A Swift Pure Cry

by Siobhan Dowd

  'You came in, Dad. Confused with the drink. Moira, you kept saying. You remember?'

  He shook his head. 'It's a closed book.'

  'It was the dress confused you, Dad.'

  'The dress?'

  'I'd fallen asleep in it. The pink dress.'

  'God forgive me,' he whispered.

  'You were like a blind man, walking in your sleep, at the foot of the bed, feeling around. But Mam woke me up. She came in a dream and woke me up. So I rolled out of bed. And you fell in. You passed out. I left you there. And that was all.'

  He kneaded the skin on his gullet. 'All?'

  'All.'

  'Nothing-nothing more?' His fingers rose and plucked at his lips. She saw the words drifting across his eyes. All. Nothing. All.

  'Nothing.'

  'You mean it?'

  'Nothing. Honest to God.'

  'I didn't-touch you?'

  'You were too far gone, Dad.'

  'Praise be to God.' His nostrils quivered. He shut his eyes, nodded. He made the sign of the cross. Then one eye opened. 'I've only your word for it,' he said.

  'It's true, Dad. Would I lie about a thing like that?'

  'Thanks be. You're certain, Shell?'

  'Certain, Dad. As God is my witness.'

  A long silence fell. Shell went back to her chair.

  'I loved your mam, Shell.' It was almost a squeak.

  'I know, Dad.'

  'The pink dress wasn't the only thing I kept.'

  'No?'

  'No. There was this too.' He reached into his jacket pocket. 'They tried to take it from me, but I wouldn't let them.' He held out the golden wedding band, the one Shell had seen him take from Mam's hand at the laying-out. 'They said I should leave it on her, bury her with it. But I couldn't. I took it off her before they covered her over. It wouldn't go on my littlest finger, Shell. So dainty were her hands. Slim, from all the piano-playing. The way she'd fly over the notes, up and down, like tiny birds. So I kept it in my pocket. All this time, the same pocket, by the breast. Everywhere I went. Even in here. They tried to take it from me. But I wouldn't let them.'

  She stared. She thought he'd pawned it for a drink and she'd been wrong. 'Has she haunted you, Dad? Like she's haunted me?'

  He nodded. 'Every second of every day, Shell. The eyes reproaching me. Telling me to pack in the drink.'

  He retook his seat and put the ring down on the knot of wood. He folded his arms, grabbing the elbows straitjacket-wise. 'The moment they let me out, Shell, I'll be down the pub. I know it. I'd sooner go to jail for the rest of my life. If it's the same to you. I've been a wretched father to you all.'

  'But Dad. The baby on the strand. 'S nothing to do with us.'

  'So you say.'

  'Don't you believe me, Dad?'

  'Dunno. Dunno any more what's true.'

  'Dad, it's true. I swear it. On Mam's ring.' She put her hand briefly down on it. 'See.'

  He grunted. 'So you say.'

  'Will you retract, Dad? For my sake, if not yours?'

  He shrugged.

  'Will you? Please?'

  He picked up the ring and looked through it, straight at Shell. His pupils dilated. He put it back in his pocket with a strange smile. 'Maybe. If.'

  'If?'

  'If you tell me. Who the real father is.'

  On the word 'real' he thumped the table. Shell jumped. The Detox Terrors were back. A fury was in his face.

  'Dad! Does it matter?'

  He thumped the table again. 'Of course it matters. I'll punch him to pulp. I'll thrash him to pigsmeat. I'll--' His fingers crackled. His eyes squeezed up hard. 'Tell-me-who-he-is,' he minced.

  'Dad!'

  'Tell me the name of that blackguard and I'll--'

  'Dad. You can't thrash him. He's miles away. Gone.'

  'I'll follow him. I'll shred him. The bastard.'

  'You won't.'

  'I'll have his hide.'

  'I won't tell you, so.'

  'You'd better.' He spat the words out like lava from a volcano. But a sly glint was in his eye.

  She flopped back in her chair. His eyes narrowed. Declan. Time's up. Toodlepip. 'OK, Dad. I'll tell you,' she sighed. 'On one condition.'

  'Jesus. Women. I'm the one driving this bargain. What condition?'

  'You retract. And tell no one who the father is.'

  He cursed again. 'That's two conditions. You'd drive a sane man to distraction.' He snorted. 'All right. I promise. I'll tell no one. But I'll have his hide, you'll see.'

  'And you'll retract?'

