Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  She shrugged. ‘It’s made a big difference. I’ve really cut back on my hours. I take surgery here in the mornings, but I try to get everything done before the girls come home from school.’

  ‘And your husband, what does he do?’

  ‘He’s a surgeon. Orthopaedic. Does a lot of sports injuries. Cruciate ligaments, cartilage jobs.’

  ‘Big business, these days.’

  ‘And how. He spends as much time on his mobile phone as he does in theatre.’

  ‘And was it medicine that brought you together?’

  She smiled. ‘You could say that. We were students at the same time. Barry was in the year ahead. I seem to remember borrowing a lot of his lecture notes.’

  ‘And Margaret? She was in the same class as you?’

  ‘Inspector,’ she leaned over and filled his cup again, ‘explain to me again exactly why you want to talk to me about someone I haven’t seen for years.’

  There was more than one reason. He could tell her that it was customary in a murder investigation to try to learn as much as possible about the victim and the victim’s family. They usually did this by interviewing friends, neighbours, colleagues at work, school, college, wherever. But it was a bit difficult with the Mitchells. They hadn’t been living in Ireland. Their one close relative, Mrs Catherine McKenna, was extremely ill. So the guards had to try to build up a picture of Margaret and her daughter some other way.

  That was what he would tell this pleasant-looking woman, with her short blonde hair, her neat pink shorts, and her spotless pine kitchen. The other reason he would keep to himself, like the contents of the file that had landed on his desk this morning. It was the log of the calls made to the Mitchell phone since Thursday, 10 August. Bertie Lynch had gone through them, checking off the numbers. Most were from the hospice, the doctor, the guards. A couple were from Nellie Walsh, the cleaning lady. Two or three from Father Lonergan in St Patrick’s in Monkstown. There were a number of calls from New Zealand. And then there were the rest. All made from public phones scattered around the city centre. She had told the guards of three that had been made to her. She hadn’t told them about the the tape of her daughter singing the nursery rhyme, and the bizarre onesided conversation that she had had. With whom? He couldn’t begin to understand what was going on in her head. When he showed the log to Finney his response had been brutal and immediate. ‘Bang her up in a cell, boss. We’ll soon find out what the fuck is going on.’ But that wasn’t his way. Better to wait and see. Watch and listen.

  And then there was his own personal reason for being here, for sitting in the sun, drinking this woman’s good coffee and eating her even better cake. He knew the feeling of old. He’d had it before a number of times, but not recently. The desire to use and hear a particular name, to hold it in your mouth, on your tongue. A way of getting in touch, of knowing, of being close.

  ‘So, Margaret Mitchell, née McKenna. When did you first meet her?’

  ‘We went to school together. The Holy Child, Killiney. I can’t remember the first time I ever saw her. I must have been five and she’d have been just a little bit older. I got on the train at Blackrock and she got on at Seapoint.’

  ‘And what was she like?’

  She rested her chin on her hand for a moment. ‘She was always quite something. Even as a very small girl.’

  ‘Pretty?’

  ‘Not just pretty. I think the word is charismatic. In its most powerful and awful sense.’

  ‘So you didn’t like her?’

  She looked at him with surprise. ‘Oh, I did, I was mad about her. Or else I was mad with her. With Margaret it was either one extreme or the other.’

  ‘So she had friends and enemies?’

  ‘Not enemies as such. More like people who felt hurt, or left out, or neglected. Everyone wanted to be in Margaret’s orbit. And if you weren’t, well, you felt as if the sun had gone in.’

  He pointed to the cake. ‘May I? It’s delicious.’

  ‘Of course.’ She cut him another slice. ‘It’s the fresh ginger. It makes a big difference.’

  ‘So she did well at school.’

  ‘Star pupil. Prizes all the way. Not just academically either. She was a great swimmer. I’m sure she could have been a champion, but she wasn’t interested. She played hockey too, like a demon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Dr Brady smiled, her mouth curving into an engaging half-moon. ‘She was wicked, ruthless. I remember saying to her once that her decision to become a doctor must have come from some sense of guilt for all the injuries she caused on the pitch. Actually, she didn’t deny it.’

