The Convictions of John Delahunt (25 page)

‘I’ll have to fetch a doctor.’

She gripped my arm. ‘You can’t leave me.’

‘Well, I’ll go and get Mrs Lynch. She at least can help.’

Helen took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, but another spasm made her wince. ‘No. It’ll be out soon.’

But nothing came. She didn’t bleed, and the cramps subsided during the night. When she concentrated, she could move the fingers of her right hand by tiny fractions, but it remained paralysed. Just before dawn, Helen said the pain had almost gone. She looked up at the ceiling. A tear ran from the corner of her eye down her temple and into her hair. She rubbed her stomach. ‘What are we doing to it?’

I said this had gone on for too long. ‘We’ll have to go to the woman in Dominick Street.’

She rolled her head to look at me, and nodded once.

Helen thought she was approaching the end of her third month. Occasionally I would ask her if she could feel anything inside, and she said no. Any illness came from the remedies she took, rather than the pregnancy itself. There had yet to be a quickening, and she was glad of it. She wanted the procedure to be complete before the baby stirred.

Ten years ago in Limerick, a woman was convicted of murdering her husband and ‘pled the belly’ for leniency. The judge, Baron Pennefather, ruled that pregnancy alone without quickening was not enough to stay execution, so he dispatched both the mother and her unborn child to the gibbet. I know about that case because Pennefather presided at my own trial. It was my counsel’s way of letting me know I should fear the worst.

Helen made an initial visit to Mrs Redmond in Dominick Street on her own. When she came home she told me about it over a glass of wine. The retired midwife had taken one look at her stiffened fingers and recognized the effects of the lead tablets. She gave Helen tea and described the procedure she would employ. Helen asked if I would be allowed to accompany her on the day itself. Mrs Redmond was surprised I would be willing to do so, but said I could come to the house if I wished, but not into the delivery room.

I looked at Helen over the rim of my glass. ‘Is that what she called it?’

She shrugged. What else could she call it?

The appointment was made for Thursday morning in the first week of June. Helen couldn’t sleep the night before the operation. When I woke up, she was already dressed and sitting by the window, with her knees gathered up and her head resting against the jamb. The sash frame cast one side of her face in shadow.

I spoke to her from the pillow. ‘You know you don’t have to go if you don’t wish to.’

A pigeon landed on the sill outside. Helen tapped on the pane so it started and flew away. She said, ‘I know.’

While I was getting ready, someone knocked on the door and Helen went to answer. One of the Lynch children, the second-eldest girl, stood in the hallway. She craned her head past Helen’s hip.

‘A man downstairs gave me a note for John.’

Helen said, ‘You mean Mr Delahunt.’

I walked to the window and looked out. ‘Is he still there?’

A hansom cab passed in the street, and a woman in a light cotton dress crossed the dusty road in its wake.

The girl said he was long gone. There was a lilt in her small voice. ‘He told me to say that he knows you’re here.’ She handed the note to Helen, then turned from the door and went back towards the stairwell.

I crossed the room, the ends of my black cravat hanging loose from my collar, and took the note. Helen looked at me as I read, her hand resting on the doorknob.

It was a short message from Lyster. There was something he had to take care of in Eden Quay. I was to meet him at noon in Bracken’s Tavern.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s nothing.’ I was going to crumple the sheet, but Helen held out her good hand. As I passed it to her, I said there was no need to worry. I was going to ignore it.

She read the note, then twisted the page to check the blank side overleaf. ‘You can’t go with him.’

‘I just said that.’

She shook her head and walked towards the fireplace. ‘They can’t expect you to drop everything at a moment’s notice.’

‘I have no intention of going, Helen.’

She struggled to ball the sheet, then threw it into the cold hearth and placed her hands over her stomach. There was a small bulge, just where her white starched blouse met the waistline of her skirt. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.

I went to stand beside her. Taking her hands, I said we wouldn’t worry about the Castle, or Sibthorpe, or Lyster today. I pushed her hair over her shoulder; it was still damp from being washed. She would get the procedure over and done with, I would take care of her for a few weeks, and things would soon return to normal.

Her chin lifted. She noticed my cravat was still loose and she tried to tie it, but her right hand couldn’t grip. After a moment, I took the ends from her to finish the task.

