The Godforsaken Daughter (11 page)

“Me mother, Doris.”

“Och, aye, yer poor mother. But at least she’s got her ears.”

“That’s true. Nothing wrong with her hearing.” Ruby extracted the pension book from her handbag and laid it on the counter. These conversations with Doris usually followed the same pattern and could endure for ever.

She was anxious to get on.

“D’you know, between me ears and me knees I’m nearly kilt, so I—”

“You’ll not friggin’ do
me
, you squinty-eyed wee bastard!”

The raised voice reaching through the open window had Doris wincing and ducking, as though hit by a hammer.

“Oh dearie me!” She rushed over and looked out. “I
thought
it was poor Jamie’s voice.”

Ruby joined her, and, to her amazement, saw Jamie McCloone and the auctioneer, Albert Frogget, grappling with each other outside the market stalls. Jamie had Albert in a headlock, and both men were staggering round in circles like a couple of drunken crabs.

“Go on, Jamie, give him another belt!” someone shouted. But, at the command, the pair fell in a heap.

“Jamie who?” Ruby asked, feigning ignorance and wanting to learn more about the farmer.

“Jamie McCloone, God help him. It’s that old drink that puts him like that. And he was doing so well, so he—”

Doris’s comment was cut short by the wail of a police siren. Abruptly, an RUC Land Rover screeched to a halt, scattering the knot of spectators. Doris crossed herself.

“Oh dearie, dearie me,” she said again. “The police.”

The ladies watched as the passenger door shot open and resident police chief, the burly, red-faced Sergeant Ranfurley, stepped out, followed by a junior constable.

Ranfurley marched over to the fallen pair. He hauled Mr. Frogget to his feet with one hand and Jamie with the other. The sudden action had the farmer’s cap falling off, revealing a rather unsightly comb-over. The crowd jeered.

“Did you forget tae put on yer toupee, Jamie?” someone shouted.

Ruby felt the shame that Jamie must have been feeling, as he scrambled to put the cap back on. She wanted to run over to the heckler, whom she recognized as the local bad boy, Chuck Sproule, and kick him hard on the shins.

Ranfurley barked something at his subordinate, who promptly handcuffed Jamie. Without ceremony, he was frogmarched to the Land Rover and pushed into the back.

The crowd booed and jeered as the vehicle roared off.

Doris turned away from the window, shaking her head sadly, and went back behind the counter.

“It’s because of his dog, you see.” She took a well-thumbed register from underneath the desk and opened it at the letter C.

“Did it die?”

Doris looked up at Ruby, a wistful look in her eyes, and nodded.

She stamped the pension book twice and pulled open a drawer.

“Here you go, Ruby: ten, twenty, thirty-five pounds, and . . .” She scooped some coins from the drawer. “. . . and fippence. He misses the wee dog something terrible. Nobody to keep him company no more. Men are no good on their own when they get to a sartain age. And poor Jamie, God bless him, well, he’s not the marrying kind. A lonely soul.”

The doorbell pinged again and Charlie Mutch—an animated toby jug on legs—blundered in, bringing the unwelcome odor of the cattle yard with him.

“Did you see that, Doris?”

“God, Charlie, what happened anyway?”

“Jamie was late, and Bertie Frogget went ahead and sold his heifer for less than what he wanted.”

“God, I hope Sergeant Ranfurley doesn’t put poor Jamie in jail.”

“Och, I wouldn’t think so. But you never know with that oul’ Unionist bully.”

Ruby excused herself and left them to it. “Not the marrying kind,” Doris had said. It was a phrase she heard often.

She passed
through the doors of Digney’s supermarket and picked up a basket. Her mother had already decided that she, Ruby, was “not the marrying kind,” either. But . . .

“L
AY THE CARDS, COME RAIN OR SNOW /
A
ND ALL OUR FUTURES THEY SHALL SHOW.
”

“The cards in the case? Of course! The answers to all my questions are in the case.”

“Are you all right, Ruby?” a female voice broke in.

Ruby, standing in one of the aisles, staring at packets of washing powder, hadn’t even noticed the shop assistant on her knees, stacking a shelf with bottles of bleach.

“Hello, Marian. Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s the first sign of madness, you know,” Marian said with an impish grin. She got up.

“What is?”

“Talking to yourself.”

“Was I?”

“Well, if you weren’t, maybe I was hearing things. Which wouldn’t surprise me in this place
. . .
Looking for anything in particular?”

“Just the usual. Oh, there
is
something, Marian. Candles.”

“Just farther along there.” She pointed down the aisle. “Towards the end. Having an intimate supper for two then?”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Ruby
. . .
only kidding.”