  He snarled, then nodded.

  'It was Declan, Dad. Declan Ronan.' Your secret's out now, Declan. The words fell out like a suit of old clothes. Dad would tell nobody at first. But then, as soon as he'd a few pints down him, he'd tell Tom Stack, who'd tell Mr McGrath, who'd tell Mrs McGrath, who'd tell everybody in Coolbar. Mr and Mrs Ronan would be the last to know.

  'Declan Ronan?' Dad gasped.

  She nodded.

  'The altar boy?'

  She nodded again.

  'The la-di-dah Ronans? Declan?'

  'Yes.'

  'So that's why he shot off to America. The monkey. I'll kill him.'

  'No! He didn't know then. About me. About the-baby.'

  'The baby?' His voice changed. 'Wasn't it twins then, like they said?'

  'No, Dad. Course not.'

  'A boy so. Like they said?'

  'No, Dad. A girl. Like I said.'

  'A girl?'

  'A little girl. Tiny. With blue eyes, Dad. And she came out dead.'

  'Dead?'

  'Trix, Jimmy and me. We buried her in the field.'

  His hands covered his eyes. His shoulders shook. My God. The old fool's crying. 'Ah, Shell. Forgive me. I did do this to you. I knew all along and I pretended not to know.'

  'You'll retract now, Dad?'

  He nodded. 'Anything, Shell. Anything you say.' His head went back down on the table. 'Your mam's own grandchild, Shell. A girl, you say? Was she like her, Shell? Was she?'

  Shell got to her feet. 'She was, Dad. A little.' Her chair screeched across the floor. Dead with the blue eyes shining. Like suns, beaming. She grabbed the edge of the table, hard. The room was filming over. She didn't trust him. She'd better get him to retract fast while the going was good. She called out for the guard.

  The guard came in and sent for Molloy. Molloy was out. Sergeant Cochran arrived instead. She put on the tape and the ghost-hiss filled the room. He stumbled and floundered, then got out the words. I, Joseph Mortimer Talent, of Coolbar Road... In two more minutes, his confession was retracted.

  Forty-seven

  Shell thought that once he'd retracted the case would be closed. But a day passed and nothing happened. Then another and another. Dad was still detained.

  Father Rose called one evening later that week. The boys and Trix were playing the card game Forty-five at the kitchen table.

  'Hearts are up,' Liam called.

  Shell, Mrs Duggan and Father Rose watched as the others played.

  'You reneged,' Jimmy shouted at Trix.

  'Did not.'

  'You did. You should've put the ace down last time.'

  ''S my ace. I can put it down when I like. Isn't that right, Father Rose?'

  'Don't ask me. I'm not familiar with the rules. We don't play Forty-five where I come from. What do you say, Shell?'

  'If Liam led with a heart and you had one, Trix, you should have put it down.'

  Trix pretended she didn't hear. Jimmy made a face like a demented gorilla, then he rolled his eyes. Shell winked at him. The game went on.

  Father Rose touched Mrs Duggan's arm, indicating the fireplace at the other end of the room. 'Can we three talk?' he said in a low voice. She nodded. They removed themselves out of earshot. Mrs Duggan fetched Father Rose a whiskey and ushered him and Shell onto two chairs.

  'Any news? Will they let Joe out soon?' Mrs Duggan asked.

  'No sign of it. I saw Molloy today. He insists t
he original confession stands.'

  'That man. He's a dog with a bone.'

  'He says he's waiting for the pathologists' report.'

  'Is it due out soon?'

  'Any day.' He dropped his voice. 'Don't tell anyone, but Sergeant Cochran slipped me something in advance.' He looked from one to the other. 'Apparently the babies have different blood groups.'

  Shell's hand was on her throat. She could hardly breathe.

  'One's an A. The other's an O,' Father Rose said.

  'What-does that mean?' Shell faltered.

  'I'm not sure. But maybe good news.'

  'You'd think twins would be the same blood group,' Mrs Duggan mused. 'I'm an O. So are we all in this house. D'you know what you are, Shell?'

  Shell shrugged. 'Dunno. Dunno what a blood group is.' She watched Father Rose as he took a sip of his whiskey. 'Did they find out why my baby died?' she whispered.

  He shook his head. 'Sorry, Shell. Sergeant Cochran said that was all she knew.' He jerked his head towards the drawn curtains. 'It's a circus out there,' he said. 'There's press everywhere. Stack's pub is buzzing. And the gardai are going round door-to-door. Father Carroll's announced a special Mass.'