  ‘And did she have boyfriends at school?’

  ‘No. None of us could understand it. She was absolutely gorgeous. Small, delicate-looking, lovely hair and eyes. But not a fella in sight.’

  ‘Until university?’

  ‘Not even then. No one special anyway. She’d go out with the gang, drinking, dancing. And, needless to say, there were always loads of guys around her, but no one in particular. Except the lovely Joe Macken.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d forgotten about him. He had a huge crush on her. They used to spend quite a lot of time together, but I don’t really think she was interested in that way. If you know what I mean.’

  McLoughlin took out his notebook. ‘Joe Macken, did you say?’

  ‘Yeah, but he doesn’t live here any longer. He’s in the States, Los Angeles, I think. Plastic surgeon, making a fortune.’

  ‘And how did she do at college?’

  Again the smile, and the slight shake of the head. ‘Need you ask? Top of the class again. All the lecturers were mad about her and, of course, when we started going into hospital she got on brilliantly there too.’

  ‘Any area in particular?’

  ‘Well, we all thought she’d go for surgery. She had that fantastic concentration, that ability to shut everything else out. Wonderful hands. And, of course, you don’t need many, what they call, “interpersonal” skills.’

  ‘Her weak point?’

  ‘Weaker I’d say. She could be wonderfully charming, thoughtful, kind, if she felt like it.’

  ‘And still no romance, no lover?’

  ‘Well, if you’re asking me, did she have a sex life? Is that what you’re asking?’

  Of course, of course he wanted to know. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I’m sure she did. We all did. It was in the days before you had to be worried about safe sex, you know. The Pill generation. Sex, drugs and rock and roll.’ She giggled. A pretty sound. ‘Hard to believe now, isn’t it? We’re all so bloody respectable.’

  ‘Tell me about her parents. Did you know them?’

  ‘Not well. They were older than the others in our class. She was very close to her father. I met him a few times. He was a lovely man. Very handsome, charming, bright. He always came to any of the dos in school. I remember the Reverend Mother fluttering around him, bringing him extra cups of tea, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And her mother, what about her?’

  ‘She was very good-looking too. My mother always used to comment on her clothes. Handmade suits. Always wore very high heels and lots of makeup. I don’t think they got on that well. Margaret didn’t really talk about her.’

  ‘So you must have all been surprised when she disappeared to New Zealand?’

  ‘Not the going away. I never thought she’d stay here. But what did surprise me, really amazed me, was that she went into psychiatry. Of all people. She could have had her pick of the plum areas.’

  ‘And is psychiatry not one of them?’

  She looked at him, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘Psychiatry? Bloody bottom of the barrel. Messy, difficult, unscientific, hard to quantify results, long-term care, badly funded. Just the kind of thing ambitious young doctors hate.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But then I heard. A friend had been over there on a visiting lectureship. Obs and gynae, six-month job. And he came back a
nd told us that she’d become something of a media star. Now, that didn’t surprise me. Not one bit. Here, look. I got it out when I heard you were coming.’ And she stood up from the table and picked up a newspaper cutting, which had been lying folded on the counter top.

  He’d seen it before. It was in one of the pile of faxes that the Auckland police had sent last week. A profile from the New Zealand Herald. All about how attitudes to mental health, in particular women’s mental health, had changed because of her pioneering work. There was a photograph. Head and shoulders. Smiling, efficient. The perfect embodiment of the successful woman.

  ‘Now,’ Dr Brady continued, ‘that’s more like it. Still the star of the show.’

  ‘And your friend, did he get to see her when he was there?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. He said he tried a couple of times. She was working for television at the time. Doing a series on women’s health. He said he phoned her at work, and eventually got through to her. She was polite, just about, he said. But that was it.’

  ‘Were you surprised?’

  ‘No. Not really. Margaret was always very focused. If you were part of the picture she’d be focused on you too. But if you weren’t . . .’ She raised her hands in a gesture of resignation.

  ‘And have you seen her,’ he asked, ‘since all this happened?’

