The Godforsaken Daughter (4 page)

The man studied the flowers. “Jamie
. . .
Jamie McCloone. Well, I’m James Kevin Barry Michael, but I get Jamie for short.” He took a step toward her and held out his hand, shyly. “I’m
. . .
I’m sorry for yer loss.”

Ruby was taken by surprise. She hadn’t expected the farmer to be so respectful. Hesitantly, she put her hand into his. It felt as rough and callused as her own.

“Thank you. Daddy’s only dead these seven months.”

“Yer
. . .
yer mother didn’t say. I saw the ad in the
Vindicator
and thought I’d give it a ring.” Mr. McCloone pulled on his earlobe and stared at the flowers again. “I wondered why them flowers were there. Naw, it wouldn’t be right to cut a field where yer daddy died. Not right atall.” He looked back at the road. “I’ll get ground off somebody else. There’s plenty rentin’ these days. Just needed a bitta
. . .
a bitta hay for the cows and the like.” He touched his cap and climbed back into the tractor seat.

Ruby watched him go. As he turned onto the main road he looked back and raised a hand. Part of her wanted to hurry after him and tell him it was okay; he could cut the grass if he wanted.

She stood, watching his tractor until it disappeared from sight, wondering how her attitude toward the field could change so quickly. Then wandered back the way she’d come, turning over the name “James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone,” as she bolted the gate and retethered it tight.

What an odd long name!

As she walked slowly back to the house, something told her it wouldn’t be the last she’d be seeing of the strange man in the shabby clothes. The strange man in the shabby clothes with the very long name who’d accorded her such respect.

But first there was the attic—and that thing that needed throwing out.

What was it? Oh yes: Grandma Edna’s old case.

Well, Ruby knew one thing for sure: she wouldn’t be burning it. If the case meant so much to her father, she’d be having a look inside and hiding it in a safe place.

If Grandma Edna had secrets, Ruby was determined she’d unlock them. And her mother would never know a thing.

Whatever she learned would remain with her, and with her alone.

Chapter four

I
n the grounds of Killoran’s community center sat Rosewood Clinic. A five-roomed, ashlar-faced building on an acre of closely shaved lawns dotted with rose bushes, it formed part of the town’s health-care facilities. One accessed it through a revolving door into a waiting room and reception area, where the soft tones of the rose garden were carried through in the pale moss carpet, cream walls, pine furniture, and cushioned seating.

Not for the first time, Henry marveled at the fine timing that had brought him here. He’d spotted the ad early in the middle of May, and put it to one side, having given it no more than a halfhearted appraisal. It wasn’t exactly tailor-made for him. He was a city boy, had never considered a career far from Belfast. Moreover, the position was for a period of three months; the ideal candidate would be prepared to function as a locum, a stand-in, really—for the man who ran the clinic. He’d understood that Dr. Sylvester Balby, the psychiatrist in question, was working on an important paper, and his research was taking him to Massachusetts.

Henry had diligently logged the number of days since his wife’s disappearance. He had not given up hope. Not even with the approach of a second May. But finally, as May 25 loomed, his will broke. He told himself it was hopeless. His lovely Connie was never coming back.

On Monday morning, he slipped quietly into his office and
retrieved the advert from his desk drawer. He arranged an interview
over the telephone, was hired immediately, and began work in Killoran at the beginning of June.

Senior psychiatrist Dr. Sylvester Balby and newly appointed Dr. Henry Shevlin were to share the building for the time being, prior to Balby’s departure for the United States. Each had separate offices and consulting rooms either side of the corridor. They also shared a secretary, Miss Edith King, who was stationed at a reception desk in the foyer and supervised patients in the waiting room.

Miss King, a brisk lady in her midfifties, was, to Henry
’
s
trained eye, the epitome of the dedicated, no-nonsense secretary.

Just a week into his new job, in rare idle moments, he
’
d find himself glancing at her through the venetian blinds of his office and wondering about her home life. She had the posture of a ballet dancer, her ringless fingers striking the typewriter keys with exacting diligence. He’d never had the luxury of a personal secretary. At the Mater, there was a pool of secretaries—mostly young women—who kept the wheels of administration turning in a large office on the ground floor. The Rosewood Clinic was different; being smaller, it had more of a community atmosphere, which was a welcome change.

The cases that came his way were no different, however; the vagaries of the human condition presented themselves in a litany of all-too-common disorders. Broken individuals, some more fractured than others, all wishing to be returned to their true selves under the attentive gaze and ready ear of the therapist.

Those outpatients who couldn’t be helped at Rosewood would be referred for committal to St. Ita’s, the sprawling mental institution
outside Derry City. It was Henry’s task to assess referrals from GPs in the Killoran area.

