‘God, no. Shit, I should have called you from work or something. It’s all been a bit manic lately. Maria, I am so sorry.’
‘And I’m sorry too for not telling you sooner about the baby. I know I should have.’
‘We are both rubbish.’
‘Yep, we are.’ I found myself grinning through my tears. It was so good to know we were OK.
‘You should tell Jackie soon, I think.’
‘Jackie? She won’t care.’
‘She’s going to be a grandmother. I know you don’t owe her anything, but she ought to know. Maybe . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, I wondered if it would change the way she acts towards you. I mean, it’ll be a rite of passage for her, too, the start of a new stage of her life.’
‘Hmm.’ I wasn’t convinced. I had as little contact with Jackie as possible these days, as whenever I phoned or called round she tended to brush me off, saying she was busy and had no time for me. We met once every couple of months for a coffee, at which we updated each other with news of friends and acquaintances, but never actually talked about ourselves or our relationship with each other, steering clear of any dangerous ground or mentions of the past. We exchanged Christmas cards, and that was about it. But I supposed I’d have to tell her about the baby sooner or later.
‘Well, think about it. If you want to wait till you’re home and we could call on her together that’d be fine with me. I’m counting the days, no, the hours, till you come home. Four days, five hours and forty-six minutes. I can’t wait – to see you and meet The Bump.’
I laughed. ‘Not much of a bump yet, although it’s growing daily. Yes, I’ll be back on Wednesday. Can’t wait to see you again, too.’
We were both silent for a minute, holding our phones, just being with each other. We’d both been idiots. And I still hadn’t answered his proposal.
‘So, how’s it going? Done lots of research? What are you up to today?’
‘Looking at church records and then going to a hurling match.’
‘Hurling? Did your ancestors play or something?’
‘No idea. But the local team are playing so I am lending my support.’ I avoided mentioning that I was going with a tall, handsome young man who had eyes you could drown in. Even as I thought this, Dan’s warm, familiar voice was wrapping itself around me, making me feel secure. He was all I ever wanted.
‘Well, hope you enjoy it. I’ve never seen a hurling match. Give me a ring after and let me know how it went. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’ I hung up, feeling so much better than I had done for days.
Well, that was decided then. I’d meet Declan today, go to the match with him, enjoy the rest of my holiday and get my research done. Then I’d go back to Dan and put that damned ring on my finger. I owed him, it was the right thing to do, and God damn it, I loved him!
Unlike last night I took little care over my appearance today. Cotton drawstring-waist trousers from the local Dunnes Stores, which were so much more comfortable than my too-tight jeans, a loose t-shirt and hair in a ponytail. That would do.
*
Over breakfast I pondered what Dan had said about telling Jackie. He was right, I knew. And I decided I might as well get it over with, so once I was back upstairs in my room I pulled out my phone again and called her. She worked on Saturdays but didn’t start till later in the day, in her admin job for an office cleaning company, so I knew I’d catch her at home if I called early.
‘Maria! I wasn’t expecting you to call. Really, it’s not the most convenient time.’ She sounded cross and exasperated.
I felt instantly wound up. How dare I phone my mother! ‘It never is convenient for you, is it? You’re my mother, Jackie. Most people don’t need to warn their mothers that they’re going to phone them.’
‘I’m busy, Maria, is all I meant. So what have you phoned for?’
‘I won’t take much of your time. There’s something I need to tell you, and I didn’t want to wait till I come home from my holiday.’
‘I didn’t even know you were on holiday. Just let me get my tea – I was just making a cup – then I can sit down and you can talk.’
I listened to the sounds of her moving around her immaculate flat. It was all stripped wood floors, white sofas and huge floor-standing vases of dried flowers. Not at all child friendly. Not a granny-house in any way. But then, I couldn’t imagine her being a normal granny.
‘Well? What did you want to talk about?’
Best just to get it out there, I thought. I took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to have a baby. You’ll be a grandmother.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘Oh. Well, that’s a surprise. I always thought you’d do things properly – you know, marry first, children later. I’m assuming it is Dan’s?’
‘Jackie, for goodness sake, of course it’s Dan’s!’ I snapped. ‘I’d assumed we’d marry first as well, but things happen, and here we are.’
She snorted. ‘It’ll change your life, you know. Completely. You need to be sure that’s what you want. I assume it’s early days – it’s probably not too late—’
‘No.’ I broke her off before she said too much, before she said something that might damage our relationship still further. She should have been delighted at the thought of having a grandchild. Any other woman would be. Why couldn’t my mother be like any other woman? ‘I’m nervous, Jackie. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. But that’s for me to deal with. Aren’t you pleased at the idea of becoming a grandmother?’
‘Won’t make any difference to me.’ There was a moment’s silence, as if she was considering the implications of my news, and then she drew a deep breath. ‘Don’t expect me to babysit for you – I’m done with all that. And don’t think of getting your kid to call me Granny or suchlike. It can call me Jackie like everyone else. Well, look, if that’s all you wanted to say to me you can let me get on now. Like I said, I’m really busy today.’ I couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t wait to get me off the phone, despite the life-changing news I’d just given her!
