Finding Tom Connor

by Sarah-Kate Lynch

  Bobs looked at her daughter sadly. ‘He only ever referred to our mother as “that poxy whore’s melt”, darling, and just the mention of Vivienne would have him crying into his Guinness for a month. I had no idea about Tom until your aunt rang me a month or so ago.’

  ‘What did the letters say, Viv?’

  ‘They basically damned Mom’s soul to hell for leaving Tom behind. The first one asked her how she could live with herself splitting up her girls and abandoning the poor little fellow when it was clear he knew what was going on. She wanted to know what had happened to the plans to send for him once they were settled. The second one said if she didn’t hear back she was taking Tom away and that would be the last anyone ever heard. And it seems it was.’

  Bobs started to sniffle again and took another slug of gin.

  ‘What are you blubbing for?’ asked Molly. ‘I’m the one who’s swimming around in the shallow end of the gene pool here. When you take the nutters, the drinkers and the fornicators into account, it’s hardly encouraging for me on the child-bearing front. Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not marrying Jack. Our kids would be triple-axe murderers if they were lucky.’

  Vivienne looked at her niece with something approaching pride. You had to hand it to the kid. She was handling this whole mess pretty damned well. If only she could be more like this the rest of the time.

  ‘Your grandmother wasn’t a nutter, Molly,’ Bobs butted in icily. ‘She was demented. You know, officially. Isn’t that right, Vivienne? And as for you, young lady, you can keep a civil tongue in your head while you’re in my house, jilted bride or not.’

  Molly opened her mouth to thank her loving mother for the reminder but rolled her eyes and turned to Viv instead. ‘So, can you remember him?’

  Her aunt looked sad. ‘I’ve tried, honey, but we were so little. I do have a vague memory of a bigger boy but I can’t quite pin it down. A ginger-haired boy, I think, with freckles, but it’s so darn hard — it’s really only the most fleeting of memories.’

  Great, thought Molly. Let’s add ginger to the nutter, drinker, fornicator pool while we’re down there.

  ‘Nothing would surprise us about our parents, it has to be said,’ Viv continued. ‘They were so utterly capable of doing something like this.’

  ‘But that’s so horrible,’ wailed Molly. ‘That poor boy. Poor Tom. Imagine growing up knowing your whole family abandoned you — it’s obscene.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I felt I had to try and find him,’ said Viv. ‘That’s why I went to O’Rellys. They specialise in finding lost relatives.’

  It had been at a little Irish bar around the corner from Vivienne’s apartment on 86th and Amsterdam. Called Murphy’s, of course. Sometimes on the way home from work Vivienne was in the habit of slipping into a private booth at the warm and friendly pub for a stiff Irish whiskey before she went home to the stylish but ever so slightly chilled atmosphere of her seven-room, seventh-floor apartment.

  One night, after a particularly stressful meeting with the publisher, who was concerned at a lull in the rise of the Match! circulation, Vivienne had swept into the bar in her high heels and pashmina wrap, ordered her usual drink with a raise of her eyebrow at the barman, and snuck into the solitude of her favourite alcove. There under the fake candle had been a card for O’Rellys. Looking for relatives in Ireland? the card read. O’Rellys will o’find them! Vivienne had laughed at the auld sod-ness of it all and had absent-mindedly tucked the card into her purse.

  A week later when the box containing her grandmother’s letters had appeared at the apartment she had pulled the card out again, made the tearful, harrowing call to Bobs in New Zealand, then called the Dublin number.

  ‘God, I am starving,’ Molly suddenly sat up straight, rubbed her tummy and looked at her watch.

  ‘Nearly midnight. No wonder! Mum, what do you have in the house to eat? And Viv, God, you must be starving too. What can I get you?’

  Downstairs she fiddled around in Bobs’ pantry but like most restaurateurs, her mother ate beautifully at her restaurant, and pitifully at home. The refrigerator looked like a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong. Jars of once no doubt delicious pickles and jams had exploded and a cheese had been there so long it had puffed up to look like an inflated green velvet beret.