  ‘Only at the funeral. Of course I tried to speak to her when I heard about Mary. I phoned. But she was abrupt to the point of rudeness. She said she didn’t want any visitors. So I wrote to her. I’ll wait a week or so, then I’ll try again.’

  ‘And you never met her daughter?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know she was home until this happened. What was she like? Oh.’ She paused, embarrassed. ‘Of course. You didn’t know her either.’

  But it didn’t seem like that to him. It was a funny thing, the policeman’s intimacy with the victim. He had seen Mary’s body from every angle. He knew her physically inside and out. If he’d seen her walking down the street he wouldn’t have been surprised. She was alive to him, as much alive as her mother. And she would stay like that until the case was over. That was what made it so difficult when a murder was unsolved. The dead were never buried. Not properly.

  He stood and thanked her. The baby had woken and was pulling herself up, reaching over the top of the playpen, her face red and streaked with tears. Her mother bent and picked her up, soothing her, kissing her, making her happy again. She walked him to the front door. He stood for a couple of minutes, talking to the little girl in her mother’s arms, tickling her under the chin, playing ‘Incy Wincy Spider’ up and down her pink towelling suit.

  ‘You’re good with children, Inspector McLoughlin. You must have had practice.’

  He stepped back, smoothing down his tie. ‘No. I don’t have any of my own, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ah.’ She was embarrassed. And a bit anxious. He said a final goodbye and walked down the steps, his feet crunching across the gravel. He looked back at her as he crossed the road to his car. She was still standing in the doorway. She was wondering, the way they all did. What had she told him, what had she said? What meaning did it have for him that it didn’t for her? He could have comforted her, told her that she had said nothing he didn’t know already. But he would have been lying. So he left it, left her standing in the doorway, the baby on her hip, and that strained and puzzled expression still on her face.

  21

  The postcard was lying face down on the doormat. Margaret bent to look at it. Her name and address were typed to the right. There was no message on the left. She picked it up. It wasn’t made of the usual stiff cardboard. It was flexible and soft in her hands. She turned it over. Her own face stared back at her. Wearing her striped dressing gown. Sitting on the doorstep in the clear blue morning of the day of Mary’s funeral. Her hair loose on her shoulders, deep shadows under her eyes, and one long leg sliding through the gown.

  She dropped the photograph, sweat breaking out on her fingertips and palms. It floated slowly, caught in the draught from under the hall door. She sat down quickly on the hard-backed chair by the telephone table, her legs feeling strange, as if they weren’t quite her own. The cracked leather seat creaked and groaned. Gouts of horsehair, as bristly as wire wool, pushed through the covering and pricked her thighs. Her gaze travelled over the faded Persian rug, the once rich reds and blues dulled further by a thick layer of dust. What is Nellie up to? she thought. Catherine would be appalled if she could see how shabby everything has got since she’s been sick.

  She bent down again, her fingers trailing across the rug’s stipple and sliding onto the slick surface of the photograph. She turned it carefully around on the floor with one finger. It wasn’t a bad likeness. Better than a lot of the pictures she’d posed for. Must have been the spontaneity, the fact that she didn’t know it was being taken. She was completely herself. No sense of being watched. Unconscious. She turned the photo over and looked closely at the postmark. It had been sent yesterday from the city centre. Baile Átha Cliath it said, and the date 23:08:95. She tried the words, stumbling over the unfamiliar combinations of consonants and vowels. It had been a long time since she had spoken Irish. Once she had been nearly fluent, summers spent learning the language in Connemara, honours in the Leaving Certificate. But it had slipped from her memory, like sand dribbling through a clenched fist, to be replaced by the names, lists, facts, quantities, connections that make up the study of medicine. Sometimes the odd word or phrase would broach the surface of her consciousness. ‘An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas?’ Or ‘Dún an doras, más é do thoile’ remembered as a chant, learned by rote, like a prayer said so often that it has lost its meaning.

  She picked up the card and turned to walk towards the kitchen. Unbidden the words filled her head, and the music that went with them.

  Sinne Fianna Fáil, atá faoi gheall ag Éirinn,

  Buíon dár slua, thar toinn do ráinig chugainn,

  Faoi mhóid bheith saor, scan tir ár sinsear feasta,

  Ní fhágfar faoin tirán ná faoin tráill.