The patients within the walls of St. Ita’s, in common with the Mater Infirmorum, were mainly women. Women sought help more readily than men. Women attempted suicide more often than men; but, sadly, too many males would rather die at their own hand than seek help. In Henry’s experience, those trends had remained unchanged.

“The political situation has added significantly to our workload,” Dr. Balby informed him on their first meeting, tapping the bowl of his briar-wood pipe. “But I suppose that isn’t news to you, having practiced in Belfast for so long.”

Balby, tall and stooped with a craggy face, and assertive hair more suited to an American news anchor than a workaday doctor, should by rights have retired long ago. The more Henry listened to him, the more the older man reinforced this view. But, as with so many members of his profession, work was his lifeblood. It was hard to let go.
Balby had assured him that his planned paper would “rev
olutionize the whole damned business” of psychiatry, and would “make people sit up and take notice.” Henry had to admire his confidence and zeal.

“Victims of the Troubles?” he said now. “Yes, I’ve seen my fair share.”

He was sitting in Balby’s office, on the opposite side of a commodious desk. Its top surface, a gleaming plane of varnished walnut, was remarkable for its lack of paperwork. A Newton’s Cradle sat at one side. He found himself staring at it while wondering whether Balby didn’t believe in taking notes or was simply fastidious.

“Edie does all that for me. Shorthand skills second to none.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My secretary out there,” Balby said, nodding at the door. “Yours, too, now that you’re here for the next few months.” He struck a match and rekindled the pipe. “You were wondering about the lack of paperwork on my desk? Can’t stand paperwork. It’s all in
here
,” he said, tapping his right temple.

Two perfect puffs of smoke escaped the pipe bowl and rose toward the ceiling. Henry decoded the message in the Apache smoke-signal language of his beloved boyhood Westerns. One puff for attention. Two puffs: all fine. Three: something wrong.

“Isn’t that a bit intrusive for the patient?” Henry said, not minding if he sounded presumptive.

“Not a bit of it. Edie might as well be a piece of furniture as far as most of them are concerned. She has access to every case file, so she knows them all already. Why wouldn’t she? It’s her job.”

“I take your point.” But he could not really hold with his colleague’s view. It was difficult enough for a patient to confide his innermost secrets to one stranger without having another in the room at the same time.

“That damn Janov and his primal-scream nonsense. There’s a glut of them now, coming our way to join the bombers. A pack decamped to Burtonport, across the border there in Donegal, ten years ago. The townspeople had enough and hunted them. So, what attracted you to our little neck of the woods?”

“I needed a change. Hunted them where?” He had no intention of telling Balby about his private life.

“The Isle of Innisfree, no less. An island’s the best place for them. They can scream their silly heads off without annoying others. I blame that Lennon fellow and his deluded wife. What’s her name
. . .
Sounds like an egg?”

“Yoko.”

“That’s the one. Where do you stand on
him
?”

“Lennon or Janov?” Henry smiled. “Sorry . . . well, interesting theory, Janov’s. But I don’t believe reexperiencing early trauma actually benefits the patient much. Helping the patient understand why it happened and how they don’t have to keep recycling it is a more worthy approach.”

“Hmm
. . .
You’re a ‘talking’ man, then. Medicating not much on your radar?” He lifted a steel ball on the Newton’s Cradle and released it, thereby setting its tick-tock mechanism in motion.

“It has its place, but not at the exclusion of listening.”

“Good luck to that! Cathartic discharge is all very well, but give me imipramine any day. Cutbacks, Henry, cutbacks.”

“Sorry, I don’t follow.”

“We’re here to keep them out of St. Ita’s, if at all possible. The place is at bursting point. Alcoholics and battered women, as usual. Here at this clinic we hold back the tide. Bottom line: If they don’t actually try and kill you, they can be managed in the community.”

His temporary replacement was flabbergasted, but said nothing. He resolved to do things
his
way, cutbacks or not.

“Now, there’s one fellow you might find a strain. He refuses all medication—so he’s right up your street. Thinks he’s John Lennon. Has got the hair, glasses, and Liverpudlian accent all down to a T. It’s D.I.D. without a doubt. Spent ten months in Burtonport with Janov’s lot.”

“Interesting.”

“Well, I never usually give up on a patient but this one takes the biscuit.” He puffed sharply on the pipe, thrice in succession. “Were you born in Belfast? Any family there?”

“As good as. Lisburn. Not far from it. My father still lives there. And you?”

