I Couldn't Love You More

by Esther Freud

  ‘Please, for God’s sake, don’t say anything to your mother.’

  I laugh. Felicia, I say it to myself. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Take care, dear girl.’ We wait a while, like lovers, listening to each other’s breath.

  ‘Bye for now.’ I stand on shaking legs, and carefully I put down the phone.

  THE NEXT DAY IS SOFT and warm; the fields, as we turn up the drive towards the home, electric green. The door opens after the first ring, and a woman stands there. She has stringy hair that must once have been red, and her protruding teeth are stained. I’m so surprised to find she’s not a nun that I don’t speak.

  ‘And who do we have here?’ Her accent is deeper than those I’ve heard in Cork. She kneels down to Freya, who, taken aback by her faded face, clutches my leg.

  ‘I’m looking for information about my mother; she was here in 1961. I came by yesterday . . .’ I attempt to make it sound as if I may have been invited back.

  ‘April?’ She looks up at me. ‘April 1961, that’s it.’

  I stare at her as she is staring at me.

  ‘What day was that, so?’ She frowns.

  ‘What day?’

  ‘That you were born?’

  ‘The tenth.’

  ‘The tenth, that’s it.’ She struggles up and puts out her hand, and when I offer mine, she doesn’t let it go. ‘Carmel.’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Kate, is it?’ She looks round, fearful, and seeing no one, she takes Freya by her other hand and runs with us along a hall and into a small back kitchen. She shuts the door and leans against it. ‘I told her,’ she says in a rush. ‘It’s not safe to have a bonny one, and look at you, the spit of her.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘We were going to meet when I got out. She said that I should find her, over in London when I went there for my job. Brixton. Or Kilburn. Or Chelsea, was it? There were girls there, jiving, in the afternoon, but I was caught by an infection, too ill to say goodbye.’ Pain twitches through her. ‘I got to the window, saw her there in her good coat. I waved, but I’m not sure she saw me.’ Carmel grips my fingers. ‘I always said she’d get out early, and me, that I’d be here till the end.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘London. It was where she came from. Although she had family, in Ireland. A farm they had. Or was it a pub?’ Carmel puts her ear to the door. ‘I’ve a girl just started, along the hall.’ She listens. ‘She’ll be all right, so. I’ll check her in another half an hour.’

  ‘Are you a midwife?’

  ‘No!’ She looks surprised to hear of it. ‘Only helping out. Keeping an eye. Sister will be along soon enough.’

  ‘Carmel.’ I lean forward and fix her with my eye. ‘There must be some record. A birth certificate. Addresses. Others must come, asking.’

  She looks afraid.

  ‘I don’t even know her name.’

  ‘Patricia,’ she says fondly, and then a shadow darkens her face. ‘Not that Patricia was her real name. They said to take a new one. We all did that. I’ve been Carmel for so long—’

  ‘She never told you?’

  ‘If she did’ – she hesitates – ‘it’s gone.’

  ‘It’ll be in the records, surely. They must be somewhere. You must know who adopted your child?’

  Carmel stops, and tears well in her eyes. ‘They said they’d bury him in the chapel. I wanted to lay flowers. A healthy boy when he was born, but he was struck down, the same infection I was caught with, most likely it was me that passed it on. I begged them to get him to a hospital.’ She covers her face with her hands. ‘But they left him.’ She stands quite still then, and when she looks up, she is composed. ‘Sometimes I hear his crying.’ She lifts the kettle, fills it with water, sets it on the stove to boil.

  I have my arms round Freya. Sister Ignatius was right. I never should have brought her. I take paper and a box of pencils from my bag and sit her at the table.

  Carmel flings teabags into a pot. ‘We’ll have a brew,’ she’s saying, stoic, but when the door opens she startles round. ‘Oh, Bess.’ She slumps with relief. ‘Look who we have paying a visit. Sure you remember Patricia, she was here with me when Brendan was born. Got the free leg when her daddy was after paying the one hundred pounds. Isn’t she the spit?’

  Bess is old. She has no teeth, and her hair is so thin her scalp is visible beneath the strands. She moves slowly, one leg dragging. ‘You’re very like. And the child.’ She peers at Freya, and she crosses herself. ‘If she could see the two of you.’

