The Godforsaken Daughter (32 page)

Father Kelly draped his purple stole—the color of penance and healing—about his neck, crossed himself and leaned close.

“That’s all right, Martha . . . I’ll hear your confession now
. . .
if you want. Is that what you want?”

“Y-e-sss
. . .
Father.”

Jamie finished the first number and moved into “Whiskey You’re the Devil
.
” He was in his element. There might have been over seventy in the room but for Jamie the only two people who mattered were Ruby and Rose—and Ruby most especially. He could see her through the mass of heads, smiling and clapping her hands, and her happiness was
his
happiness, her joy was
his
joy.

“Bless
. . .
me
. . .
Father
. . .
for
. . .
for I have sinned.”

Father Kelly held Martha’s frail hand. He peered intently at her, leaning in to catch the barely audible words.

“I’d . . . I m-i-s-s-e-d
. . .
the bus, you see. Had to walk . . . walk home . . . and took . . . took a shortcut through
. . .
through
. . .”

“Yes, Martha. It’s all right now. Take your time.”

“The woods
. . . then I . . .
”

Father Kelly felt his hand being clasped more tightly.

“Then what happened, Martha?”

“A man. He
. . .
came . . . came from nowhere. Started walking behind me. To follow me . . . I started to walk more quickly, but I heard . . . heard him increase . . . increase his step as well. I ran . . . Oh dear God, how I ran!”

She shut her eyes tight, trying vainly to shut out the terrifying memory of what she had to tell.

“But I was wearing . . . wearing high heels . . . and the path, the path was rough and, and
. . .”

She attempted to raise her head off the pillow. Looked at the priest, petrified.

“It’s all right, Martha dear. There, there, now.”

“I-I
. . .
fell, Father. Oh my God, I fell!” she cried, letting out a deep howl of despair. “He
. . .
he grabbed me. I tried, tried to fight him off . . . and I did. I hit him and pushed him . . . pushed him over . . . I got up . . . was . . . was just on my feet again. I ran for my life . . . when . . . when . . .”

She winced, eyes squeezed tight.

“But, there was a pot . . . hole. A pothole on the path and I
. . .
I tripped. Oh. God help me, I tripped.” Her grip on the priest’s hand tightened even more. “He . . . he grabbed me by the hair and . . . and dragged me into the . . . into . . . into the bracken . . .”

“It’s all right now, Martha. It’s all right.”

She nodded and swallowed hard.

“Will you take some water?”

She shook her head, fixed her eyes on the ceiling, as if focusing there might give her the strength to utter the word—the terrible word—she could never bring herself to say, but which had to be said
now
.

“Then . . . then, he
. . .
he
. . .”

Father Kelly saw her hand close tightly on the rosary. The pain on her face, explanation enough.

“You don’t have to say any more, Martha. I know. I under—”

“
He . . . r-a-p-e-d
. . .
me-e-e-e. He
raped
me, Father.”

At last: the monstrous truth, which had torn at her heart for so very long, was let loose.

The shock of it reverberating in the small room.

Father Kelly, jolted, trying to come to terms with it. Trying to comprehend the violation she’d suffered and kept secret all the years. This frail, fast-declining woman he thought he knew so well.

He watched her, eyes shut tight, swallow down the shame.

What could he say? What words would bring her comfort? He strove to find the right ones.

“That
. . .”
he began. “That, Martha
. . .
that is not
your
sin
. . .
it is
his
.”

She sighed, grateful.

“Did you
. . .
did you know this man?”

She shook her head. “I never saw him again.” She opened her eyes and looked into his. “But there’s
. . .”

“Now,” Jamie said, as the applause died. “I’d like to play a special—”

“Hi, do yins know that Jamie McCloone keeps his hair in a box under the bed?”

It was the foul-mouthed Chuck Sproule. The crowd laughed uproariously.

“Aye, that’s where I put it when it started fallin’ out,” Jamie shouted to equal jocularity. Then: “I see, Chuck, that you’re with your mammy tonight. Did she never tell you not to drink on an empty head?”

A deafening cheer went up.

Jamie’s jeer had hit a nerve. Chuck’s face turned to stone. He got up and staggered toward the stage.