“Born and raised here in Londonderry—or Derry, depending on your persuasion. Know the psyche well. That’s a bonus in this line of work. Doesn’t do to shift about.” He gripped the pipe stem between bared teeth; his cadaverous face, dappled in the light reflected from the Newton’s Cradle, reminded Henry of a Mexican sugar skull. “Been about a bit yourself, have you?”

“Here and there.”

“A married man, are you?”

“Yes . . . yes, indeed.”

“How many times?”

“What?” Henry was taken aback. “Why, once . . . of course, and I hope, my first and last.” He allowed himself to think of Connie for one brief moment.

Balby let out a laugh. “Good luck to
that
. Give it time. I’m on my third. The first couple of times, I married accidently, you could say.”

Henry grinned.

“We psychiatrists . . . hard bunch to live with, apparently.”

From the waiting area came the clamor of raised voices. Miss King was declaiming loudly.

“Please sit down, Mr. Flannagan! Dr. Balby is not ready to see you yet.”

Seconds later, two curt raps on the door and the secretary put her head in.

“Excuse me, Dr. Balby, but Finbar Flannagan is here and is being abusive, as usual.”

“AKA John Lennon to you, Henry. Show him into Dr. Shevlin’s room, Miss King. He’s Henry’s problem now.”

“I wish you courage and forbearance,” Miss King said, addressing Henry over her spectacles, before withdrawing promptly and shutting the door.

“Well, he’s all yours.” Balby got up. “I’ll be interested to know how you fare. Treat him as a test case. You must come to dinner on our return from Massachusetts. Beatrice would like to meet you.”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“Right, that’s settled. You’ll be needing that.” He handed over a file of case notes with
F. Flannagan
printed on the front. “And so to work.”

“Thanks. Yes, indeed. To work.”

Dr. Shevlin entered his consulting room to find “John Lennon” sprawled in one of the armchairs, trying to roll a cigarette. Difficult, since his hands were shaking so much. The masquerade was perfect. Long dark hair, parted in the middle and held in place with a beaded headband worn low on the forehead. Wire glasses perched on a beaky nose. He was wearing a black T-shirt two sizes too big and bearing the epigraph
Give Peace a Chance
, a pair of baggy trousers with a hole in the left knee, and bright green flip-flops.

Henry held out a hand. “Hello, Finbar. I’m Dr. Shevlin. How are you?”

Finbar looked up, briefly. “Who the feck is Finbar? I’m John Lennon. And who the feck are
you
? Where’s Balby? You’re not Balby. I want Dr. Balby.”

He’d spoken, Henry decided, with a near-perfect Liverpool accent. He’d ended his little rant as abruptly as he’d begun it. Now his full concentration was on the cigarette.

The consulting room had five easy chairs placed about a sturdy coffee table. In keeping with the theme of the garden, the tones were muted: cream walls with watercolor prints of roses, pale green carpet, two waist-high plants in pots by the window. A room that, of necessity, had to be minimalist and functional with nothing in it that could be used as a projectile. The plant pots were of immovable granite. The pictures nailed to the walls. The coffee table bolted to the floor. The ashtrays were of disposable foil.

Henry drew up an armchair opposite Finbar.

“Dr. Balby thought you could do with a change of scene,” he said, careful not to use the name “Finbar.” He placed his notes on the coffee table. “I like your hair. How long did it take you to grow it?”

Finbar took a lighter from his pocket and sucked the roll-up into life. He sat up abruptly in an effort to stop shaking, crossed his legs, uncrossed them again, sighed deeply, gazed about the room.

“D’you want a bifter?”

“Sorry?”

“A bifter. A
ciggy
, you divvy.”

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

The patient’s eyes locked on the foil ashtray. In a low voice he said, “I never held with wonders. I never held with gods . . . I never held with Jesus
. . .
I never held with rishis.
 . .
I never held with yoga
. . .
I never held with cosmic truths . . . I never held with the bleedin’ Beatles. I only hold with
me
.”

“That’s good. So tell me about the ‘you,’ the real you, Finbar.”

“You’re like me auld fella, you are. Left me mam when I was four.”

“Oh
. . 
. ?”

“Oh, aye, up and left her. He was a fecking sailor, so what would he know? Brainless gobshite.”

Henry, no expert on John Lennon’s life story, found himself having to ask a leading question. “And where were you living then?”

“Merseyside. Why you asking that? The whole bleeding world
knows that. John Winston Lennon, born October ninth, nineteen forty, in Liverpool Maternity Hospital, to Julia Lennon née Stanley and Alfred fecking Lennon. I got John after me grandda, John ‘Jack,’ and Winston for Winston fecking Churchill, prime minister of Britain at the time. I—”