  I take Bess’s hand. ‘There must be a record of some kind. Surely not everything was destroyed in the fire?’

  ‘The fire?’ Bess glances at Carmel, but she is pouring in the boiling water and she doesn’t catch her eye. ‘Is it Sister Ignatius you’ve been speaking to?’

  I nod.

  ‘She said a lot of the documents were destroyed, which means there are documents. April the tenth, 1961.’

  ‘Isabelle.’ Carmel’s eyes light up.

  ‘Was that her name?’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘Felicia.’ My heart falls.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that . . .’ There’s a loud agonised wail from along the hall, and Carmel thumps the pot on the table. ‘Although it may have been another of her secrets. Didn’t want a soul to know, you see, about her man. She’d sing to him. Kept me awake, talking to him half the night. Tell him every scrap of news. There were times I could have sworn he was there with us in the room. Felix, that was it. She’d ask for strength, when what she should have asked him for was the hundred pounds.’ She stands, one hand on the doorknob. ‘I’d better go to her.’ She gives me a hungry look, and I am left alone with Bess.

  Felicia, Isabelle, Isabelle Felicia. My new old names rattle in my ears.

  A low moan drifts out to us.

  ‘Women aren’t still forced to come here, are they?’

  ‘Not forced.’ Bess frowns. ‘The nuns will help a girl out if she’s in trouble, organise it so that no one knows. They give their lives to helping them. There are some that have been here as long as me.’

  Carmel puts her head round the door. ‘She’s giving out something terrible. I’d better call Sister, not that she’ll be pleased, you know how she gets on a Sunday with the midwife away. Look in on her for me, will you, if you hear her holler.’

  Bess creaks to her feet. ‘You’d better make yourselves scarce. If Sister finds you here, it’ll be Carmel who gets it.’

  I scoop up Freya’s pencils and pens. She’s been drawing a picture of the castle folly, small black crosses up against the walls. ‘I’m sorry,’ Bess says, ‘not to be more help, but this is the only home I have.’ She walks us back along the hall, a hobbling gait that we keep pace with.

  ‘Carmel.’ I have to know. ‘Why did she stay, after . . . ?’

  Bess looks behind her. ‘She’d not leave until she’d seen her son’s grave, but they’d not tell her where it was, and she stayed so long she didn’t have the courage. You lose the knack of it, the real world.’ She unlatches the door.

  ‘Tell her thank you,’ I say. ‘Tell her goodbye, from Isabelle . . .’

  ‘And from Freya.’ Freya is tugging at my hand. ‘And Kate.’

  I tear a page from my notebook. ‘If she wants to keep in touch . . .’ I jot down my address. ‘Maybe she’ll find the time to write?’

  Bess folds the paper into her pocket. She pats it and smiles. ‘She writes a good letter, does Carmel,’ but there are steps echoing along the corridor, and fearful, she presses shut the door.

  Before we leave we walk back through the gate towards the folly. The lawn is dense, fed rich with rain, the borders of the beds neatly edged. I look again at the black crosses. Sister Augustine. Mother Euphrasia. And I notice something that I hadn’t seen before – a board, half shrouded by ivy, on to which words have been scratched inch deep.

  BRENDAN

  16.4.1961 – 16.5.1961

  NEVE
R FORGOTTEN. ALWAYS LOVED

  MY HEART CRIES OUT IN SORROW

  MAM

  We go round to the far side of the castle, where there is a low rough field, the earth churned in ruts and grooves. ‘When I die,’ Freya says, ‘I don’t want to be buried here.’

  We look down at our feet.

  ‘When I die, which won’t be for a very long time, I’d like a tree planted. A hornbeam or a silver birch.’

  Freya looks solemn, as if she’ll not forget, and we set off down the path, across the forecourt with its statue of the Virgin and along the long, humped drive.

  Aoife

  I WAS IN THE KITCHEN WHEN I HEARD PATSY BELLOW. I’D BEEN clearing out the larder, had taken every last packet and stacked them on the table, and I was wiping the shelves, a wet cloth and then a dry one, flicking at cobwebs, chasing silverfish, for all that they were never caught. God forgive me, I had the arms of Patrick O’Malley – may he rest in peace – around my waist and we were swaying to a tune, but as soon as I heard Patsy I was alone again with the jar of pearl barley and the jamming sugar seeping at the seams.

