She bent down to a drawer in the desk and took out an address book.
It was a hopeful sign.
“I don’t have an address, unfortunately. I do, however, have the name of her doctor. He’s retired now, but he helped her through many a bad patch. He could perhaps be of assistance.”
“Oh . . . has the alcoholism been an ongoing problem for her then? Is she ill?”
“Yes, from time to time.”
She uncapped a fountain-pen and began writing the address.
“That’s why I think it best you speak to Dr Ruane. Of course he may not want to discuss F-32 with you, patient confidentiality always being a given. But he is retired now, and if your reasons for wanting to find her are honourable I see no reason why he should not. She needs all the support she can get.”
She passed the paper to him.
He studied the name and address:
Dr TR Ruane, 11 Loughview Heights, Carnlough, County Antrim.
Bram heard her cap the fountain-pen and return the address book to the drawer. Took it as a sign that the meeting was at an end.
He stood up.
“Thank you, Mother Clare. You’ve been most helpful.”
She gave him a wistful look.
“I hope you’re successful,” she said. “Often we do not know what burdens we place upon ourselves, sadly. Only hindsight can show us that.”
It was an odd statement and he didn’t know if she was talking about herself, him – or, indeed, the lost-and-soon-to-be-found Dorinda Walsh.
“Thank you again, Mother Clare,” he said, eager to leave the sombre place. “You’ve been most kind.”
“God bless you, Mr Hilditch. I wish you the Good Lord’s strength and grace. Sister Magdalena will show you out.”
Having sent the visitor on his way, Sister Magdalena returned to her superior’s office. It was her duty to stand outside the door of Mother Clare’s room when she had visitors. Sometimes she might be needed to fetch something or make tea. On this occasion she couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between Mr Hilditch and her superior.
“Come and sit, Sister,” Mother Clare said, indicating the chair Bram had just vacated.
“He was asking after F-32, Mother?”
Mother Clare looked towards the window. “Indeed he was.”
“Do you want to tell me about her now? You said you would after she left the last time, and I would like to know, in case . . . ”
“In case she comes again.”
Sister Magdalena nodded.
The old nun sighed and looked towards the window again.
“There’s a long history attached to her I fear. I first saw her on that beach when she was around five or six years old. Often at the weekends in late summer . . . she and her mother and . . . ” Her face darkened and she got up and moved to the window.
“She and her mother and a man – or should I say men. Over the course of a year there were several different men . . . boyfriends one supposes, so it’s fair to assume that the little girl never knew her real father.”
“Are you saying she was a . . . was a fallen woman . . . her mother?”
“If that’s what you want to call her then yes. On several occasions I had to intervene when I saw the child being treated badly by one of those stand-in fathers. The mother, alas, never seemed to notice. Or if she did, chose to ignore it. She was always swimming out there in the sea. Her flowered bathing-cap bobbing about on the waves . . . ”
She turned back to the room and resumed her seat.
“Then one day a terrible thing happened. The mother went swimming and . . . and never came back. I still blame myself.”
“That’s too sad. But why blame yourself? It was an accident surely?”
“Earlier I’d seen her arguing with her paramour, you see; a tall man in a hat. He followed her into the water fully clothed, shouting at her, pushing her. I wanted to go down at that point but I was called to prayer, and when I came back . . . ”
“They were gone?”
“Alas, yes. It was too late.” Her eyes filled with tears. “They never found her body. I pray every day for God to forgive my negligence, that I didn’t do more to save her.”
She threw a glance at the window again.
“She comes to visit her mother’s final resting place . . . when she has an episode. That ocean is all she has left. We do everything we can to help her back to some kind of normality, but it’s best she doesn’t see me. Sometimes the past is just too painful.”
The young nun shook her head in dismay. “I had no idea. I thought she was just another addict.”
“Addiction always has a story of grief behind it, Sister . . . some more tragic than others. The story of F-32 is one of the saddest ones I’ve come across. She’s still the little lost child I met on that beach all those years ago.”
The sound of a bell rang out, calling them to supper.
“Yes, there are some trials simply too great to be conquered in this life,” she said, getting up. “That’s the cross she has to bear . . . for the sins of the mother and . . . and, alas, for the father she never knew.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Lord Jesus Christ, by your own three days in the tomb, you hallowed the graves of all who believe in you and so made the grave a sign of hope . . . ”
Late evening, with darkness falling, Bram stood alongside Father Moriarty in the back garden of 8 Willow Close, following the words of blessing for Vivian-Bernadette’s lost child.
It was a sombre scene. The two men with heads bowed, looking down on the solitary stone cherub that marked the place of interment.
“. . . grant that the little one who lies here may sleep in peace until you awaken them in glory, for you are the resurrection and the life.”
He reached for the aspersorium Bram was holding and sprinkled holy water.
“O God, bless this grave and send your holy angel to watch over it. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
The priest made the sign of the cross and Bram did too, realizing the ritual was at an end.
They stood in silent reverence for a little while, each thinking his own thoughts about Vivian O’Meara and the sad fate of her lost child.