The houses in Dominick Street were three storeys over basement, and, like those in Grenville Street, had been split up into tenements and furnished lodging-houses. Mrs Redmond lived and worked in the basement of number fourteen. When we knocked, the door was answered by a woman in her late thirties, with grey streaks in long red hair. She introduced herself as Mary, Mrs Redmond’s daughter, and invited us both into a large, warm room. It had once been the kitchen for the entire house, and it reminded me of my home in Fitzwilliam Street. A large fireplace took over most of the back wall, where a fire was lit despite the summer day. A black kettle and small cauldron hung suspended over the coals. The wall adjacent contained a cooking range, with polished metal stoves and a ceramic butler’s sink.

Mrs Redmond stood at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes taken from a muddy sack with a short blade that was slick with starchy water. The sleeves of her floral housedress were pulled up over wiry arms. Her hair was pinned, but silver strands hung down over her lined face. Three children played on the ground on the other side of the table, two girls and a boy between the ages of about four and seven. They were engaged in a loud conversation, but they quietened when their grandmother shushed them. Mary called over, ‘Mammy, Helen is here.’

The heads of the children all turned to look at us. Mrs Redmond squinted at the doorway and smiled. She dropped her knife into a large pouch at the front of her apron, then wiped her hands on a cloth. As she came closer she said, ‘Show me your hand.’

Helen did so, and Mrs Redmond examined the fingers. ‘Try to close your fist, as hard as you can.’

The sinews of Helen’s wrist stood out. Her fingers only curled in by half an inch, but Mrs Redmond was satisfied. ‘It will heal eventually, but it might take a few months.’ She looked at me for the first time and seemed to size me up while speaking. ‘Boileau is quick to sell the lead tablets but he never fully explains the hazards.’ She offered her hand. ‘You must be John.’

I said yes and gripped her clammy fingers.

Mrs Redmond led us both to the kitchen table. Her daughter had been preparing tea, and she brought over a tray with a pot and four mugs, a tumbler of water and a bottle of laudanum with a yellow, creased label. The old midwife smiled at Helen and said there was no need to worry; it would be over soon. She pulled the stopper from the laudanum and allowed three drops to fall into the glass of water. Faint tendrils expanded and disappeared. ‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘It’ll help you relax.’

Helen sipped at the water. One of the little girls came over to inform her grandmother of a transgression committed by her brother. Mrs Redmond turned the girl around with a hand on her shoulder, and said she would deal with him later. The little girl toddled off, satisfied that justice would be done.

Mrs Redmond asked if we had the money. I was going to suggest we wait until after the procedure, but now wasn’t the time to cause a fuss. Mrs Redmond slipped the banknote into her apron, where she had put the knife, and looked at Helen. ‘Are you ready, dear?’

Mary said she would get the room ready, and went out into the hallway. Helen handed me her bag. The midwife told me there was a couch in the corridor where I could sit and wait. She patted my shoulder. ‘It won’t take long.’

The corridor was dimly lit with three rooms leading off it. Mrs Redmond pointed to a ragged yellow couch, then she opened one of the doors and brought Helen inside.

For a moment, I could see into the delivery room. A fire burned low in a wrought-iron fireplace. Mary was already in the room, unfolding a large white sheet and placing it over a long table, as if setting it for dinner. An uncovered worktop contained white porcelain basins, several folded rags, and a number of metal instruments, such as a long scissors with tongs instead of points, a set of pliers with spiked teeth in the jaws, and a tarnished pair of forceps with a corkscrew handle.

The door closed. I tried to make out the muffled voices within, but all I could hear was the chatter of the children back in the kitchen. I threw Helen’s bag on to the sofa and sat down beside it.

The bottom half of the hallway was covered in panelled wood painted white; the top half had a green wallpaper. The walls were bare except for a crucifix and a framed print of Pope Gregory. The open doorway to the kitchen allowed a rectangular glare of sunlight to intrude. I had nothing with which to tell the time apart from the light, and I watched it creep up the jamb to the lower hinge.

Out in the street, a church bell tolled for midday. Lyster was waiting for me in Bracken’s. Perhaps I should have sent him a message, to let him know I wouldn’t be able to meet him.