  We called an ambulance. Straight into Emergency they brought you, and for three long days we thought you were lost. If he’s any chance of getting better, they told me when you were through the worst, the farm must be let go. I was ashamed then for all the times that you’d suggested it, for hadn’t it been me that didn’t want to leave.

  We’ve worked hard enough, I insisted then. From this time on there’ll be nothing but relaxing. We’ll drive to the beach, we’ll visit the girls. We’ll take a trip abroad. Remember how we were diddled out of Spain? Had to make do with those two days in the Strand Hotel? You raised your eyebrow at the memory, I was sure you did. Now’s our chance to go.

  All day, every day I sat by your bed, worrying when I remembered, what was I to do about the paying guests? I had ten booked in over the summer. Most of them regulars, a few that were new. I didn’t like to let them down, but Angela must have written and explained, because when I got home there was no one waiting on the doorstep, no one camped in the drive.

  If we’d had a son, he might have taken on the farm, but the girls, neither of them wanted it. Declan was tempted, I could see that, the tribe of those children filling up the house, but Angela had no use for being stuck out here with no one but poor Mrs O’Malley along the lane, when she had neighbours where she was at Blackrock, and a shop on the corner, and the children on their bikes up and down the street. Kitty’s husband, Con, travelled abroad a week out of every three, so that was no good. They’d met when she had her job at the bank.

  I put our names down for a new build on a plot of land on the other side of Youghal. Two bedrooms, in case of guests, and we’d get to choose the fittings. Wardrobes, kitchen. A garage for the car. You’d be out of hospital for sure, before the move, but when the time came, I stood out on the steps of Barraghmore and said goodbye to the oak in the field over the way and the ghost of that old donkey, what was his name, Teddy, and I thought of all the hours I’d tried to coax him, walking backwards with a carrot. I looked into the sheds, and there were our girls, the lambs gulping milk from the bottle, and into the big barn where I breathed in the hot-twine smell of bales. What if she comes back, and we’re not here? I couldn’t get the sight of her out of my mind. Not when a stranger answered the door and asked who she was. I left our forwarding address; I told the new owners – a couple from Donegal with two boys, nearly grown – when I handed over the keys that they must provide it to anyone who called, and I laid the card on the hall table so they’d not forget. I prayed, I still pray, that she isn’t turned away, that wherever she is coming from, no one insists that she go back.

  IT’S HUMPHREY I MISSED MOST when we left the farm, his grave marked by a cross of sticks, his collar buried with him. You, on the other hand, came with me. Your pyjamas, neat under the pillow; your shoes, shined, on a rack. Look how smart we are. I opened the wardrobe and there was your best suit, freshly pressed, your shirts sharp and shivering. In the kitchen I wiped a hand along the surfaces. Oatmeal, I’d chosen, so it wouldn’t show the crumbs. The sink was gleaming. Stainless steel. There was a mixer tap and a brand-new basin, blue to match the lino. I brought in photographs. Held them up. The hallway. The doormat. The carpet, also oatmeal. By the bathroom you were growing weary. Quick, I showed you the spare room: the twin beds, the old counterpanes, Harvest and Barley, bearing up so well. Wait – your eyes were drooping. What should we do about the mattress – replace it or make do? You showed no sign of having heard. Blink for making do. Nod for replacing. But your eyes were shut and you had that old familiar look as if to say: Enough now, woman, give me peace.

  That evening when I came home to the bungalow I removed my shoes and felt the carpet spring between my toes. I will replace it. But when I stripped the bed there was the wear of the years, the marks and stains, the dip where we’d rolled against each other. I’d turn it over, later, when I had help, but for now I lay down in the fold of quilt and held tight to the pillow.

