The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  He was stunned. His eyes were roving over the image. He was recognizing Connie’s distinctive style of painting. He saw it in all her work. They’d once had a lighthearted discussion about it.

  “Every artist paints herself,” she’d said. “Or himself, if you want to be picky about it.”

  “Nonsense! Next you’ll be telling me that the Mona Lisa is a self-portrait of Leonardo.”

  “How do you know it’s not?”

  “Oh, don’t be daft! The very idea!”

  “All right, let’s stick with more recent stuff. You go along to any gallery with portraits—especially group portraits—and I guarantee you’ll see that all the sitters resemble each other. That’s because an artist doesn’t paint what she sees in front of her. She paints what she sees in her head, and that’s usually the face she sees every day in the mirror.”

  He recalled their weekend in Amsterdam in 1980. They’d visited the Rijksmuseum, and had stood in awe of Rembrandt’s colossal canvas: The Night Watch. They’d annoyed the other visitors by laughing when Connie drew his attention to the almost familial resemblance between all the painted men. Henry had argued—somewhat weakly—that there’d been a lot of inbreeding in Holland in those days.

  The loud blast of a car horn jolted him out of his daydream. The traffic light had turned green. He was holding up a line of cars.

  Startled, he drove off. He needed to get to the gallery fast.

  A knot of rough-looking youths stared sullenly at the shiny white convertible as he pulled up on Kashmir Street. Not to worry. He could keep an eye on the car through the Mondrian’s big picture windows—windows, Connie had informed him, that were shattered more than once during the worst of Belfast’s rioting. He saw a woman waving at him from behind the left window.

  “Henry, good to see you,” Maeve Hanratty said as she admitted him. Slim, she was dressed simply and wore little makeup. “Any news?”

  “I was hoping you had some for me.”

  She was looking at the sheaf of posters in his hand. “You have more . . . ?”

  “Yes. People are putting them up all over the place. It’s very kind of them. I was hoping . . .”

  “Of course. Let me—”

  “I need to see what she was working on last,” he said.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course.” Maeve led him through a door to the studio workshop.

  The large, bright space was sparely furnished; there was a trestle table loaded with cans of paint and brushes, a swivel chair, and two stepladders supporting a broad plank. Several huge primed canvases leaned against one wall.

  “There it is,” Maeve said, pointing to a large canvas on the back wall. It was done predominantly in monochrome: a muddy brown on a cream background. The theme appeared to be one of violence—or, better said, armed female resistance to oppression.

  Henry left the posters on a table and went closer to the image. But he didn’t need to be too close; it was big enough to be viewed from a distance. It was large enough to fit on the gable wall of a house.

  Nonplussed, he studied the figures rendered in brown. They dominated the foreground. They appeared to be women in combat uniform. Some held firearms; others were brandishing knives, axes, and what appeared to be tricolors. All looked furious and potentially homicidal. As a body, they were in hot pursuit of a band of fleeing males decked out in bowler hats and sashes. They were clearly members of the Protestant Loyal Orange Lodge.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Maeve was saying.

  “What production’s this, for pity’s sake?”

  “Oh, it’s not for a drama. It was commissioned a couple of months back by a private individual.”

  “A private individual? I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, an American gentleman. Didn’t Connie mention him? He’d been to the Lyric to see A Touch of Class, and was so taken with our sets he sought us out.”

  Henry, not for the first time in the past few days, found himself tongue-tied. But not for long. “When . . . when did she . . . when did Connie get involved in all of this?”

  “Sorry, all of what?”

  “This political stuff. I’ve just seen a mural on the Falls Road, which could only have been done by her.”

  “Oh, that. No, Connie didn’t actually paint that. It, again, was a commission from Mr. Halligan. She painted the canvas to his specifications. She wasn’t to know that it was going to be copied onto that wall.”

  “What?! Wasn’t she annoyed when she heard about it?”

  Maeve shrugged. “No, not really. She was quite flattered, actually . . . said it wasn’t a bad imitation.”

  “God, I really can’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you out of your minds? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Look, Henry, I really think you’re blowing all this out of proportion. She didn’t want to tell you because she knew what your reaction would be.” Maeve sighed. “Besides which . . .”

  Henry glared at her. “Besides which . . . what?”

  “Well . . . he paid so well, there was just no question of turning him down. And always up-front. In that respect, it showed how much he trusted Connie to carry out the commission and do a good job.”

  “Who is this bloody man? I need his address and I need it now. The police have to be informed.”

  “The p-police?”

  “Yes, the police!”

  “Harris . . . Harris Halligan. And don’t ask me where he lives. He never said. Nor did he leave us a telephone number. He could be back in the States now, for all I know.”

  “Didn’t you ask him?”

  “Yes . . . well, I did, but he . . . he just said he’d call us.”

  “My God, wasn’t that evidence enough that you were dealing with someone not on the level?” He waved a hand at Connie’s painting. “He commissions this provocative nonsense. He pays large sums of money . . . And just while we’re on the subject, how much did he pay her?”

  “One and a half thousand . . . give or take . . .”

  “One and a half thousand pounds! Really! And how was it paid?” He held up a hand. “No, don’t tell me . . . in cash, right?”