“Any green ones?”

“Sorry, only white and silver, I’m afraid. We only get colored ones in at Christmas.”

Green—for life and nature—was the color of the Goddess. But Ruby had also learned the meaning of gold and silver in
The Book of Light
. The sun was God, the male aspect, symbolized by gold. The moon was the Goddess, the female aspect, symbolized by silver.

So silver would do just as well, then.

She reached for four and put them in the basket, an altar to Dana taking shape in her mind. Yes, she’d build an altar. She’d pray to the Goddess, for guidance. Edna had written instructions on how to build one and the voice would tell her what to do.

“How are you, Ruby?”

Ruby turned to see Ida Nettles peering into her basket. “Oh, Ida! Didn’t see you there.”

“Nice candles . . . Is your electric out or something?”

“No-no . . . it’s not. I just . . . I just—”

“No, it wouldn’t be, or you’d be buyin’ just ordinary white ones.” Ida regarded Ruby, tiny eyes a-glimmer, waiting for her to explain the purchase.

“I
T’S REALLY NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS WHAT
I
WANT THE CANDLES FOR, IS IT
?
”

“It’s really none of your business what I want the candles for, is it?”

Ida’s mouth fell open. She took a step back. Ruby loved the sudden surge of confidence the voice gave her.

Now it was time the nosy Mrs. Nettles explained
herself.
Ruby peered into Ida’s basket. She spotted a pack of Colorsilk hair dye.

“Beeline Honey . . .
nice color,” she said mischievously. “And
there
was me thinking, Ida, that that lovely hair of yours was natural.”

Ida reddened. “You’re not yourself, Ruby Clare!” she spat, her little face contorting with rage. “I’m gonna be having a word with your mother, so I am. She said she thought you were going off.”

With that she stormed off, leaving Ruby torn between dread of what might be coming—and satisfaction that she’d scored a small victory over the gossipy Mrs. Nettles.

Chapter twelve

Lisburn, 1983

S
inclair Shevlin, onetime magistrate, now a spry septuagenarian, had opened his front door before Henry had a chance to ring the bell.

“The Mater just called,” he said gravely. “A colleague of yours. Said his name was Batman.”

Henry smiled to himself, despite his predicament.

“That would be Bill
Bach
man. He’s covering for me. What did he want?”

“He said that somebody-or-other was refusing her medication. Why aren’t you at work? You look terrible, by the way. Are you ill?”

“No. I’ll explain in a minute.” Henry followed his father into the open-plan kitchen, wondering how he was going to break the
news about Connie. He always felt a little uneasy in his home. The elder Shevlin was a fastidious man; “hypervigilant” in psychobabble terms. He insisted his surroundings were as ordered and sterile as a forensic laborator
y. Since his wife’s death he’d gone through more cleaning ladies than the reclusive business magnate, Howard Hughes.

“He said you’d know what to do,” Sinclair said over his shoulder, heading toward the sink. He lifted the kettle. “Cup of coffee?”

“Please. Do I need to call him?”

“No, he said he could handle it until you got back. He just wanted you to know that everything is under control.” The elder Shevlin paused. “Oh yes, and he said that the manic session group was more challenging than he’d expected it to be. If that makes sense to you.”

“It does. Thanks.”

“What on earth’s a manic session group?”

“Manic
depression
group. You misheard.”

“Well, you know my opinion of all that tomfoolery. People talk about themselves far too much these days without
you
encouraging it. In my day, you put up, shut up, and got on with things. All that rummaging about in the past gets you nowhere.”

“Where may I sit?” Henry knew that it was always better to ask. His father had issues regarding territory as well: certain chairs were for the senior Shevlin only.

“That one there,” Sinclair said, pointing to a chair by the table.

Henry sighed and sat down, but said nothing. Yes, he’d heard his father’s views on psychiatry often enough. Sinclair had taken it as a given that his son would follow him into the legal profession and was very disappointed when he didn’t. But, sitting there exhausted and knowing how fond his father was of Connie, he was reluctant to break the bad news. For the present, he’d just give the old man the luxury of having his say unchallenged.

“Facts, facts, facts! That’s what I care about, Henry. I’ve always dealt in facts. Tangibles.” He handed him a mug of coffee. “What can be experienced by the five senses. Evidence: that’s what I’m talking about. Where would we be without evidence? Eh? In the old days, I gave short shrift to any barrister who came to me with hearsay and innuendo. Was I right? Of course I was. But psychiatry? Hmph! Psychiatry isn’t a science. Voodoo, that’s all it is. Stuff you make up as you go along.”

