The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  “Yes, the first thing is: he’s got a wee cut on his eyebrow, and I can explain that, Doctor.”

  “Oh . . . ?”

  “Yes, he had a wee bit of a run-in with Bertie Frogget. Now you wouldn’t know Bertie Frogget, being new to these parts. But he’s the auctioneer. Would be a far-out relative of my Paddy’s on his grandmother’s side, twice removed. But that’s neither here or there.”

  No, it isn’t, Henry thought, unkindly.

  “. . . the thing is: he sold Jamie’s heifer for a lower price than Jamie was expecting. Now, Bertie Frogget would be a fair enough man at the best of times, so I don’t know what got into him that day. ’Cos, you know, he sold a pair of Belgian Blues for my Paddy last month and got him such a good price he was able to buy a kick-start lawn mower for himself and had enough left over for a Hotpoint twin-tub with automatic rinse for me. Not that I wanted the Hotpoint twin-tub with automatic rinse, mind you, Doctor, ’cos I’ve never minded warshing the clothes with me hands. Never been afeard of a bitta work, me. Sure haven’t wommin been warshing clothes with their hands since Moses was runnin’ about in short trousers? But you know, Doctor, now that I have it, I don’t know how I managed without it. But isn’t that the way of it? What you don’t want you’ll not miss, for when you haven’t got it you’ll not worry about it as me mother, God rest her soul, used to say . . .”

  As a psychiatrist, Henry’s great gift was his ability to listen and empathize. Now, sitting across from the voluble Rose, he felt that facility being sorely tested. He eyed the clock above her head. He needed to speed things along.

  “So James had an altercation with—”

  “Alter-what?”

  “Sorry, a disagreement with Mr. Frogget and—”

  “Oh, but that’s not the end of it, Dr. Shelfin . . .”

  Henry feared as much.

  “. . . you see, somebody rung Sergeant Ranfurley when Bertie and Jamie were scrappin’ about on the Fair Hill. You wouldn’t know Sergeant Ranfurley, Doctor, either, you being new to these parts. He’s a big man with a square head and a red face on him. Been here a wee while now. Not that I would know him too well, thank God. ’Cos, as you well know, Doctor, no good ever came of a policeman having tae knock your door either day or night. But isn’t that the way of it? No, the first time me and my Paddy spoke to Sergeant Ranfurley was last week when we went to the station to collect poor Jamie—”

  “So James was arrested, then?”

  “Well, yes and no, Doctor . . .”

  Henry was sorry he’d spoken.

  “. . . ’cos I ast Sergeant Ranfurley the exact same question. Sez I, ‘God, Sergeant, have you arrested poor Jamie, have you?’ ‘Not exactly, Mrs. McFadden,’ sez he. ‘Mr. McCloone is being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for dis-ordin’ry conduct in a public place.’ Well, God, Doctor, the light nearly left me eyes. For it’s only for its own good that a cat purrs in the middle of the night, and everything might be all right in the house till the cow jumps into the garden and interferes with your floribundas, as they say. For that would be the first time the like of that has ever happened to poor Jamie. And it was a terrible shock for him. ’Cos he’s never been in a police cell in his life. But Sergeant Ranfurley was all right about it in the end. Me and my Paddy said we’d take him out—”

  “That was good of you, Rose. And the second thing . . . ?”

  Rose looked at Henry, mystified. “What second thing, Doctor?”

  “You mentioned two things you wished to discuss with me concerning James. The first was James’s alter—sorry, difference of opinion with Mr. Frogget and his subsequent arrest. And the second thing . . . ?”

  “Oh yes, the second thing is that last month if Jamie’s Shep didn’t go and die on him.”

  “His dog?”

  Rose nodded, sadly. “Oh, he was terrible close to Shep, Doctor. Mick got it for him when he was only a wee pup. And now that he’s gone, Jamie misses him terrible badly, ’cos he was the last link to Mick and Alice—”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We can become very attached to our pets.”

  “Now, you might say he can always get another dog, Doctor, but it’s not the same, is it? I had a wee cat called Ethel and she was the greatest wee thing . . . I called her Ethel on account of me mother. For if the wee thing didn’t wander into the house the night of me mother’s wake. So I took it as a sign that the wee pussy was me mother comin’ back tae tell me she was all right on the other side, like, and—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Rose, but I really think it’s time I saw James.” He stood up.

