The Magdalen (16 page)

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Authors: Marita Conlon-McKenna

BOOK: The Magdalen
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Esther suddenly felt weak after the interview, the blood draining from her head. Jim rushed forward to catch her, making her sit down. “Sit down, Esther girl! 'Twas just too much for you, that's all.” He disappeared to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water, standing over her and making her sip it. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, his voice full of concern as he knelt down in front of her.
Esther felt such an eejit getting weak like that.
“It's just this whole thing, Esther, I can hardly believe it myself,” murmured the Dublin man. “In all my years driving there's never been the like of it!”
Esther sat quiet.
“I'm sorry,” he apologized. “It must have been dreadful for you, finding that when you're having a baby yourself, given you a right old scare.”
“How's your little girl?”
“Not too bad. The doctor fellah gave her a cough bottle, said she's a bit chesty and I've to keep an eye on her. The wife died of TB about a year ago so naturally I was worried.”
“Oh Jim, I'm sorry! I didn't know, nobody told me.”
“That's all right. Herself and my other girl Julie got it. They were both in the fever hospital. Julie got better and poor Dolores didn't make it.” Without thinking, she
reached for his hand. “‘Tis all right, lass. I'm getting used to it now, to being on my own. ‘Tis the children I feel sorry for. They miss Dolores something awful. Girls need their mother.”
“I know!” she agreed.
“The guards asked me to bring a map of my regular route. I was up around Dartry and Rathgar, where all those big posh houses are. I have my suspicions 'tis one of those families, a daughter of the house in trouble, no doubt, too bloody scared to tell anyone, God help her!”
“The poor thing!” murmured Esther. “She must have been terrified, too terrified to tell anyone or to get help.”
“Were you like that?”
Esther was taken aback by Jim's forthright question but, looking into the sincere brown eyes of the middle-aged widower, knowing that he meant no insult or harm, felt the need to tell him a bit about herself.
“Aye, I was too, I didn't know what to do. I thought the baby's father loved me and would marry me. I nearly died when I realized that I was on my own. Then my mammy guessed about the baby. All she could think of was the scandal and what the neighbours would say.”
“You poor pet,” he said softly. “It must have been desperate.”
“I grew up in a tiny village in the west of Ireland, Jim. In a small place like that even the stones could talk, everyone knows everyone else's business. My mother said that I'd brought shame and disgrace on them all, so between them the family arranged for me to come here to Dublin.”
An embarrassed, uncomfortable silence grew between them.
“I wouldn't ever send my girls away if the same happened to them,” he said fiercely. “Their mother suffered before she died and I'll tell you straight there's no benefit in suffering and pain. None!”
Sheila emerged from the parlour, and she and Esther were sent straight back to work. Everyone kept asking about their interview, and what did the guard want to know? Had they caught the girl yet?
 
 
The mystery of the dead baby remained unsolved, no customer on the list admitting that their daughter had recently given birth. The unwanted child was interred in the convent grounds. The garda would keep on with their investigation, Sergeant Dawson informed Sister Gabriel, insisting that they were determined to find out who was responsible for the death of an innocent child. In some part of Esther's soul she hoped they never did. Whoever she was, the mother had suffered enough, and she prayed that the garda never found her.
B
ishop Dunne was coming to lunch in the convent. The parish priest, Father O'Connell, and the chaplain, Father Enda Clancy, would be joining him. Although still mid-December, this would be his official Christmas meal with the Holy Saints Sisters and the penitents. His Grace's diary of official duties filled up quickly.
Ina Brady had been instructed to roast an enormous turkey that came from Sister Gabriel's brother's farm in Athlone. Two smaller birds roasted in the side oven, and she had boiled two bright pink hams. His Grace was partial to a nice bit of ham, and loved turkey breast.