  'What for?'

  'For the repose the two babies' souls.'

  'Can I go?'

  Father Rose raised an eyebrow. 'I'd sooner send you to the wolves.'

  'But I want to go.'

  Mrs Duggan's hand landed on her shoulder. 'We'll go together, Shell. All of us together. Like last Sunday. Will you be officiating, Father?'

  'No. I've my Goat Island duties that day.'

  'But surely--'

  Father Rose shook his head. 'Father Carroll won't hear of it.'

  Mrs Duggan raised a brow. Father Rose shook his head and raised up a palm. Mrs Duggan sighed. She went to quell an insurrection at the card game.

  Father Rose settled himself in the chair. He took a long, slow sip of his whiskey. Shell kneaded a ball of fluff on her jumper. The fire crackled. A and O. The two babies side by side on the slab.

  'It's been a terrible time for you, Shell.'

  She shrugged.

  'Mrs Duggan told me how you went in and got your father to retract.'

  She nodded.

  'How did you manage it?'

  She looked up. Father Rose was not looking at her, but into his drink. It's not the first sip, Shell, or the second. But the third.

  'I told him who the real father was,' she whispered.

  Father Rose nodded. 'I see.' He got up from the chair and leaned against the mantelpiece, glass in hand, staring into the flames. 'On that subject, there's something I wanted to show you, Shell. If I may.'

  She hunched her shoulders. 'What?'

  Father Rose downed the whiskey. He put the glass up on the shelf and rummaged through an inner pocket. He pulled out an old envelope. 'Nora Canterville, our housekeeper, found this the other day. When she was sorting through the hymn books. She gave it to Father Carroll, who gave it to me.'

  'What is it?'

  'Take a look.' He passed it over. It was a shopping list in her writing. Eggs. Back bacon. Pan-loaf. Oxtail soup. Stock cubes. The list went on. Beneath was more of her scrawl, wilder, in a blunt pencil. Sorry, Bridie. Honest to God. Didn't know you were going with him. And on the other side, crammed in letters not her own: He'd make a dog sick in those robes. You can have him Shell plus bra.

  She was at the Good Friday Stations again. Bridie's nostrils were flaring. She was showing her gums. Spite was in her eye. Simon of Cyrene had lifted up the back part of the cross. She remembered the note being written, how Dad had nearly caught them at it and her plunging it in the hymnal. The words swam before her. Sorry. Dog. Sick. God. Father Rose was waiting, saying nothing. Please, let me die. Now.

  'The girl in the note, Bridie,' Father Rose said at last. 'She's the girl I saw you fighting with that day, isn't she? The day we drove over the coast road?'

  Shell nodded, miserable. 'Bridie Quinn. We were friends. Until--'

  'Until what?'

  She couldn't answer.

  'And who was it Bridie said would make a dog sick, Shell? Will you tell me that?'

  Shell bit her lip. Declan, your secret's out now.

  'Won't you?'

  She swallowed. 'You know, Father, don't you?' Face down in a cowpat.

  'I think I can guess. He's "not in Coolbar now", I think you said?'

  She nodded.

  'He's gone abroad? To America, maybe?'

  She nodded again.

  'And was he the father, Shell?'

  'Yes.' Her voice was barely audible.

  She looked at the note and longed to scrunch it up. The words in those robes were a torment. 'Is-is this note why Father Carroll won't let you say the Mass?' she stammered. He thinks it's you, doesn't he? He thinks what Mrs McGrath thinks. What they all think.

  'He's his reasons, Shell. Good reasons, probably.' Father Rose reached for the whiskey he'd laid on the mantel, forgetting he'd already finished it. He looked into the diamond zigzags of the cut glass as if the shape of the rest of his life was etched there. Then he looked up. His tired lids lifted. A soft gleam found its way to her. He smiled.

  'Father,' Shell said, 'tell Father Carroll. Tell him the truth.' She passed him the note. 'Please.'

  He passed it back. It was like a daft card nobody wanted, the joker of the pack. 'No, Shell. You keep it. Father Carroll didn't pay it much attention, don't you worry. And doesn't a letter belong to its author, in the eyes of the law?'

  'I wouldn't know.'

  'It does. So the note's yours. And your friend Bridie's, I suppose.'

  'She's not my friend. Not any more. She's not spoken to me since the summer. And then she went away.'

  'But she's back now, isn't she?'