  Maeve nodded. “Afraid so.”

  Henry was dumbfounded. The reason Connie’s bank account hadn’t been debited was staring him right there in the face. With fifteen hundred pounds she could disappear for quite some time.

  Maeve sat down slowly on the swivel chair. “Look, Henry, I don’t know how to say this, but . . . but he—I mean Halligan—he took Connie out to lunch a couple of times. But . . . I don’t believe there was anything to it.”

  “Describe him for me, please. Or are you going to tell me your powers of vision have suddenly deserted you as well as your good sense?”

  “Look, I know you’re upset—”

  “Damn right I’m upset! One minute I hear from my father that she was unhappy, and might—just might—be suicidal. Now you’re telling me she’s likely run off with a wealthy American with a fondness for IRA propaganda. Well, it’s a pity you didn’t think to tell me sooner, Maeve, before she disappeared off the face of the bloody earth.”

  With that, he took a Stanley knife from the cluttered table and advanced on the canvas. Before Maeve could intervene, he slashed it viciously a number of times.

  “I think you should leave!”

  “And I think you should tell me exactly what’s going on. For, if you don’t, I’ll have this place closed down.”

  “You can’t do that, Henry.”

  “Oh no? I own the lease on this building, or had you forgotten? Now, I want the truth. Was she having an affair?”

  Maeve was distraught. She’d gone pale, frightened by Henry’s unaccustomed show of temper. “Yes . . . no. I mean, I don’t know, Henry. Honest. I was only here during the day. And what I’m saying is true. They went out for lunch twice.”

>   “Where did they go?”

  “Ah . . . hmm. I don’t—”

  “Where did they go?”

  Maeve was backing away. “For God’s sake, put that knife down! You’re scaring me.”

  Henry looked down at his trembling hand, shocked to see he was still gripping the Stanley knife.

  “Sorry,” he said, realizing how menacing he must appear to poor Maeve. He set it back on the table. “Look, I just want the truth.”

  “The Europa . . . the Europa Hotel . . . I think.”

  “When?”

  “The last time . . . about . . . about ten days ago.”

  He’d wasted no more time but had driven straight to the Europa. It was one of Belfast’s best-known landmarks at that time; notorious for having earned the sobriquet “most bombed hotel in Europe.”

  He knew the query sounded daft as soon as it was out of his mouth.

  The receptionist, a young woman, heavily made up with hair stretched painfully into a topknot, looked at him queerly.

  “You’re asking me if I saw a woman with blonde hair and a man with an American accent eat here ten days ago?”

  “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but . . .”

  “We don’t keep a record of who eats in our restaurant, sir.”

  “His name’s Halligan. Perhaps he paid with a credit card in that name. Could you—”

  “Even if he did, that’s confidential information. I wouldn’t be at liberty to—”

  “I know, but . . . Look . . .” He checked her nametag. “Look, Debbie, my wife’s gone missing and I . . .”

  At that news, and the sound of her name, Debbie’s face softened and she dropped the official-speak.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Was she . . . was she having an—”

  “An affair? Probably. I need to . . . I just need . . .”

  Debbie blinked sadly. Looked down at the register. Henry could see the impeccable line of her expertly applied false eyelashes. He thought of Connie and the many times she’d struggled to wear the blasted things, but could never get the hang of them. He almost wept at the memory.

  “I could always check if they booked in,” Debbie was saying.

  “Sorry . . . I don’t understand. Why would they . . . ?”

  She blushed. “In lunch hour. Them that’s having affairs, they often book in for . . .”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. I see.” A trifle embarrassed at his naïveté. Or was it that he simply could not bring himself to think too far along those lines?

  The receptionist flicked back several pages.

  One half of Henry hoped she wouldn’t find anything. The other half hoped she would. It would explain a lot.

  “Yes, here they are.”

  His heart leaped and sank at the same time.

  Debbie turned the register toward him and pointed.

  There, scrawled in handwriting Henry didn’t recognize, were the words:

  Mr. and Mrs. Halligan, 13 Mountview Terrace, Belfast

  Chapter eighteen

  She had the robe. She had the candles. Sunset on the evening of June 15 found Ruby in the woods that skirted Beldam Lake, hunting for herbs. Before her midsummer ritual, she needed to prepare an altar, to invoke Dana’s special powers. She’d decided it was too risky to make one in the bedroom. Her mother had already demanded the key but she’d managed to thwart her on that occasion. No, it was much safer to build an altar right here in the woods. Was it not the Goddess’s living room, after all?

  She’d rarely ventured into the woods in her younger days. They were too shadowy and daunting for a child, their thickets of briars and obstructions of shoulder-high nettles killing any curiosity she might have had. But, since finding Edna’s book, and learning of her beliefs, she was beginning to see that the great outdoors was where Dana flourished supreme.

  She bloomed abundantly everywhere: in plants, flowers, grass, and trees. In the beasts, the birds, the rocks in the earth, the fish in the sea.

  Dana, the source of fertility and endless wisdom, deserved the respect of every human being. She was the force that drove all existence.

  There was nothing to be afraid of.