  Mary had been so surprised the first time she had heard her sing the national anthem. They had been standing on the footpath in Queen Street, Auckland. St Patrick’s Day, 1980. It was autumn. It had rained heavily in the morning, but now the sun shone brightly in the slack pools in the road. She had taken Mary into town to buy her new winter shoes. She didn’t realize what day it was until the parade began to pass. A ragged collection of floats straggled by. They were decorated with green ribbons, and shamrocks and Kiwis entwined. A large woman with an elaborate red bouffant, her solid white flesh squeezed into a green sequinned jacket, sang ‘If You’re Irish Come Into the Parlour’ from the back of a truck, throwing handfuls of wilted shamrocks at passers-by. Her accordion accompaniment struggled against the drums and pipes of the band who followed. They droned ‘Sean South from Garryowen’ with the monotonous intensity of the fundamentally unmusical. Boys played tin whistles and bodhráns and girls marched in step, green boots laced up their calves, short green and orange kilts flicking rigidly from side to side as they moved. A group of women, wearing red flannel skirts with lace blouses and black shawls, posed in a tableau in front of a plywood cut-out of a thatched cottage. The wooden curl of grey smoke from the chimney shook as the lorry struggled over the tramlines and looked as if it might get tangled in the telephone wires that criss-crossed the street. Three rows of men wearing black berets marched with jackboot precision behind the floats. They were holding placards that said ‘Brits Out’ and ‘Free the Prisoners’. Friends waved and saluted from the footpath, gesticulating with their bottles of Guinness and glasses of beer, coloured a sickly pea green. Then another truck with little girls, Mary’s age and size, wearing dresses embroidered stiff with shamrocks, harps, Celtic crosses and beasts from the Book of Kells. Their ringlets and ribbons jerked up and down as they pranced and danced, and kicked up their skinny little legs, arms stitched to their sides. Mary gasped and screamed
to be lifted up, her mouth wide open, desire lighting her eyes, her feet already twitching and arching. As Margaret held her close, Mary’s peach-soft cheek caressing her own, she remembered feeling herself swinging up and onto her father’s tweed-covered shoulders. The delicious, precarious excitement of it all.

  She had twisted her fingers through his hair to keep her balance and drummed her heels against his chest, until he pinched her calf and said, ‘Careful, Maggie, not so hard.’ And she put her two hands around his forehead to steady herself, and looked over the crowd and down at all the other children who weren’t as lucky and didn’t have such a lovely daddy who very soon would take her to buy a stick of candyfloss and a big balloon. While all the time Catherine sighed and looked at her watch and said plaintively, ‘It’s so cold, John,’ and ‘Haven’t you had enough, John?’ and ‘My bladder, John, it’s weak.’ And finally, and most effectively, ‘You’ll overexcite her, John. She’ll never sleep tonight.’

  ‘Look, Mummy,’ Mary’s small hand pinched her cheek, ‘what’s he doing?’ A tiny boy, his uniform black with red and silver trimmings, a mace at least twice his size, twirling and whirling around him, up and over, throwing it, catching it, just before it hit the ground. And behind him a large banner held by two older boys, green and silver shamrocks, and in old Irish script, ‘The Takapuna Celtic Silver Band’. Seven rows of instruments, the onlookers’ faces reflected, distorted in their shiny surfaces. Tubas, trombones, trumpets, saxophones, clarinets and the drums, small round snares played by boys as small and tense as their instruments, their sticks drilling holes in the tight leather lids, and the big bass drums, huge sides vibrating, slowly, loosely, boo-oom, boo-oom, boo-oom. As each row passed in turn, the tune came and went, melody separated from harmony, followed by rhythm. And then she recognized it for what it was. Instantly the words formed in her head, and she stood straight, in spite of herself, feet together, head back and up, one hand holding Mary, the other stiffly by her side. And a sudden gagging homesickness, a longing that took her twelve thousand miles away, across the warm blue of the South Pacific, to the cold grey-green of the Irish Sea. To where? Home?