  'Is she?' Shell looked up, confused.

  'I saw her, I'm sure, recently.'

  'Never. Where?'

  'She was walking up the coast road, on her own. Thumbing a lift in the dark.'

  Shell frowned. Mrs Quinn was before her, talking. She's in Kilbran, with her Auntie May. Helping with the B & Bs. 'When was that, Father?'

  Father Rose considered. 'Let me see. I was on my way back from Goat Island after an evening Mass. Not this week, last. Just before Christmas so. I slowed right down to give her a spin, but when she saw who it was she shook her head and waved me on.' He grinned. 'She probably didn't fancy a ride with a priest. Not to mention the cut of my car.' He replaced the glass on the mantelpiece.

  'You're sure it was her?'

  'Certain. She's the kind of face you don't forget. You should call over and see if you can't make it up.'

  Caterwauls and table-thumps rebounded across the room. 'Forty-five,' yelled Trix from the table. ''S my game.'

  'Cheat!' hooted Jimmy. 'You reneged again.'

  The cards at the other end of the room flew through the air like manna from heaven. Father Rose laughed and shook his head. His hand waved vaguely in the air. 'Isn't the world a mad fandango? Isn't it, Shell?'

  Forty-eight

  Not just Coolbar, but all Ireland waited for the doctors' verdict. Parliamentarians met in the Dail in heated conclave. The airwaves crackled with lamentations. Only look at the state of a country where such a thing could happen, a woman TD bewailed. A tribunal of inquiry was called for on national news. Coolbar was in a state of siege.

  But within the Duggans' house there was a hush at the centre of the storm. No one came near them. The radio, TV and telephone were unplugged.

  The weekend came and went. On Monday, John, Liam, Jimmy and Trix went back to school for the new term. They didn't want to go, but Shell and Mrs Duggan made them. Dispatching them from her car into the chill January air, Mrs Duggan warned, 'If anyone alludes to you-know-what, just look blank.'

  Inside Shell's head there was a chattering going on like birdsong. You heard it if you listened for it, not if you didn't. When the house went quiet on Monday morning, the chattering got so loud she thoug
ht her brains would burst.

  He'd make a dog sick in those robes.

  An A and an O.

  Haggerty's Hellhole. It's where all the girls go to fornicate.

  She was walking up the coast road, on her own. Just before Christmas.

  When Jimmy came home from school, he'd a cut lip and bruised cheekbone.

  'What happened?' asked Shell.

  ''S that Dan Foley and Rory Quinn. They jumped me in the break.'

  'Jumped you?'

  'Jumped me and pumped me. They wanted the facts.'

  'The facts?' She thought of Molloy with his tidy shirt and needling eyes.

  'The gory facts. About you and the baby.'

  'What did you tell them?'

  'I said you'd had triplets, one, two, three. And the third was hidden up Miss Donoghue's ass.'

  'Jimmy! She's been nice to us of late.'

  He shoved his swollen cheek out, tent-like. 'So.'

  'Are you friends with Rory Quinn?' she asked.

  'No. We're enemies. He's a filthy toerag.'

  'Could you do me a favour? Tomorrow?'

  'What?'

  'Could you ask him where his sister is? Bridie? And when he last saw her?'

  The next day he came home with a face like a whipped pup. 'Did what you asked, Shell, coming out of school. And this is what I got.' He held up a swollen finger. The nail was hanging off.

  'What? Rory Quinn did that?' Shell was appalled.

  Jimmy nodded. 'I asked him, about Bridie. And instead of answering he knocked me on the ground. He stamped on my finger with his big boot.'

  'Just for asking?'

  Jimmy nodded. 'He's a toerag.'

  'He didn't tell you anything?'

  'No. He just said wherever Bridie was was none of my business. I reckon he's not sure himself. Or he's ashamed.'

  'Ashamed? Why?'

  'That Bridie. She was always shoplifting. Me and Seamus Ronan saw her do it once in Meehans'.'

  'So?'

  'She's probably in jail. Not in Kilbran, like her mam says. But in jail. And they're too ashamed to say. So Rory flattens me when I ask. What d'you reckon?'

  'Doubt it,' Shell said. 'They wouldn't send her to jail just for that. But it sounds like she's not at home and Rory, for one, doesn't really know where she is.' She took Jimmy by his good hand and went to clean him up. She'd to remove the fingernail, which was only hanging on by a thread. Jimmy winced, but didn't cry.