I gritted my teeth a moment, to stop myself exploding. ‘Right, well, just thought you should know. Obviously you’re not interested. All I hope is that I’ll be a better mother than you were.’ So much for it being a turning point in our relationship.
‘Well, sorry I was so useless, I’m sure. But you’re right. I probably shouldn’t ever have had you. Your father persuaded me. I sometimes wished I’d never listened to him.’
‘Even now? Now I’m adult and off your hands?’ I’d heard all this before, years ago. More recently we’d avoided the topic. I’d forgotten how much it hurt to hear her say these things.
‘I’d have done great things if I hadn’t had a kid to look after. You held me back.’
‘Jeez, thanks, Jackie. That’s great. How do you think that makes me feel – my own mother rejecting me like that?’ As on so many occasions, I tried to let it wash over me, I tried not to care. But now I was going to be a mother myself, I was going to experience the other side of the equation. The hurt of her rejection felt like a physical pain in my chest.
‘You pushed me away, too,’ she said quietly. ‘As soon as your father died you moved out, remember? Left me all alone right when I needed support.’
I shook my head. ‘We’d have killed each other if I’d stayed, without Dad to liaise between us. You know that, Jackie.’ If I’d stayed, it would have been a disaster. Moving out and seeing Jackie only occasionally had felt like the only answer at the time. I had a sudden, unwelcome thought – maybe if things had been different and I’d stayed then perhaps that could have been a turning point for us. But I’d been still a child at seventeen, only just holding myself together after Dad died, unable to cope with the added pressure of building bridges with Jackie. She’d been the adult. She should have been the one to try to mend our relationship.
She gave a loud sigh. ‘All I’m saying, Maria, is if you decide to go ahead and have this child, m
ake sure you’ve thought long and hard about what it’ll mean for your lifestyle, for both you and Dan. It’s not easy being a parent, and not everyone can do it well.’ She was silent for a moment before continuing in a softer tone. ‘You’re more like me than you realise, Maria. Some of us aren’t cut out for motherhood.’
I felt tears prick at my eyes for the second time that morning. She’d voiced my deep-seated concerns, right there. What if I was too much like her, and would be unfit as a mother? What then? The line from the McCarthy grave came to mind – eternal gratitude for a mother’s sacrifice. Not something I could say about Jackie. Would my own child be able to say it about me? Would I be a Jackie or a Kitty?
‘Well, on that note, I’ll go. Thanks for nothing, Jackie. Enjoy your day.’ I hung up before I began screaming at her. I should have known she’d react like that. But it could have been worse if it had been a face-to-face meeting. And at least now it was done, and I’d told her.
I sent Dan a quick text to let him know, and had a reply back almost immediately: Well done, proud of you. xx He was the only person who knew how difficult Jackie could be. I may not have the support of my mother, but I had Dan’s support. And always had, I realised.
*
After mooching around the local shops for the rest of the morning I arrived at the church a little early, and found a number of cars in its car park and several people on their way out after a private christening service. The baby was in a fabulous long white christening gown, being held by a proud mother, surrounded by other family members. As I passed them on my way into the church, I congratulated the mother. The baby, I have to admit, did look pretty cute, sleeping comfortably in his mother’s arms. I found myself wondering whether Dan and I would get our baby christened or not – was it hypocritical to do so if we weren’t religious? One thing was for certain – there’d be no heirloom christening gown. No heirlooms at all from Jackie. She’d thrown out all my baby and childhood stuff as soon as she possibly could. I remembered a time when she’d sent a sack of cuddly toys to the school fete, before I was ready to give them up. I’d had to rummage through the stall and buy back my favourite teddy with my pocket money.
The priest was still in the doorway of the church, his face in shadow, chatting to the last few christening guests. As I approached, I recognised his voice, and then he stepped forward into the sunlight.
‘Declan! Um, sorry I’m a bit early. You did say there was a christening on.’ I tried to cover my confusion and pretend I’d known all along he was the priest. Aoife’s words from my first evening in O’Sullivan’s came back to me – You’ll not get far with that one – and her smirk. So that’s what she’d meant!
‘Hi, Maria. Go on through – the record books are in a little room off the vestry. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
As I walked through the church, which was light, airy and brightly painted in blue and gold, I trawled my memories of the last few days to see if I’d made a fool of myself with him. Had I flirted at all? Catholic priests took vows of celibacy, didn’t they? Had I said anything that might have offended him? I blushed as I recalled I’d thought he was leaning over to kiss me goodnight as he left the pub yesterday. Oh God, what an idiot I was!
And then I found myself grinning. I hadn’t done anything too embarrassing – well, only in my mind. Declan had never said he was a priest, and he hadn’t worn a dog collar.
I entered the vestry and found the little office that led off it. One wall was lined with dark wooden shelves from floor to ceiling, which housed hundreds of dusty record books, some old and worn, others looking pretty new. I was standing gazing at them and wondering where to begin, when Declan came in behind me, already tugging his surplice over his head.
‘Right, well, the records are in date order, more or less, from top left to bottom right. Eighteen forties I guess about there.’ He pointed to a shelf about halfway up. ‘Pick one and work your way forward or back as necessary. I just need to get changed.’