  “Oh, no bother atall, Dr. Shelfin. I’m sure Jamie’s tired waiting out there anyway. I’ll send him in to you.” She got up and patted Henry’s arm. “And you know, if there’s anything else I can do to help Jamie out, just let me know. ’Cos he’s a very good fella.” Rose’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But you know, between you and me, Doctor, all that Jamie needs is to meet a nice woman to keep him company.”

  Henry eyed the clock again, fearful that Rose might flood him with another tsunami of her long-winded opinions on how to sort out the farmer’s love life. Yes, Wernicke’s aphasia. He was now certain of what earlier had been a mere suspicion.

  “It’s the loneliness, you see. And men are not good on their own, if truth be told. They say they die sooner than married men, but you don’t need me telling you that. You being a doctor and all. And would you be married yourself, Doctor?”

  Henry smiled. “Yes, I am, Rose.”

  “Well, that doesn’t surprise me, a well-lookin’ fella like yourself. But you know, that’s the thing about these wimmen: they all want a well-lookin’ fella, and that’s where poor Jamie falls down.”

  Henry put his hand on the door handle.

  “Oh, and another wee thing before I go, Doctor. He’s great at the accordjin, is Jamie.”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “Does the greatest version of ‘The Menstrual Boy.’”

  Henry couldn’t believe his ears. Then the penny dropped. “Oh, you mean ‘The Minstrel Boy.’”

  “Aye, that one, Doctor.”

  “Right. Thank you, Rose. I appreciate you filling me in.”

  Swiftly, he pulled open the door.

  “Doctor Shelfin’s ready for you now, Jamie!” Rose called out.

  Jamie, head buried in the Mid-Ulster Vindicator, roused himself. “Right you be, Rose,” he said, getting up.

  “Now, I’m gonna sit out in that nice rose garden while I’m waitin’ on you, Jamie. Too good’a day to be stuck inside.”

  “Aye, Rose. That’ll do . . . see you in a wee minute.”

  Henry smiled, touched by the special bond the pair shared, and beckoned Jamie in.

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Ruby sat in the back of the speeding vehicle, heading toward Killoran. She was feeling dazed from the drama of the previous night and still sleepy from the sedative Dr. Shevlin had given her.

  She’d been roused at 10:00 a.m. by May hammering on the door and trying the handle. But Ruby had made sure to lock it when the doctor departed, and again upon leaving the house. They would not be getting their hands on Edna’s case.

  Not ever!

  Martha Clare sat stiffly in the passenger seat. May was at the wheel. Having just passed her driving test, she was being extra careful and driving at a steady 45 mph.

  A taut silence hung in the car. Mother and sister had barely spoken to Ruby back at the house. Now Martha turned back to her.

  “I’ll be going in with you to talk to that doctor . . . just so you know. You needn’t think for one minute you’re going in by yourself, to tell him a pack of lies like you did last night . . . acting as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Well, not this time you won’t! You mark my words.”

  Ruby said nothing. Just stared out the window. She was mortally ash
amed at what had happened and was inwardly cursing May. If she hadn’t been so damned nosy, none of this would have happened.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Ruby kept her eyes fixed on the view beyond the glass, tried to concentrate on the landscape slipping past: the fields, the sheep, the herds of cows grazing lazily, the sweeping grace of the Slievegerrin Mountains. The terrain of her childhood. The terrain of her youth. Another world. A bygone world now, pulled so cruelly from her by the woman with the grim face and hectoring voice who sat in the passenger seat.

  Ruby tried to ignore her now. Martha Clare could take everything from her, but not her memories. Her precious memories. She saw herself on the road, herding cattle from one field to another, her father positioned in the mouth of a gate. Motorists stopping for his kindly wave. Next minute, tramping the drilled fields with him, checking potatoes for blight. Felt the smooth firmness of the spade handle in her hands as she dug them out. Heard his voice reach across time. “A good crop, Ruby, a good crop. Aren’t we blessed, now?”

  A tear escaped Ruby’s eye.