  Naturally, there was an abundant supply of tonic and the freezer revealed an eye-wateringly large range of gins so Molly poured herself a generous Bombay and tugged out a log of frozen sausage rolls guaranteeing to be at least 16 per cent meat.

  Putting the oven on high and hacking the frozen log into bite-sized bits, she deliberately avoided looking at the fat content on the wrapper. Then, she wandered through to the living room, flopped on the sofa, closed her eyes and thought about what the last nine hours of her life had thrown at her.

  Amazing. She hardly felt a thing. As she drew her legs up onto the couch and snuggled down into its warm cushions, all she could really feel was a warm tingliness in her tummy. That and a sudden deep desire to be asleep. In a moment she was.

  When she woke up she was covered by a feather-filled duvet and there was a pillow under her head. Slowly, she sat up and tried to focus her eyes in the darkness. Turning on the light, she realised the dark wasn’t the problem.

  Molly Brown had a Grade A hangover and it felt like shit.

  She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Five-fifteen. What the hell was she doing in her mother’s living room at 5.15 in the morning? Molly looked down at herself. In her wedding dress. The events of the previous day came hurtling back at her.

  Oh, that’s right, thought Molly. Jack doesn’t love me, we’re not getting married, I flipped my beanie at the airport and Vivienne is here from New York. Oh, and there’s the whole Tom Connor thing too.

  Something was scratching her butt and, rustling around in the squabs, Molly pulled out the crumpled letter from Charlie what’sisname from O’Rellys in Dublin.

  An idea started to form in her head but unfortunately most of her head was taken up with aching and the idea wasn’t getting much of a chance to break through.

  Molly stood up slowly, then noticed that her darling aunt had put a bottle of Tylenol on the coffee table with a glass of water. What a gal.

  She took two of the painkillers and washed them down with the water, only Bobs must have been in charge of that department because it was actually gin.

  Family! thought Molly. Where would she be without them? Her mother wasn’t the easiest person in the world but Molly had grown up knowing she was loved and, as it was turning out, that was a rarity in this family.

  Wandering into the kitchen, Molly ravenously devoured the remains of the bite-sized sausage rolls. Bobs or Viv must have rescued them from a cindery death in the oven. Mmmmm, that 16 per cent meat tasted good.

  She slouched at the breakfast bar with her cold, hard snacks and a bottle of tomato sauce and picked at them while she waited for the Tylenol to do its thing.

  Slowly, the idea was coming together. It had formed a wodge on one side of her head and was doing its level best to spread.

  Looking again at the crumpled letter from O’Rellys she stared at the letterhead, then slowly picked up the phone and dialled the Dublin number. Then dialled it again. Then looked at the phone book so she had the right international code and dialled it a third time. Bingo!

  After leaving a message on the O’Rellys answering machine, she dialled the Air New Zealand 24-hour reservation number.

  ‘That’s right, three-business class fares to Dublin, Ireland,’ she told the snooty cow on the other end of the phone. ‘Tomorrow — that is, today — at 1pm? Perfect. We’ll be on it. Mrs Bernadette Brown, Ms Molly Brown and Mrs Vivienne Connor. Yes, American Express. Can you hold on a moment while I get the card?’

  Molly raced to the hall table near the front door where she had dumped her bag. ‘Yes, the name on the card is White, Jack White. That’s right, it’s a joint card. He’s my fiancé. Oh, yes,’ laughed Molly in what s
he hoped was a pretty, betrothed sort of way, ‘the luckiest girl in the world, that’s me.’

  She put the phone down, stabbed the last of the sausage roll crumbs with her finger and sauntered back into the living room where she fell back onto the sofa, switched off the lamp and whispered into the darkness, ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Tom, we’ll find you,’ before slipping back into a deep, deep sleep.

  Chapter 10

  1969

  Maeve O’Riordan was a miserable woman. On that everybody wholeheartedly agreed. The very look of her, a mere glimpse even, would give you that impression straight off. Miserable.