Sisters Gabrielle and Margaretta
had already escorted the priests into the parlour when the bishop's chauffeur-driven Ford drew up outside the convent door, and the portly figure of Bishop Kevin Dunne, clad in his rich purple robes, emerged. The nuns served the men with a pre-luncheon glass of sherry, abstaining themselves. Then Sister Gabriel led them on a tour of the laundry, pointing out the various areas where the girls and women were working. The bishop's ruddy colouring matched the hue of his clerical outfit, as the sweltering heat of the laundry steam room made him break out in a sweat. Father Maurice O‘Connell, a pompous little man, followed a step or two behind, strutting along and nodding at them as if he were the Pope himself. He wouldn't demean himself by speaking to any of the Maggies. Rita made a rude gesture, jerking her closed hand up and down as he passed by, and Esther had to stifle her laughter. The whole laundry knew about the blessed Father O'Connell and the stiff yellow semen-stained pyjamas and sheets that were delivered from the parish house down the road. Sometimes even his cassocks and soutanes bore the revealing stains of his need for constant self-gratification. “Wanker!” whispered Rita, setting them all bursting with giggles again.
“Just as well he decided to stay celibate and not marry!” added Sheila. “No woman in Ireland would have been able for that randy little devil!”
The chaplain was a grand fellow, though, and used to blush crimson when the women confided their romantic and sexual indiscretions to him in the privacy of the confessional. He was young yet.
Extra help had been drafted into the kitchen, Detta running hither and thither at Ina's bidding, and one of Ina's daughters carving the turkey expertly. An additional table had been set up in the refectory for the visitors and the nuns. All the shuffling of chairs and the rattling of crockery stilled as the bishop stood up to say grace before the meal, all the women bowing their heads and murmuring “Amen” as he finished.
“Will ya look at Gabriel,” murmured Bernice. “She's like the cat that got the cream.” Every head turned in the nun's direction. She was sitting right beside the bishop, who seemed to have her enthralled with some sort of theological discussion, though every so often she would drag her gaze away from his shining cheeks, nose and double chin, and her lizard eyes would flick quickly around the refectory to check that the penitents were behaving themselves. All the nuns listened as the bishop and parish priest discussed Church matters.
“Laying down the law, like all men,” muttered Maura, “and those silly women agreeing with every word they say.”
“Sssh Maura, Gabriel's got to do what they say,” murmured Detta. “The bishop's the one who oversees the convent and the laundry and the orphanage.”
“I don't give a damn about that shower of shites. Not one of them priests and holy men ever did a bit of good to help me or my family. Oh! They were quick enough to come knocking on our door looking for the Christmas and Easter dues, collecting money from those that could barely afford it every Sunday at mass. They live in big houses
with women who wash and clean and cook for them, getting only a pittance in return. They are no friends of women at all, d'ya hear!”
“We're only poor souls that need to be saved, low and dirty, fallen women,” added Bernice bitterly.
“Jesus was low and poor,” argued Detta. “He was one of us!”
“Detta's right!” argued Esther. “Anyways, not all priests are the same. Father Devaney was good to me. He was real kind to my family when my father and little sister died. 'Twas he organized for me to come up here to Dublin, when he knew that I had nowhere else to go.”
“Aye!” chuckled Maura sarcastically. “He was right kind, sending you to a place like this, Esther, right kind!”
Esther felt bewildered by Maura's bitterness and anger. She had enough to deal with trying to keep her sanity and good humour through all this. Without these women she couldn't have borne it.
“Ah, will ya shut up, Maura! We've enough of sermons, 'tis the Christmas dinner, and the turkey's getting cold.” Detta tucked into the tiny piece of white meat, enjoying every morsel of it.
Afterwards a group of the orphan girls and a few of the women sang Christmas carols, Father Enda Clancy leading them all in a chorus of “Silent Night.” Esther felt so sad and lonesome. This would be her first Christmas ever away from home and those she loved. The bishop was nodding off, his double chins sinking on to his chest; another few seconds and he would be snoring like a mere mortal. Sister Gabriel tried to wake him discreetly.
“His Grace has to leave and I'm afraid that I must end
our choral session,” she announced. “Father O'Connell and Father Clancy are busy men too, and must be about the Lord's business. On your behalf I thank them for taking the time to visit us.”