A cough in the hall made me turn my head. The youngest girl stood at the edge of the kitchen looking at me. Her bare feet made no noise on the brown tiles as she came forward, with a ragdoll held in the crook of her elbow. She clasped it awkwardly, so one of the doll’s arms was forced up and over its face. She stood before me, only a head taller than the front of my knees. Like her mother, she had thick red hair and a square chin, and she regarded me with serious eyes.

‘Would you like to know my doll’s name?’

I said I wouldn’t.

She nodded, as if she didn’t seem to mind. She looked over her shoulder at the closed door, and then back at me. ‘Granny is helping that lady feel better.’

It had been a while since I had heard Helen referred to as a lady.

The child pricked her ear, then turned and ran back towards the kitchen. A moment later I heard what caused her alarm: footsteps coming towards the door. I sat up in the couch.

Mrs Redmond’s daughter came out. She only opened the door wide enough so she could squeeze through. Red streaks covered a white apron that she had donned. She swept a broad lock of hair from her eye with the back of her thumb, keeping her bloody fingers extended and away from her face.

Mary composed herself, then turned to me. ‘It worked.’

From inside the room I could hear Helen emit a moan – for long enough that she ran out of breath.

‘All we have to do is stop the bleeding. I need to fetch some more water.’ She disappeared into the kitchen.

The door hadn’t been closed properly. It slipped from its latch and creaked slightly ajar so I could see a sliver of the room, including the lower half of the table. Helen’s knees were raised up and draped with a blanket. Her lower legs were bare and her toes gripped the edge of the bench. The white cloth covering the table was doused in blood. Helen cried quietly with quick uneven sobs. I had heard her cry like that once or twice in Grenville Street; late at night, when she thought I was asleep.

I didn’t know if this was normal. There was always going to be a degree of trauma. When Mary came back from the kitchen I looked away from the door. She carried a bundle of cloths beneath her arm and a basin of clean water. She had taken the time to wash her hands.

I stood up so she couldn’t pass, and spoke in a low voice in case Helen could hear me. ‘Please tell me, is she in danger?’

One of the cloths slipped from the bundle on to the floor, and Mary looked down as if glad of the diversion. I picked it up and draped it on her arm.

She thanked me. ‘She’s bleeding more than she should. The womb has been scraped and it may have been cut. We just have to wait for the blood to clot.’ She inclined her head towards the room. ‘I have to go back in.’

That didn’t answer my question, but I stepped aside. She went through the door and closed it over with her heel, pushing against it from the inside to ensure it shut tight.

I listened at the door with my ear pressed against the wood. I could hear the muffled voices of Mrs Redmond and her daughter. Occasionally Helen would let out quite a loud cry and I was tempted to walk in. But I’d be of no help, and might have caused further distress. I thought I should pace up and down the hall, but I couldn’t see the purpose of that either, so I retook my seat on the sofa.

The little girl and her sister peeked at me from the door to the kitchen. They were standing there as Helen’s cries became louder. The final one was particularly long, with an inflection almost of disappointment. The girls’ eyes widened. The smaller one put her hands over her ears.

Afterwards there was silence, except for the faint clatter of a horse passing on the street outside. The doorknob turned and Mrs Redmond stepped out. Her shoulders were stooped and there was no colour in her face. She looked to her right and slowly shook her head.

‘Wait till I get my hands on you two.’ The girls in the doorway scurried off.

She turned to me. ‘Helen will be well. She’s lost quite a bit of blood, but the haemorrhage has stopped.’ She bent her head to the side to stretch her neck. ‘Mary is just cleaning her up, then you can go in and see her.’ She walked towards the kitchen with a weary step, her arms behind her back to untie the apron strings.

When I was allowed in, Helen still lay on the table, though the bloody sheets had been removed and were balled up in the corner. There was a metallic smell in the room. Her legs were resting flat and a blanket covered her lower half.

Mary cleared away basins of murky water. Another table was covered in used rags and the metal instruments lying askew. On a sideboard, a smaller basin stood alone. It was of white porcelain, with hairline cracks and a blue rim, covered with a folded yellow cloth.