brightened up considerably when Sh
eila had arrived, and the two of them had sat talking for nearly an hour. The longest coherent conversation Cassie had managed previously since coming out of hospital was about ten minutes. Sheila moved into the bedroom next door to Cassie’s, where Tyrone had been sleeping, in case she needed her in the night.

  Which in fact she did. The first night Tyrone was gone, Cassie suffered one of her terrifying nightmares, and Sheila found her down the end of the bed, under all the covers, screaming that she couldn’t find her baby. Sheila calmed her, and got some tranquillisers into her, but Cassie couldn’t get back to sleep, so the two women sat in Cassie’s double bed and talked until dawn.

  ‘I have to find my baby,’ Cassie kept saying to her. ‘You do know I have to find my baby.’

  ‘Yes, Cassie,’ Sheila replied, ‘I do. And I agree. You must find your baby, and tomorrow we’ll talk a little more about it.’

  Cassie had seemed settled by that assurance, and she suddenly fell asleep. Sheila went back to her own room, and exhausted by the events of the night, she too fell into a deep sleep. She was awakened two hours later by Erin who told her that Mrs Rosse had disappeared.

  At first Cassie couldn’t find the farm. She had the address, because it was in her bag. But whenever she stopped someone to ask them where it was, once she was driving again, she couldn’t remember what they had told her. Finally a boy hopped in the car beside her, all too anxious to get a ride, and took her right to the door.

  Cassie sat in the car and stared at the farmhouse, which wasn’t much bigger than Tomas’ cottage. It was nowhere near as clean, however. Even Cassie could see that, Cassie thought, as she brushed some stray hair from her eyes. The front door was open, and chickens were busy wandering in and out, pecking everywhere they went in the constant quest for food. There was an old pram outside the door, rusting, but obviously in use, judging from the blanket and sheet which were carelessly tossed over the side. It’ll be all right if that’s the case, Cassie thought as she walked to the door. If that’s how it is, then it’s going to be all right.

  Kathleen didn’t know who it was at first as she looked up from the stove. She had her baby on her hip, and was busy cooking some chicken feed, when she looked up and saw the woman at the door.