  SOMETIMES I THINK I’LL DRIVE up past the old place. Have a peek into the yard. They wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, if I put my nose round the gate, but once I’m dressed and I’ve had my tea, and a round of toast and butter, I think better of it. If anyone had called, they’d have passed on the address. The number too. I made sure to leave it, and when the telephone does ring I count to five and send up a prayer. Let it be her. It never is. Angela, usually, or Jackie, who calls her nana every time she’s home. She tells me how she’s getting on. Dancing. That’s what she’s crazy for. Jazz, and modern. She’s in one of those troupes that entertain the passengers on a cruise, and she tells me all the places that she’s been. South Africa she went last year, and she was surprised as anything to hear it’s where her grandfather was born. Weeks, it took them. There was a swimming pool aboard, but they didn’t stop long, a few days that’s all, and they turned round and came home. If it’s Sunday, it’ll be Kitty ringing to say when she’s likely to call round. Her boys are at a Gaelic-speaking school. That was Con’s idea. Not that he speaks himself, and he’s done with any talk of finding Rosaleen, not after your man came back from England without a shred of news. All his fine ideas of looking in the phone book. He came round himself to tell me. I’ve bad news. He hung his head, all sombre. There’s no trace. That afternoon, at the hospital, I cried. Was it relief, or disappointment, I wasn’t sure, but it would have been galling to think, all these years she’d been waiting to be found.

  You were very near the end then. Your hand, when I squeezed it, light and warm. I’d given up the begging, I’d stopped asking you to blink, although I did ask if you were listening. I laughed, then, for all the years you’d asked me the same: Are you listening to me, woman? And I’d answer: I’m always listening. Even if it wasn’t true. I’m listening now, though. I found the obituary, after, when I cleared your things. Felix Lichtman, 1921 – 1970. A wife he had, although it wasn’t Rosaleen, and a child, that survived him. There was a photograph. Your man in officer’s uniform, smart as you like. He’d parachuted into Germany in the last months of the war, an agent for the Special Operations Executive gathering intelligence, never fully recovered from what he saw when they opened up those camps. There was a picture too of his last work, a girl in profile, all rounds and curves, as beautiful as the model herself.

  I’m standing in the garden, looking at the stars, and I’m sure there’s something that you want to tell me. If I listen hard enough, I’ll hear it, whatever it is you have to say.

  Rosaleen

  WHEN ROSALEEN ARRIVED IN THE VILLAGE OF OAKFIELD, SHE wore her button-down denim dress in the hope she wouldn’t show. Housekeeper for a widowed gentleman. Experience with children essential, the advertisement had read, and she’d written in to say she had experience. She had two young sisters. She could clean and garden. She didn’t mention she was nineteen.

  Suzette cooked goulash on her last night, Teresa made potato salad, Diane anothe
r of her cakes. They lit candles in the kitchen and played rummy with the Professor, talking about the girls who’d left over the years, who’d vowed to visit and never did. The girls of a previous era were mythical. There was Julia, whose miniature stage sets still cluttered the back bedroom. She’d left to live with a theatre director and had not been heard from again. There’d been Merl who’d damned them all for smoking – she was training to become an opera singer – and Clarissa, an heiress who had run off with an African explorer and whose photograph, above a caption that read Disgraced, was pinned, curling, to the bathroom wall.

  They didn’t mention the men who’d disappeared. Larry, who’d gone to California; Eddie, who’d given up quite suddenly on his seduction of Teresa; and Pascal, who no one but Rosaleen seemed to remember.

  ‘But as for this one,’ the Professor predicted, smiling, ‘she’ll be back, if for no other reason than to see her garden.’ Rosaleen nodded and looked out of the window at the black shapes of the bushes, the neat, raked beds, before reminding them that Chloe had come back. Chloe had visited, didn’t they remember? She’d come back with her child? But their reflective mood had lifted, and they were talking about the new girl who was to arrive next week. ‘Barbara,’ the Professor sighed. ‘Let’s hope she knows how to behave.’

  ROSALEEN TOOK A TRAIN from Victoria, and then a bus, and reading the instructions she got off by the church. From there she walked across a common, past a giant oak, a ladder propped against its trunk, downhill to where she must step around a pool of water collected in the dip of the road, and up again, skirting the old wall of an estate, along a lane and into a copse of trees. There was a cottage, half hidden, its front door flaking paint. I’ve read too many novels, she reprimanded herself; she’d imagined a mansion, a silent widower, grey-jowled and austere, but when she knocked, she found the widower was young, his hair messed, a dab of porridge on his shirt. They looked at each other, equally surprised, and after a moment a woman, as young and fair as he was, came out with a baby on her hip. ‘I’m Peter’s sister—’ She stopped. It was clear Rosaleen was not what she’d expected. ‘It’s pretty isolated,’ she warned, but as they’d had no other applications, they agreed that she should try it for a month.