Henry sighed again. “If you say so, Father. But I’ll have you know that the ‘tomfoolery’ I engage in is helping more people than you think. No, you’re right. My therapy isn’t a science in the strict sense, but the results are there, and we’re pushing the boundaries all the time. We’re finding out more and more about the human psyche.” He pointed a finger. “And what are you judges and magistrates doing? All you do is punish people. You fine people or send them to jail. Fair enough, you’re keeping the baddies off the streets, but we’re the men who are trying to
improve
them, to make sure that they stay out of jail when they serve their sentences.”

Henry sat back in the chair. “But enough of that. I didn’t come here to cross swords with you. There’s something I need to tell you.
”

“Oh . . . ?”

“It’s
. . .
it’s Connie. She’s gone missing.”

“Good Lord!” Sinclair set his mug down slowly and stared at him.

“She went for a walk on Wednesday and never returned. I—”

“You’ve informed the police?”

“Police? Yes, yes, of course. They’ve interviewed me twice. Suppose it’s natural for them to assume that the husband’s
. . .”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t know. Good God.”

“I’m at my wits’ end, if you must know. I’ve taken leave of absence from the hospital. That’s why Bill Bachman’s standing in for me.”

Henry placed his briefcase on the table and undid the hasps. He drew out a sheaf of printed papers and placed one face upward. It showed a black-and-white photograph of an attractive lady with light-colored hair tied back. She was looking into the lens in the manner of a police mug shot. Large, bold letters above her head posed a question.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?

Sinclair Shevlin read the rest of the message in grim silence. He returned the poster to the little pile.

“Good God,” he said again.

“I’ve just been round all the libraries and post offices in Belfast. A couple of people at the hospital offered to put more up on lampposts in our area. Every little helps.”

Sinclair got up and stood by the window, looking out. “I don’t know what to say. Do you think she was unhappy? Did she give any indication that . . . ?”

“I’m still trying to get my head around it. That’s strange language for a therapist to use, isn’t it? But I can’t understand any of it, Father. Why would she leave without saying a word? It’s not as if we had a row or anything.”

“No?”

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. And the police wanted to go down that road as well. But I assure you Connie and I were getting on very well.”

Sinclair took his chair again. “Really?”

Henry abruptly stopped stirring his coffee. He was frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, son. It was obvious to me that you and Constance didn’t see eye to eye on a great many matters. Your mother used to—”

“Leave Mother out of this!”

“How can I? You know very well she disapproved of Constance, right from the very start. She gave the two of you a year at most.”

“Well, we know why that was, don’t we, Father?”

The older man sighed. “We do. But please don’t include me in it. Your mother had her views and I had mine. A girl’s religion is of no interest to
me
. Never was.”

“Mother was from the old school, of course. I can hear her now: ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of a son of mine mixing with the other sort.’ You’d have thought that Roman Catholics were the bubonic plague, the way she went on about them.”

Sinclair patted Henry’s shoulder. “I know, I know. It was a bit embarrassing right enough. But if I’m honest, Henry, I’m surprised you and Constance stayed together so long. Chalk and cheese. And I’m not talking about religion now. Polar opposites. Nothing in common, as far as I could see. You were too grounded for her.”

“Rubbish! And stop talking about us in the past tense.”

“Sorry, but wasn’t it only last summer that she wanted to emigrate?”

Henry laughed shortly.

“Oh, that was nothing. Lots of people feel that way after a holiday abroad. There’s even a technical term for it—in psychiatry-speak I mean. We call it post-travel depression.”

“Oh dear. Why am I not surprised?” Sinclair shook his head sl
owly and sipped his coffee. He grimaced and reached for the sugar bowl. He ignored his son’s frown of disapproval as he added two heaped spoonfuls to his mug. Both looked up instinctively at the sound of a low-flying helicopter. Business as usual in Northern Ireland, even here in Lisburn, the upscale, leafy suburb of Belfast.

“Did you phone her sister
. . . W
hat’s her name?”

“Betty. First thing I did. Betty hadn’t heard from her.”

In clipped sentences, Henry related his actions of the previous days—and nights—leaving out nothing. The police questioning, in particular that of Sergeant Hanson, had focused his mind. It was helpful, too, he reasoned, to go over those details again and again. He was also of the opinion that, sooner or later, the verbalization of an obscure and minor detail would trigger a memory, one that lay long buried. Or generate a fresh insight, one that might solve the puzzle. Was this not what Henry put into practice in his therapy, the advice he gave to even his most difficult patients? He thought of the flowery words of one of his heroes, the Victorian philosopher James Allen: “Every thought seed sown or allowed to fall into the mind, and to take root there, produces its own, blossoming sooner or later into act, and bearing its own fruitage of opportunity and circumstance.”