All the Maggies stood back to let the men pass, some of the women stretching to try and touch the bishop's robe, whereas the nuns knelt in front of him or bowed low and kissed his ring. With a wave of his hand he dismissed all the women kneeling and standing around him before stepping into his car.
“See ya next year!” roared Rita as they all departed, repeating her obscene gesture behind the nuns' backs.
“T
he Three Marys,” that's what the other women called them.
Maura had calculated that between them Mary Donovan, Mary Byrne, and Margaret Mary Hennessy had spent more than a hundred years in the Holy Saints Convent and Laundry. They came from three provinces, Munster, Connacht, and Leinster, and yet despite different circumstances and various backgrounds had all ended up together in the dismal drudgery of this Dublin laundry. Over many years the constant companions seemed to have lost the rhythms of speech and developed an unusual slurred dialect of their own. Esther found them strange and eccentric, hardly understanding a word they said, yet in some
way they reminded her of her sister Nonie and what might have happened to her if she had grown to full adulthood. Mary Byrne was the fittest and brightest of them, and seemed to be the leader. The other two were big strong lumps of women, generally biddable, always doing what the nuns told them, eyes downcast as they constantly washed the convent corridors and laundry floor with their mops and buckets.
Mary Hennessy was the only one of them ever to have a visitor, her brother Peadar coming twice a year from his farm in the midlands to see her. In summer he'd bring her a colourful blouse in an accommodating outsize, and in winter a warm, chunky cardigan. He had come to make his usual pre-Christmas visit, a huge red-faced farmer, not unlike his sister, who was one of the few men that Sister Gabriel made in any way welcome in the convent. “The brother's good to me,” Mary would mumble.
As it was Christmas, he produced the usual cardigan and three big bags of sweets and a huge home-made sponge sandwich for his sister, remembering her sweet tooth. Mary Hennessy, clutching the spoils to her huge chest, reappeared in the recreation room following his visit. The other two Marys were on top of her in a flash. Luckily Sheila managed to grab a hold of the cake and put it up on the sideboard before it went the way of the sweets, which were being flung around the room.
“Give it here!”
“They're mine!” squealed Mary Byrne.
“No! Peadar give them me!” insisted Mary Hennessy.
“He wants us to share them sweeties!” declared Mary Donovan, grabbing for the bags. Esther, sitting knitting in
the corner, watched as the three women clawed and pulled and fought like aged wildcats, trying to get hold of the lemon drops and bull's-eyes and sherbet dips and humbugs, each of them screaming and shouting, “They's mine!” Somehow or other the two Marys had convinced themselves over the years that Peadar was their brother too.
“Will ya shut up, the three of ya! Stop it!” ordered Maura, trying to come between them. “I'll take those sweets off you if you don't stop the fighting!”
They paid no heed, Mary Byrne landing Maura a shove in the chest and a kick in the shins for her trouble.
Sister Gabriel, hearing all the commotion, suddenly sailed into the room, looking furious. “What is the meaning of this? Mary Hennessy, are you to blame for this disturbance?”
“She won't give us our sweeties, Sister!” caterwauled Mary Donovan.
“You three stop this fighting immediately! Behaving in this fashion, fighting on the Lord's day, I'll not tolerate it!” The tall nun pushed her way in amongst the women. They would not budge an inch. “Give me those bags of sweets at once!” she ordered disdainfully.
Mary Hennessy hesitated, unsure and unwilling to loosen her grip.
“This minute!”
The other two looked at each other warily as Mary Hennessy wavered, trying to raise her fat arms over their heads to pass the nun the sweets. Mary Donovan gave Sister Gabriel a push. The nun swung around, one hand stretching to receive the now tattered and torn brown-paper bags of sweets, the other taking hold of Mary
Donovan. The linoleum was covered with lemon drops.
“Outside immediately, Mary Donovan!” she ordered, the lumbering Cork woman obeying her, terrified. The other two women scrabbled on the ground for the sweets. “How dare you attack and raise your hand to me!”