“Oh God, he’s gonna hit Jamie!” Rose called out. “Paddy, go and pull him back.”

Paddy got up, but just as quickly was sitting down again. Several men in the audience were already upon the young rascal. They bundled him down the stairs, to loud whoops and hoots.

Mrs. Sproule and her daughter shot to their feet. They slammed down their drinks. A stunned silence fell.

“We’re not stayin’ in
this
dump!” the daughter declared.

“Aye, yins are nothin’ but a pack of feckin’ Fenians shites!” fumed the mother, adding a bit more color to the daughter’s announcement.

“Booooo-o-o-o-o!” went the crowd as they stormed out.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!” someone was heard to shout.

Ruby was glad to see the back of them. They were not nice people. She was very impressed at the way Jamie had handled the situation, and when the troop was safely out of sight, applauded with the others until her hands grew hot.

“As I was sayin’,” Jamie continued, “I’d like to play a special number for two lovely wimmin there at the back: Ruby and Rose. It’s their first time here tonight
. . .
so give them a big hand.”

All heads turned in the ladies’ direction, glasses held high.

“To Ruby and Rose!” they chorused.

The ladies and Paddy acknowledged the toast with raised glasses.

All at once, Jamie was launching into a rousing rendition of “The Star of the County Down.”

The crowd sang along.

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,

And from Galway to Dublin town,

No maid I’ve seen like the sweet colleen

That I met in the County Down.

Ruby sipped some more Babycham; tears rolled down her cheeks. Tears of the kind she’d never experienced before in her life—those of absolute joy.

“Forgive
. . .
me
. . .
Father
. . .
I had nothing
. . .
nothing
. . .
but
. . .
h-a-t-r-e-d in
. . .
my heart
. . . for . . .
R-u-b-y
. . . from the be . . .
beginning. How could
. . .
I love
. . .
her? She
. . .
she had
. . .
had come
. . . from e-v-i-l . . .”

The lines of a poem came to the priest now, lines of writing inscribed on a page and signed
Edna Vivian Clare
on April 30, 1951.

You brought her to this world through tears,

And stains of the darkest blood;

But that misfortune had to be, so you

Could give her whole to me.

He saw Ruby’s trembling hands passing the page to him; her tear-stained face. Heard her voice.

“
Was she putting a curse on me, Father? She was writing about the night I was born?
”

“We all come from God; none of us comes into this world through evil, Martha. Where there is life there is hope, and you and Vinny gave Ruby a good life. You did what you thought was for the best. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Before, before I go
. . .
She needs
. . .
she needs to know. But I can’t tell . . .”

“I’ll take care of Ruby, Martha. Don’t worry about that.”

She nodded, grateful.

“Vinny was a
. . .
a very special man. He
. . .
he loved Ruby as his own. He
. . .
never
. . .
blamed her. I-I never knew if he
. . .
if he
knew.
But his mother did. Edna
. . .
knew. And hated me
. . .
because she thought I’d
. . .
I’d used her son. And I did in a way . . . I met him on the bus after it happened. He was so kind
. . .
so very kind. It was as if
. . .
in the space of
. . .
of an hour I’d met the Devil and then
. . .
an angel. I told him I’d fallen down, which . . . which was the truth in a way. But I never told him what had happened. I told no one . . . not even my parents. They would have dis . . . disowned me. When I discovered I was . . . pregnant I had no one to turn to, so I-I clung . . . I clung to Vinny. It was Oaktree or Magdalenes. I deceived him. But if . . . if . . . he suspected that he never gave voice to it. He was a gentle . . . man. Such a gentleman.”

The priest squeezed her hand tenderly. Martha gave a faint smile. Her eyes opened suddenly. She stared at the ceiling. Her other hand, holding the rosary, opened on the bedcover.

“Oh
. . .
the light, Father! The light
. . .
so
. . .
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l
. . .
I
. . .
see
. . .
the gen
tle
. . .
tell
. . .
tell
. . .
Ruby
. . .
I’m
. . .
I’m
. . .
s-s-orry
. . .
so
. . .
v-e-r-y
. . .
sorry
. . .
for
. . .”