  Martha unbuckled her seat belt, all the better to confront her daughter’s impertinence.

  “Now, you listen to me, young lady. You are not going to make a laughingstock of me. Your father and me did the best we could for you down the years, and this is your thanks. Trampling all over his memory, God rest him . . . dancing half-naked in the middle of the night round a bunch of stones on a stool, trying to drown yourself! Isn’t it a blessing he’s not here now to see how you’ve turned out? My God, I never thought it would come to this. Never in all my born days . . .”

  “If Daddy was here it wouldn’t have come to this,” Ruby said under her breath. “Wouldn’t have to put up with you.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said I wasn’t trying to drown meself.”

  “Oh, so walking into Beldam without a stitch on, in the middle of the night, isn’t drowning yourself? What would have happened if May here hadn’t had the presence of mind to look out the window? You wouldn’t be in the back of this car now. You’d be at the bottom of Beldam. You have May to thank for saving your life.”

  Ruby looked at her mother’s scowling face, and suddenly she was seventeen again, traveling with her father back from Donegal. Her mother’s reproving eyes might be older now and more lined, the earrings more discreet, but the badgering message, the skirl of invective, was still the same. Ruby had let her down. Ruby had always let her down. It was as if the intervening years had never been. In her mother’s eyes, Ruby was still seventeen. Her growth retarded. A life quashed, ignored, overruled, because Martha Clare willed it. She had written the script and forced her daughter to play the part.

  Ruby started to sob; sob for the lost years, her dead father, the thwarted ritual and the fate that was surely hers; the prison of St. Ita’s mental institution. She saw the wordless Aunt Marjorie in that tub chair. Faces, restless and resigned, behind locked doors. Kindly nurses in starched uniforms. She heard the jangle of keys and the clanging of tea trolleys. Worst of all, the grilled windows, high up and small, to keep the crazy people in and the daylight out.

  “And you can stop that blubbering,” her mother was saying. “You’re not a child.”

  “Then stop treating me like one,” Ruby wailed, releasing herself from that awful reverie with an anger both sudden and brutal.

  “How dare you—”

  “Mummy, let it go. Don’t go upsetting yourself. She’s not worth it. We’ll get her into St. Ita’s today and then you can get some rest.”

  “I’m not goin’ into Ita’s!” Ruby roared. She thumped the back of May’s seat out of sheer frustration, to drive the message home.

  The car swerved onto the grass verge.

  May screamed.

  The mother, still unbelted and facing Ruby, was thrown backward. Her head hit the windscreen. She let out a long moan and fell off the seat.

  “Oh God! Mummy!”

  A horn blared.

  A bridge came into view.

  May, unused to driving, was losing control.

  A truck loomed out of nowhere.

  Ruby’s instincts took over. She lurched over the driver’s seat and grabbed the steering wheel.

  “Let go!” she screamed at her sister.

  May ducked down. Using all her might, Ruby managed to swing the car sharply, just grazing the side of the lorry.

  She steered the vehicle off the road, crashed through a gate. Careered down a small incline. Bounced over rutted ground, before finally rattling to a halt in the middle of a field.

  A dazed silence reigned inside the car. May, slumped over the steering wheel, was sobbing like a child. Ruby, collapsed on the backseat, was struggling to regain her breath. The mother was still moaning.

  Then: “Jesus, Mummy, wake up, wake up!” May was leaning over Martha.

  Martha’s eyelids fluttered briefly.

  “Jesus, Ruby, look what you’ve done! Mummy’s dying . . . oh God . . . oh God!”

  Ruby bailed out of the back. She felt her mother’s pulse. It was weak, but not weak enough to merit concern.

  “She’s not dying.”

  “How the hell would you know anyway?”

  “Oh, my head . . . my head,” the mother moaned.

  “See, she’s able to speak. Look, help me get her into the back.”

  After a tussle, the sisters managed to get Martha into a sitting position on the backseat. She’d gone very pale. Saliva was dribbling down her chin; her hands felt clammy.

  May got in beside her. “Mummy, Mummy, you’re gonna be all right.”

  “I’ll drive to the hospital,” Ruby said.

  But when she turned the key the engine would not respond.