“Thank you, Father . . . that was very moving,” Bram said at last, relieved that the rite was over and had proceeded unnoticed. The curtains on the Glacken house were still drawn shut. Mrs Gilhooley, discharged from hospital, had gone to recuperate with her sister in Lisburn.
“Perhaps Vivian will find peace now too – wherever she is.”
“God willing, Bram, God willing. I’ll offer a Mass for the two of them tomorrow morning.”
They returned indoors.
“I don’t suppose you’ll ever want to let go of this house now, Bram – with it having such a history connected with it?”
He nodded, appreciating that the priest knew only the half of what was going on. Had no idea about the Glacken family and their harassment of poor Vivian, a campaign of terror similar to the one they were now visiting on poor Rita Ruttle. What would be the end of it?
“And your new tenant,” he said, as if reading Bram’s mind. “Is the lovely Portaluce agreeing with her?”
“Yes, indeed. I left her off there yesterday, Father. Have a few repairs to do here, so it’s best she’s not around.”
“Good, good . . . No better place to be than at the seaside. She’s all right, is she?”
Bram was surprised by the question. “Yes . . . yes, I think so. Why do you ask, Father?”
“It’s just that I saw her on a couple of occasions going into the Samaritan Centre in town. Wondered if she was depressed, that’s all. They’re good people, the volunteers . . . deal with potential suicides, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Yes, I know. Good people indeed.”
Father Moriarty’s revelation, though puzzling at first, wasn’t so surprising when Bram reflected on what Rita had been going through since her move from Larne.
&nb
sp; “I guess everyone needs a sympathetic ear from time to time,” he said. “It’s lonely for her being in a new town and not knowing anyone I suppose.”
“Yes, and she’s not a regular churchgoer either, so she misses out on the pastoral care we provide. Still, the ear of a stranger, someone who knows nothing about your background, is often a good thing.”
“I agree . . . yes.”
He donned his black hat again. “On the other hand she could be a volunteer herself, which is admirable. If so, it’s not for us to know, since they work in the strictest confidence.”
“To be sure, yes,” Bram said, thinking back on how Blossom had described Rita, not so very long ago: “nice-looking and with such a good heart.” He knew Blossom made tea at the Samaritan Centre. So that’s perhaps what she’d meant.
The priest made to go then hesitated. “Those neighbours over there . . . the Glackens. They weren’t giving her any trouble, were they?”
“Er . . . n-not that I know of, Father,” Bram said, not wishing to commit himself.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t be saying this,” the priest continued, “but I wouldn’t be too surprised if that Lenny character had something to do with Miss O’Meara’s disappearance.”
“Wh-Why would you say that, Father?”
“He’s a reputation for the ladies . . . not a very good one from what I hear. And there were a couple of occasions when I saw him loitering by the back-gate out there.”
Bram felt the colour drain from his face.
“I asked him what he was up to. Naturally he couldn’t answer me, and sauntered off. But your new tenant will have nothing to worry about on that score now.”
“Oh . . . ?”
“They’ve moved out, you know.”
Bram couldn’t believe his ears. “Really? I’d no idea.”
“Given forty-eight hours to flee the country by IRA command a few days ago.”
“You mean Lenny, the father . . . all of them, gone?”
Father Moriarty nodded. “Scotland, I believe. There were complaints of antisocial behaviour.” He pulled on a pair of leather gloves and chuckled to himself. “No, the IRA don’t like their good name being besmirched, if you’ll pardon my sarcasm, Bram.”
Bram smiled broadly, thinking now that Rita could return and be left in peace. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of them, Father. Unchristian, I know, but . . . ”
The priest waved a hand in understanding.
“You’re not alone in that view I’m sure.” He picked up his bag. “Well, I’ll be on my way then. Anything you need just call me, Bram. You know that, don’t you?”
They shook hands.
“Thank you, Father. Your help is always much appreciated.”
After Father Moriarty’s departure, Bram sighed with relief. The fact that he’d done his duty towards Vivian-Bernadette regarding the blessing, along with the unexpected news of the Glackens’ departure, renewed his faith that things were at last working to his advantage.
He went up to the landing and began clearing the remains of the ruined butterfly case into a binbag. He was saddened at the loss of the beautiful collection, but comforted himself with the thought that Rita was safe.
In the scheme of things the butterflies could always be replaced, but not Rita. He considered her now, installed at the Ocean Spray, awaiting his return. When he’d taken his leave the evening before, she seemed very happy to be in Gladys Millman’s lovely surroundings, away from the terrors of Willow Close. And who could blame her?
He sat down on the top stair, reflective. Regretting that he hadn’t helped Vivian-Bernadette more. That he hadn’t listened more, instead of writing her off as some pious oddity suffering delusions. He thought of the little infant lying in the cold earth just a few yards away and nearly wept at the sadness of it all. Of what the poor woman had come through on her own without the help of anyone!
But he could make amends now with Rita. Fight for her. Save her. Be her friend in her hour of need.
Tomorrow he’d be visiting Dr Ruane to learn about the whereabouts of her lost twin. He’d bring them together. Help them find joy and contentment, and take great pleasure in being the catalyst for such happiness, which seemed so sadly lacking in both their lives.