Mary Donovan had begun to cry, tears running down her moon-face, Sister Gabriel leading her to her office to discipline her. Mary Hennessy collapsed in a heap, bawling her eyes out like a small child would for her missing sweets and friend. Esther watched as the two forgotten women wrapped their arms around each other, trying to ease the unfairness of it all.
“Don't mind that crowd of imbeciles!” warned Maura, lowering herself on to an old orange-coloured raffia stool. “Will you look at the bruise that one's after landing me with!”
Esther couldn't help laughing.
“Gabriel always has to take the sweets off her; she'll dole them out to them over a few weeks, and Ina will share out slices of the cake. Honest to God, they're like children.”
“Aye. That's the sad part of it.”
“What are you knitting for the baby?”
“It's a blanket, well, meant to be anyways.” The strange-looking square lay spread out on her lap. “I was going to try a cardigan; maybe I'll do one next, but I thought a big cosy blanket would keep my baby warm. This place is full of draughts.”
“Are you putting a picture on it?”
“No, that's just the pattern. These are the stitches my mother uses. This zigzag one is like the waves on the sea.
These symbolize the blackberries that grow on the briars all around the fields where we live. These are the stone walls—”
“It's lovely, Esther, your mother must be a great knitter, and has passed it down to you.”
“‘Twas something she always did. Knitting for the boys, knitting for my father, knitting for myself and my sister Nonie. The winter's evenings she'd have to sit right up close to the lamp. Her eyes would be strained with it.”
“You must miss her a lot. Have you any word of her?”
Esther shook her head. She was fed up of it! She still wrote a letter once a week to her mother, paying Ina to post it for her, and hadn't had even so much as one reply. “She's a proud woman. She's fierce angry with me!”
“She'll come around. Things will be all right once you've had the baby. For heaven's sake, you're her daughter.”
“It's not just about the baby, Maura, though that's bad enough! She blames me for my little sister Nonie dying. She'll never forgive me for that, not ever.”
“Your sister died? I'm sorry, Esther. The death of a child changes everything.” Maura took hold of her hand.
Slowly the story of Nonie and Conor and home all seeped out. It was strange, but she felt she could trust Maura, that she would keep her confidences and not go whispering and gossiping about the place. “It wasn't your fault, Esther, what happened to your sister. You did her no harm. 'Twas God decided to take her, and your mammy will realize that in time.”
The bell for bedtime rang, and folding up her knitting, Esther prepared to go upstairs, many of the others going
ahead of her as she completed two rows of cable and zigzag.
At night the convent's corridors were silent and ghostly. The lifesize plaster and marble statues of the grim-faced saints stared down at the penitents as they made their way to bed. Whipped and shot with arrows and tortured for their Christian beliefs, they were a reminder of what the church expected from its followers. Above a flickering red night lamp, burning in constant adoration, a painting of Jesus watching over them, his bleeding heart exposed.
Esther was just turning on the landing when she spotted Mary Donovan, standing arms outstretched in front of a large statue of Our Lady, a small crowd around her.
“Janey Mac, will you look at your woman!” said Bernice. “She thinks she's Saint Bernadette or something.”
“Mary, what are you doing?” asked Maura, concerned.
“I'm saying my prayers like Sister Gabriel told me,” she mumbled. “She said I was to do my penance here all night.”
Esther could see the poor simple woman was weak after hours of punishment. She was almost in a trance. At about two o'clock in the morning four of them went out to check on her. She was still standing praying, becoming more disorientated and confused the longer she was left there.
“Mary, I think you should say a last prayer and then go to bed,” suggested Maura.
“But the nun'll kill me.”
“She won't know! The old bitch is asleep in bed. You
can hear her snoring from outside her door!” promised Rita, yawning.
Reluctantly Mary was persuaded to return to the dormitory, where she fell into a deep, innocent sleep. Esther lay half awake for hours, wondering what kind of warped mind would force a simple-minded woman to pray all night.

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