  Ruby thought back with shame to that very different girl who worked alongside her father on the farm. The Ruby who so casually squashed insects underfoot. Who didn’t think twice about switching an ashplant off a cow’s rump to get it into a byre. The Ruby who swatted flies, and flushed spiders down drain holes. How cruel and thoughtless she had been! Slaughtering the Goddess’s creatures without a moment’s hesitation. From now on, she’d show respect for all living things, to make up for all those willful transgressions.

  Ensure that thy actions are honourable, for all that thou doest shall return to thee threefold, good or bane.

  The sinking sun was sending rods of golden light through the trees as Ruby trod the path. She was happy, alive to the Goddess. Heard her sing in the sweet birdsong, felt her breath on the wafting breeze, caught her laughter in the tinkling streams, felt her warmth in the sun’s embrace.

  Ruby’s step was light. Her mind was clear. She was moving toward a great awakening. Words floated to her from the Tarot cards she’d read:

  A door is opening into a new world, free from the constraints of the past . . . follow your inspiration, not reason.

  How true. She was doing just that.

  Hope and healing are yours. You have chosen the right path.

  Yes, I’m on the right path. I’ve never felt so right about anything. And to think I might never have discovered this “new world” had I not opened the case and studied Edna’s Book of Light.

  In a bag she carried the objects for her altar: two candles, the censer and offering plate from the case, a piece of paper with her three wishes written on it, the names of the herbs she needed to collect, a length of purple cloth, and a knife with a curved blade. The white-handled sickle was one her father had used to prune hedges, but since it now was going to be used for a sacred purpose, it needed to be earthed with the positive energies of Dana.

  She stopped under an oak tree and plucked one of its leaves. Took out the knife, rubbed it with the leaf and looked about her. She needed to lay it on the ground pointing south. The moss on the trees was her guide. Her father once told her that when you were looking directly at the moss you were facing south. She found a spot and set the sickle down. Through the trees she could see the rear of the house, but wasn’t so bothered by this. When she left her mother, May had just telephoned. And Ruby knew such calls could last a good half hour, give or take. So, she reckoned she was safe enough.

  She had a peek at the instructions.

  Walk thrice around the knife in a clockwise direction, scattering oak leaves as you go. Pick up knife, point it skywards, and chant the following:

  “Gracious Goddess, day and night I’m sheltered by your awesome might. Infuse this blade with all your power so it may choose the perfect flower.”

  Task completed, Ruby cast about for the flowers and herbs she needed to burn in offering. The list was long, but she need only concentrate on those that had associations with her three wishes.

  She pointed the sickle at a clump of feverfew—it would protect her from evil spirits—and said, “Oh, little flower, I’m sorry I have to cut you. But you are for the Goddess, and my heart is true.”

  Some wild dandelion leaf was next. It would help increase her psychic powers so she could commune with her father.

  Blackberry leaf: a powerful and important herb because it was special to the Goddess. Ruby approached the snarl of brambles with great reverence and awe, conscious that it was a favorite hiding place for Dana’s children, the faerie folk. She intoned the little blessing in a low whisper, before gently cutting the leaf.

  Some wild rose petals for love.

  Love?


  She’d never really understood what love was until her dear father died. Now she knew it was kindness and caring, everything her mother was not. Maybe if she wished hard enough, “someone nice,” with qualities just like her father’s, would enter her life.

  Finally, some toothed leaves of vervain. It would attract wealth to her and make the action of the other herbs stronger when burned together in offering.

  An old stump nearby would make the ideal altar.

  Ruby knelt before it and set about assembling her paraphernalia. First, she spread out the purple cloth and put two silver candles on it, anchoring them in silver holders.

  Between the candles she placed Edna’s silver disk bearing the five-pointed star. She unfolded the paper containing her three wishes and read over them again.

  I want to see Daddy again.

  I want lots of money.

  I want to meet someone nice and be happy.

  Satisfied, she folded the paper into a neat square and set it on the silver disk. At the front, she put the censer dish of the herbs she’d cut to be burned in offering.

  Back at Oaktree Farmhouse, Martha Clare replaced the phone, having finished her conversation with May. It being such a fine evening, her daughter had advised that she sit outside in the garden. The air would do her good. She had a copy of Ireland’s Own to read, and it would lift her spirits until Father Kelly’s arrival at 7:00 p.m. She’d been very upset by Ruby’s behavior, but Father Kelly had put her mind at ease. His blessing, with the help of God, would sort things out.

  She settled herself in a lawn chair at the front, and turned to the recipes section of the magazine. There was a recipe for Nutty Apple Crumble, which Ida Nettles had drawn to her attention. Perhaps she’d get Ruby to make it for the girls at the weekend. June was especially fond of nuts. She perused the ingredients, noting that it was quite simple, apart from the addition of pear yogurt.

  A recipe on the opposite page for Cottage Pie had Martha’s eyes welling up. Cottage pie had been one of Vinny’s favorites. She shut the magazine and gazed at an apple blossom at the bottom of the garden. Saw a youthful Vinny leaning on a shovel. Ruby, just a few months old, crawling about on the grass.