It didn’t work now, however. Henry sat back in his chair, a dark depression creeping over him.

Sinclair sensed it. “What about Greece?”

“What about it?”

“Well, I know I shouldn’t be playing the shrink now—that’s your job—but I was thinking that perhaps Constance remembered her happiest moments, and wanted to relive them. The pair of you were
so
very happy when you returned from that holiday in Crete. Constance never stopped singing the praises of the hotel. The Hype
. . .
Hypo
. . .”

“The Hyperion.”

“That’s the one. You wouldn’t think of giving them a call, would you? You never know.”

“I’ve already checked. Did it as soon as I discovered her passport was missing. But, alas, no.”

“Passport missing? Are you certain of that?”

“Well, it isn’t in its usual place. And anyway, she didn’t leave the country. The police have already checked airports and ferry crossings. At least, they claim they have.”

“Oh dear.”

“And her bank account. No withdrawals.” Henry’s face darkened. Sharing the raw facts of the situation with his father was making him conscious for the first time of how hopeless things looked.

He sat forward in his chair again and stared at Sinclair. A thought had struck him.

“What makes you think Connie wasn’t happy? I never said she wasn’t happy.”

“You didn’t need to, son. She told me herself. About a month ago.”

“What?!”

“She came to see me. And not for the first time, either. Told me I was one of the few people she could confide in. Made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. But—”

“She never told
me
.” Hurt and angry.

“No. She knew you wouldn’t understand. She said you were too wrapped up in your work. That was how she put it: ‘Henry’s far too wrapped up in his work.’ She felt that other people’s happiness meant more to you than hers. Strangers. Your patients.” He pointed at an armchair. “She broke down over there. Sobbing her heart out. I didn’t know
what
to do, son.”

“You could have told me; that’s what you could have done.”

“No. Constance practically swore me to secrecy. I saw her glancing over at that old Bible of mine a couple of times. The one the court people gave me when I retired. I think she wanted me to swear on it. That’s how desperate she was.”

Henry was staring at the floor, his coffee barely touched.

“If you’d told me, maybe all this could have been avoided.”

“Yes, son. I can see that now. But I was caught between the two of you. I advised her to see a therapist. Talk things over with a stranger. Isn’t that what you yourself would advocate?”

“Did she
. . .
Was there someone else?”

“Absolutely not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, to be honest, she was quite harsh on the subject of marriage. Ideal setup for the male, in her opinion. Women as chattels. You know, the usual feminist guff. Men cause wars, and make the world—”

“She never talked like that to
me
.”

“Well, just goes to show you never really know anyone, Henry, no matter how long you’ve been around them.”

Sinclair rose and went to a bookshelf. He extracted an envelope from between two books.

“She sent me this about a fortnight ago. Don’t know if the words are her own or quoted from someone else.”

Henry withdrew a card with an illustration of a single white lily on the front.

He read over the words on the back, written in Connie’s ornate hand.

Oh how shallow life is! In spite of all the parties, the pills, those drunken diversions we lose ourselves to so the darkness won’t close in. But it’s always there, that darkness, hovering like a revenant at the edge of things.

I wish, so dearly wish, I could make myself anew, come to the world afresh, into a place as yet unscathed by all that’s gone before. For the life we live has been imposed upon us from the womb.

We are snared in the myths of generations past. Netted like fish that struggle for a time then die. In this imperfect world, there is no truth, I fear, no matter what they say. That thread was cut, our suffering: the price we pay.

Hope you understand, Sinclair. Thank you for listening.

Love,

Connie

Henry burst into tears. The betrayal: just too much. The meaning behind the words, so beautifully crafted, hitting him with a cruel and terrible certainty.

He heard his father sit down in an armchair. Imagined his turmoil. Heard him rise again. Felt his hand on his shoulder, gentle, reassuring.

“Here, son.” A box of tissues appeared beside him on the table.

Sinclair: the therapist now. Henry: the patient in need of solace.

“Now, Henry
. . .
son. They’re just words. You shouldn’t read so much into them.”

Henry took a tissue and wiped his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that
. . .
it’s just that
. . .”

“I’ll get us a brandy.”

“Thanks.” He pushed the card back into the envelope.

Sinclair returned to the table and sat down. He handed Henry the drink and watched as he gulped it down. “It’s just
what
, Henry? You were going to tell me something just then.”