  “Oh God, what are we gonna do now?”

  Ruby tried the ignition several more times. She sighed. It was useless.

  May was frantic. Sobbing her heart out. “God, you are such an evil bitch! If you hadn’t thumped my seat, none of this—”

  “Shut up! If you’d kept your eyes on the road, none of this would’ve happened.”

  Ruby got out of the car and slammed the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To get help. What do you think?”

  Paddy McFadden’s Austin Maxi rattled its away along the road out of Killoran. Beside him sat Jamie McCloone, and in the backseat sat Rose, getting side views of everything like a dog.

  “He didn’t keep you long, that Dr. Shelfin,” she said. “And that was a good thing, ’cos I filled him in on a lot of things, Jamie, tae save you the bother.”

  “That was very good of you, Rose. I’m not much good at that oul’ talkin’ when it comes tae them doctors.”

  “I know what you’re saying, Jamie. My father was something the same. But he always said a good laugh and a long snore will keep the doctor from your door. They were his very words. And you know, Jamie, he could snore like a buffalo in a tin mine . . . lived till he was ninety-nine and never darkened a doctor’s door.”

  “God, he must of had great health altogether,” Jamie enthused.

  “Health? You never seen the like of it. He was driving his car, cutting his grass, drinking his stout and smoking his pipe a couple of hours from the grave, truth be—”

  “God, there’s a wommin on the road wavin’ her arms,” Paddy interjected.

  Rose stuck her head between the men’s shoulders.

  “You’re right, Paddy. She must’a broke down. Maybe you should speed up a wee bit.”

  At his wife’s bidding, Paddy depressed the accelerator pedal and went from his usual 40 mph to an ungodly 45.

  “Begod, I think that’s Ruby Clare!” exclaimed Jamie as the car closed on the frantically waving figure.

  “Is it, Jamie?” Rose put on her cateye specta
cles and leaned farther into the front to get a closer look. “Well, she’s a lovely, big, strong-lookin’ lassie, so she is!”

  Paddy brought the car to a halt and wound down the window.

  “Thanks for stoppin’!” Ruby said, breathlessly. “We’ve had a wee bit of an accident. Mammy’s hurt.”

  Rose bailed out immediately.

  “God, that’s terrible news. C’mon, Paddy and Jamie. You wouldn’t be Ruby Clare, would you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Rose McFadden’s me name. God, that’s a lovely cardigan, Ruby. Did you knit it yourself?”

  “Thank you, Rose. Aye, I did . . . the car’s down that field.” Ruby pointed. “We need to be quick.” And with that, she galloped off, not bothering to look at the two men.

  Rose’s Sunday shoes were not suited to the rough ground. She nearly fell twice. Jamie and Paddy helped her up.

  “Maybe you should wait in the car,” Paddy said.

  But a bit of rutted earth was not going to hinder Rose McFadden from being part of this great drama. Ruby had already impressed her. The tumbling ginger hair, the modest blue dress cut on the bias and that white hand-knit cardigan with them complicated stitches. No, by Rose McFadden’s lights, if this Ruby Clare could knit like that she could maybe bake just as well, too: a gift for any man. And she knew who that man was. He’d been sitting right there in front of her in the passenger seat, beside husband Paddy. Rose’s matchmaking skills, dormant for far too long, began firing into life.

  “No, I’m all right,” Rose assured the men. “You run on after Ruby, Jamie. My Paddy and me’ll be right behind you.”

  Jamie took off. He’d dressed in his Sunday best for the doctor and his feet nearly left him as he slid down the incline. He could see Ruby’s car in the middle of the field. Ruby was already there, pulling open the rear door.

  “God, she’s a well-lookin’ lassie!” Rose declared. “Isn’t she, Paddy?”

  “Aye, a well-lookin’ lassie right enough, Rose.”

  “And no engagement ring on her finger neither. ’Cos that was the very first thing I looked for. And you see that cardigan she’s wearing? That’s a double basket weave, slip-stitch honeycomb rib, if I’m any judge. St. Anne the Astonishing couldn’t manage a stitch like that, and she tolt me she knit it herself, so she did. God, wouldn’t she be a great match for Jamie?”