He got up and carried the bag downstairs, feeling a bit better about things.
The phone rang as he was on the verge of leaving.
“Hello, eight Willow Close.”
“Hullo . . . ” A woman’s voice. “I . . . I want to speak to Rita Ruttle, please.”
“I’m afraid Rita’s not here. Who’s calling, please?”
“A friend of hers . . . Grace . . . Grace Thorne . . . from the Eclips hair salon.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Thorne, but she’s away for a few days. Can I take a message? I’m her landlord, Bram Hilditch.”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Tell her . . . ” She hesitated. “Tell her I have word about Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Yes . . . Harry, her husband.”
Husband!
Bram nearly dropped the receiver. Had he heard her correctly?
“Husband? Oh, you must have the wrong number. The Rita who lives here isn’t married.”
There was a momentary pause. Then: “Rita Ruttle, Rita-Mae Ruttle . . . well, this is the number she gave me. She used to work in my salon in Larne.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He held the earpiece to his shoulder so she wouldn’t sense his shock.
“Are you still there?” Grace asked.
“Yes . . . yes, I’m still here.”
“If you could ask her to ring me then . . . as soon as she can. She’s got my number. It’s very important. I’ve got word of Harry.”
Before he had a chance to respond, Grace Thorne had cut the connection.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Miss Ruttle, you’re not eating.”
Rita, in the breakfast-room of the Ocean Spray, was sitting by the window enjoying the view when her raptness was broken in upon by the proprietor’s voice.
She looked round to see Gladys Millman advancing across the room. She cut an intimidating figure in her power suit and pearls. Rita-Mae felt a little on edge at the sight of her.
She halted at her table. “You’re only having tea again?” she protested. “Do you find something wrong with the food we serve here? My chef has the highest pedigree I can assure you.”
“Er . . . no, I’m sure your food’s lovely, Mrs Millman. It’s just that . . . well, I . . . I’m not hungry, that’s all.”
“But you haven’t eaten anything since you checked in here, from what I can see. Are you unwell? I can get you a doctor if you wish.”
Mrs Millman would, no doubt, have been appalled to learn that upstairs in the bedside table was a stock of biscuits and tinned fruit, which Miss Ruttle had bought in the nearby shop the evening she’d moved in.
“N-No, that won’t be necessary, thank you all the same, Mrs Millman. I’m quite fine, thank you.”
The proprietor threw her a puzzled look. “As you wish, Miss Ruttle. As you wish. I’ll leave you to your tea. But do inform Maureen if you have a change of heart, won’t you?”
Interrogation over, she turned on her heel and strutted out of the room, leaving Rita-Mae to her solitary pot of tea and her thoughts.
Bram Hilditch pulled his car into a vacant spot on the High Street in Larne and cut the engine.
En route to see Dr Ruane, who lived farther up the coast, he’d decided on the detour to seek out Grace Thorne. Her phone call had stunned him. The news that Rita Ruttle was married to someone by the name of Harry seemed too incredible for words. Could it be true? And if so, why had she lied to him?
He’d tried calling Mrs Thorne back after she’d hung up, but without success. He’d tried the number several times that morning but it just rang out each time.
Well, when she came face to face with him, she could hardly run away
.
He’d found the name and address of her salon, Eclips, in the Yellow Pages. Now all he had to do was locate it and confront her.
During the lunch-hour Rita-Mae decided on a stroll along the seafront, to avoid another clash with Gladys Millman.
She was hard to avoid, the haughty patron, always seeming to appear out of nowhere.
Why, she asked herself, is she so interested in my movements? Had Bram asked her to keep a close eye? Well, she and the landlord seemed on the best of terms, so perhaps that was the case.
She was happy that she now had a friend in Bram. At last there was someone in her life who was willing to support her, someone she could depend on. She felt bad about having suspected him as the stalker. But what was she supposed to think? He was rather eccentric after all, a hard one to fathom.
Yes, it was good to have a friend. It was an odd but very welcome feeling because for a long time there’d been no one. Her mother, now in a nursing home, had never shown her much affection – forever the critic. Little Rita-Mae was the reject who could never please, no matter how hard she tried. She never had any great urge to visit the woman. Once, when she’d got up the courage to tell her about Harry’s mistreatment of her, Hedda blamed Rita for upsetting him in the first place. Men could do no wrong in her book.
The wide esplanade was a pleasant sight, stretching all the way along the shop-fronts as if keeping the ocean at bay. There were several sun-seats set at intervals, with large pots of colourful blooms here and there. The contrast of the eye-catching flowers against the backdrop of glittering blue was enchanting.
She considered crossing the road and simply sitting there for a while in appreciation of it all, but changed her mind when she saw two elderly couples, silent and contemplative, doing just that.
I’d just look out of place, she decided, sitting on my own. Besides, it’s a bit breezy, and I don’t particularly like the wind.
She resumed her walk. A few steps farther along she was conscious of a figure coming towards her. She’d no idea where this person had sprung from. But as Rita-Mae drew closer, she saw that it was an elderly woman – a tall, strange-looking elderly woman – dressed in long black clothes.
The Spinster Wife Page 30