‘Thanks. Declan?’
He turned back at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t realise you were the priest here. I hope I didn’t – you know – say anything stupid?’
He stared at me for a moment and then threw back his head and laughed, an infectious sound which soon had me joining in as well. ‘Ah, I shouldn’t laugh, so I shouldn’t, but it must have given you a surprise to see me here in my priest’s get-up? It’s my own fault. I should wear my collar out and about, but I much prefer polo shirts.’
He stopped laughing and looked at me more seriously. ‘Does it bother you? I know you said you’re not religious at all. Just think of my calling as a job, like any other, if it helps.’
I smiled. ‘No, doesn’t bother me, of course not. But it does explain why you’re such a good listener.’
‘Yes, I get plenty of practice in the confessional. Anyway, I’ll be off to change and back with you in five minutes or so. You get started.’ He waved a hand at the record books and disappeared back into the vestry, pulling the door closed behind him.
By the time he was back, now dressed in his usual jeans and a moss-green polo shirt, I was still pulling out the ledgers one by one to try to find the right years. I worked backwards from 1850 to begin with, looking for any McCarthy burials. All those children listed on the memorial stone – I hoped at least some of them had had a proper burial, with a priest in attendance and their details written down in a book. It was heartbreaking to think of all those who’d died during the famine and been simply thrown into one of the mass graves, with no record of their passing kept anywhere. In a ledger that covered the winter of 1848–49 I found one – Grace McCarthy. She had been buried in the churchyard, in what was listed as ‘the McCarthy plot’, but with no stone marker.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing out the entry in the book to Declan. ‘There was a McCarthy plot.’
‘Ah, that’s good. So at least this little colleen, Grace, was buried with proper rites. Have you found any others?’
‘Not yet.’ I pulled out the next volume, going backwards, and began leafing through it. The writing took a while to get my head around and of course there were so many entries for deaths in those years. Eventually, back in the winter of 1846–47, I found several McCarthy entries, all within a few days of each other.
‘Here they are, the poor little things.’ I felt my eyes well up with tears as I passed the book over to Declan. These children were my three great-uncles and aunts, but they’d had such short lives, and had died in such a tragic way.
‘It’s so sad.’ He ran his fingers slowly over the words in the ledger, and was silent for a moment. Praying silently for their souls, I guessed, and I felt oddly comforted by the idea.
‘All the children died during the famine. I haven’t found their father though, and he is mentioned on the gravestone.’
‘But with an earlier date, I think?’
I pulled out my notebook where I had copied down the details. ‘Yes, he died in 1844.’ I soon found him in a ledger which covered 1839–1844. There were far fewer deaths before the famine and the books covered a longer period. Next job was to try to find christenings for the children so I could work out their exact ages when they died. Although I was supposed to be researching Michael, and perhaps discovering what had become of his mother Kitty, I felt the need to fill in the blanks of his whole family. It would help to add background to the biography. And if all his siblings had died that added real poignancy to his search for Kitty. That thought made me realise I could be looking for christenings for more McCarthy children than just the ones on the headstone. Maybe there were other children who’d survived to adulthood. This was going to take a while.
*
It did. Declan helped, but also spent some time on his church paperwork and other tasks, looking up from his laptop whenever I found something new to show him. After a couple of hours, I’d found christenings for all the children except for Michael, and had found a wedding record for Kitty and Patric
k McCarthy in 1834. No other McCarthy children. I’d noted everything down and taken photos on my phone of each relevant document. Why no christening for Michael? I did not know his exact date of birth. Where in the family had he come? I knew he’d travelled to America the first time in 1849 alone, so must have been at least in his mid- to late-teens then, which made him older than his siblings. With a jolt I realised he must have been born before his parents married. Well, that was not uncommon, either then or now. My hand snuck down to my abdomen almost of its own accord – here was another little one who’d quite likely be born before his or her parents were wed. The thought made me shudder. Despite having made up with Dan on the phone this morning, I still felt terrified at the prospect of becoming a mother. The conversation with Jackie had not helped.
‘You all right there?’ asked Declan. I must have been making a face.
‘Yes, I’m fine. So, it looks like Michael was the eldest and very likely born before his parents married,’ I said, to deflect him from asking more about my state of mind. If we began talking again about my pregnancy I’d soon be blubbing on his shoulder, like last night.
‘It happened a lot,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘But you’re assuming that he was definitely his father’s child? I mean, perhaps he was from an earlier relationship Kitty had? Because if he was Patrick’s child, surely they’d have married quickly when she found she was pregnant.’
‘Good point. I need to go back further to look for a christening.’
‘Could be in a different church – she might have only begun coming here after marrying, if she moved to her husband’s parish then. He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we’ll need to leave it for now if you want anything to eat before going to the match? Or a cup of tea at least? O’Sullivan’s, the café, or I could see what I can rustle up in the presbytery?’
‘I wouldn’t put you to so much trouble. The café will be perfect.’ I put the volumes I’d been looking at back on their shelves and we left the church, arm in arm, companionably.
The Girl from Ballymor Page 13