  Her lips were thin and set permanently in a straight line. Her eyes were small and squinty. She was as thin as a rake and slightly hunched, as if to stop anything getting in or out of the space in front of her. It was hers, that space, and if you thought you could just come in here and suck a bit of it out then you could think again.

  You just knew that if she ever invited you in for a cup of tea, which she wouldn’t, you wouldn’t get any tea anyway and there could be all the scones in the world idling in her pantry and you wouldn’t get to feast on even the smallest raisin.

  That’s how miserable Maeve O’Riordan was.

  Although she hadn’t always been that way. In fact, far from it.

  Maeve Casey had been born to Kevin and Petal after they had already brought five boys into the world and as far as her parents and older brothers were concerned, she was an angel sent directly from the Heavenly Father himself.

  The little girl had a charmed life full of hugs and kisses and isn’t-she-lovelies and was spoiled rotten by all who knew her.

  She knew she was pretty from an early age, and that she was loved unconditionally even earlier, which gave her carte blanche to do whatever she wanted, happy in the knowledge that she would be adored no matter what.

  Just knowing that made her all the more gorgeous.

  Paddy O’Riordan first noticed — really noticed — Maeve Casey at Sunday mass one morning when he was 15. When the sun hit her face as she looked up from under her lashes coming back from communion he just knew he was going to marry her. And when he was 19 he did.

  Maeve was used to being loved and adored by seven people at once so he had his work cut out to come even close on the Maeve appreciation front, but Paddy did his best and it had to be said it was better than the best of most other men.

  Maeve had fallen for his black hair and bright blue eyes, the kindest you were ever likely to see on a man. He was tall and his shoulders were that broad that a girl felt looked after just being in the same room as him. And of course Maeve knew that Mary Farrelly — real brainy but not even half as pretty as Maeve, nor anywhere near on the personality front — wasn’t half soft on him so he must have been grand.

  They’d make beautiful babies, together, she and Paddy, thought Maeve.

  But as it turned out, Maeve had never really thought further than that — had never thought, for example, about the consequences of living with a man who made his living by relieving dead fish of their innards.

  The first day she moved into Paddy’s house overlooking the sea was the first day she ever felt nauseous and it was a feeling she swore never left her ever after.

  ‘Could you not stop off somewhere and clean yourself up before you come home?’ she asked her adoring husband at the end of their first week of wedded bliss. ‘The smell of fish has me gasping for air, Paddy.’

  The stench was also apparently repelling Maeve from her husband in the bedroom.

  ‘We’ve waited so long, Maeve,’ Paddy pleaded as he tried to hop into bed with his wife for the fifth night in a row. ‘It’s time we were together.’

  But his pretty redheaded wife waved him away with one hand while holding her delicate nose with the other and before he knew it, Paddy O’Riordan had been sleeping on the couch for a month.

  Despite the frustrations of a healthy red-blooded man whose entire sexual experience consisted of one sweaty dose of grunting and moaning atop a scabby whore in Cork, Paddy gave his wife what she wanted.

  That is, not him.

  But after a month of seeing her lovely face crinkle and screw up at the very sight (or smell) of him, he did what any healthy red-blooded man would have done.

  He went to see Father Cahill and took a bottle of whiskey with him.

  When the contents were half gone, the priest fixed Paddy with as much of a steely gaze as he could muster.

  ‘Married life treating you well, then, Paddy?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right, Father,’ Paddy replied, ‘although perhaps not as well as I might have expected.’

  ‘Well, Maeve has always been a sensitive girl.’

  The two sat silently for a minute or so.

  ‘So how long might a man expect his wife to stay sensitive?’ Paddy asked, not looking Father Cahill in the eye.

  ‘Well, that would depend what she was sensitive about,’ the priest replied, wishing that his parishioners would come straight out with their problems instead of skirting around them.

  ‘Right so,’ said Paddy.

  The two sat silently for a minute or so more.

  ‘If she was sensitive about the smell of fish, for example, Father, even if perhaps not everybody would consider that the smell of fish was still there with all the scrubbing and everything. How long do you think that would take?’

  ‘Ah, well, in your line of business, Paddy, I suppose that could take some time,’ the priest replied carefully. ‘Are you all right with that?’

  Paddy felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and although not much of a drinking man, by local standards anyway, he reached for the bottle and poured himself another few fingers of whiskey.

  ‘I’ll keep myself to myself for the next while, then, Father,’ he said sadly, wrinkling up his eyes as the fumes from the strong alcohol hit them.

  ‘You’ll keep yourself to yourself until she says otherwise is what you’ll do, Paddy,’ Father Cahill replied. ‘Otherwise there’s five strapping Casey lads will tear you limb from limb and eat your entrails and there’s not many will fancy the smell of that, either.’

  Feeling sick with frustration and liquor, Paddy prepared to take his leave, but not before the priest suggested he stop off at the little presbytery on his way home from work each day and scrub himself down at the outside laundry. Maybe that would help.

  After seven months, one week and three days of his doing this, Maeve O’Riordan allowed her husband to lie with her but the experience was pleasurable for neither of them.

  Paddy couldn’t help but think that his beautiful wife could do with a bit of the scabby whore’s enthusiasm, and Maeve couldn’t help but think was there no way of getting rid of the fish smell that made her feel so queasy.

  Looking back, Paddy thought that that night was probably the night the Maeve Casey he married started to turn into a whole new, hard, unlovable person. But worse was to come.

  She let him make love to her three more times over the next three months, although she clearly found the whole business totally distasteful. However, when the doctor confirmed that she was to have a baby, she could not have been more delighted. Aside from the problems in the bedroom, which Maeve thrust easily from her mind while Paddy tried to do the same, they seemed the happiest couple in Ballymahoe.

  He was allowed to sleep in the bed with her now, and Paddy and Maeve would stay awake late into the night, talking about their plans for their daughter or son. Already gorgeous with her almost olive skin, green eyes and crinkly red hair, Maeve blossomed in pregnancy, although the feeling of wretched sickness she’d felt since the first day of their marriage never left.

  Five months into gestation, though, Paddy came home from work to find Father Cahill sitting in the front room. Maeve had miscarried. She was at her parents’ and would be home soon enough. Her parents had dispatched the priest to deal with the difficult job of telling her husband she didn’t want to see him for a while, and Paddy never knew if this was
because Maeve felt for him or blamed him, because his wife never spoke of the baby again.

  ‘It’s God’s will,’ Father Cahill reminded Paddy O’Riordan before he left.

  That night, on his own, Paddy knelt beside the little wooden crib he had made for his first-born baby and wept as he had never wept before. He knew in his heart that the crib would stay empty for ever, and for that and the loss of the love of his life the tears kept coming.

  Chapter 11

  Thursday, 18 February 1999

  Molly felt cold fingers moving up and down her spine and for a moment thought she was back at home in bed with Jack and that he was waking her up, the way he liked to, for the robust series of sexual athletics he always claimed made him work better.

  But then she remembered Tiffini’s tweeds dumped on the floor of Jack’s secret apartment. Her eyes flew open and she spun around, falling off her mother’s sofa and only narrowly missing her aunt.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she croaked, as Vivienne rose smartly to her feet. ‘You were clawing at me!’

  ‘Molly,’ said her aunt, straightening imaginary creases in her linen trousers, ‘I know you are having a bad patch, but the wedding dress has got to come off.’

  Molly heaved herself off the floor and slid back onto the sofa, grabbing the duvet and clutching it to her tightly. The clock on the mantelpiece told her it was just after 10. Her headache had gone but the fugginess was still there.

  ‘The dress stays on,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  Bobs appeared from the hallway and exchanged a nervous glance with her sister. Nervous glances and Viv being in the room seemed to go hand in hand as far as Bobs was concerned.

  ‘Molly, darling,’ her mother began. ‘Your aunt is right. It is not normal to wear any dress for more than 12 hours at a stretch but in particular it is not normal to have quite such an attachment to one’s wedding gown.’

  Especially in the absence of a wedding, Viv thought to herself.