The Magdalen

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

Esther tried to push the more urgent baskets to the front. Sister Josepha said that hotels and restaurants and business ones took priority. Jim Murray went back outside for more. He was a sturdy, broad-shouldered man, with a kind heart, and was always polite to the Maggies. Esther never saw him in bad humour or giving out like the rest of the drivers, who often jeered at the women and belittled them. Detta had told her that he had been delivering to the laundry for about fifteen years and that he was equally liked by the nuns and the women.

  “I’m early today, as my young one isn’t well and I want to bring her down to see the doctor in the clinic.”

  “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  “Aye. She’s had a cold that won’t shift. The teacher sent home a note last night, so it’s best to get her sorted. She’s a star, is my Sally.”

  “Would you fancy a cup of tea? Bridey’s giving them out inside.”

  “‘Tis cold enough to freeze the … pardon my French.” He shrugged. “But a cup of tea would sure warm me up. My fingers are frozen!” His large hands looked raw, red, and stiff.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “A bit and two spoons.”

  Pushing into the steaming centre room, where the women crowded around the tea trolley, she grabbed two mugs, carrying them back out.

  “That’s a grand cup of tea!” He warmed his hands on the mug. He was actually quite handsome she supposed, in a mature kind of way, totally relaxed and interested in everything around him, with kind eyes, a generous mouth and a good sense of humour. Esther took the opportunity to sit down again. Of late she found if she stood for too long she’d get a bit dizzy.

  “When’s your baby due?”

  “Early March.” She reddened.

  “That’s a fine time of the year to have a baby. Our eldest was born in March, almost seven years ago.”

  She watched as he drank his tea, supping it quickly. She could sense his wanting to finish up and get home to his wife and children. “There are two deliveries waiting to go.”

  Tomorrow was the big home-delivery day usually, but there were always some finished baskets ready. He ambled out along the passageway, where wire stands supported the baskets of freshly laundered clothes and wrapped brown-paper parcels of sheets and pillowcases. They were divided into sections: the city, the suburbs, and Howth, Bray and Greystones. He studied the labels. “City centre, the Central Hotel, Phelan Bros. I’ll do that before I go home.”

  She watched as he lifted the heavy baskets and parcels out to the van, holding the door open for him.

  “No rest for the wicked!” he joked. “You take care of yourself, Esther!”

  She watched as he drove away, two more vans pulling in after him. The next hour was spent sorting out all the clutter of brimming laundry baskets. She only stopped during the midday lunchbreak, the meal even more disgusting than usual.

  After lunch Sheila was assigned to work with her. There wasn’t space to turn in the receiving-area as there were so many baskets. She always liked working with Sheila, as she was the type of girl who always pulled her weight, and didn’t mind explaining things, having been in the laundry since the Emergency when she’d had a baby by an American soldier with whom she’d fallen madly in love. She loved all things American, especially bubblegum and Cary Grant.

  “Jasus, Esther! What’s that disgusting smell? Open the window!”

  The crowded room was pervaded by a heavy, sickly-sweet smell. It emanated from the baskets but they couldn’t tell which one. They became more cautious as they opened the lids. It was disgusting when customers sent in vomit- or shit-covered sheets, towels, or blankets. There was nothing worse than putting your hand into it. Lifting the lid of a dark straw basket, Esther drew back as the awful smell hit her. It was full of towels and sheets; gingerly she lifted them out. The sheets seemed heavier than they should, weighed down. They didn’t appear that soiled. Unwrapping the bundle of sheets, she sensed something solid inside them. Sometimes people left a boot or a shoe or a book bundled up in their washing by accident. She unfolded it. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Oh Jesus!”

  Sheila stopped what she was doing and came over. Esther, leaning on an unopened basket, pulled back the sheet to show her. Lying across her lap was a baby, a tiny boy, a little boy blue, for that was his colour, his skin a dark purple-blue, his small body stiff, his blackened fingers curved in.

  “Ah! The poor wee man!” cried Sheila, almost choking on her gum. They both stared at the small dead baby, his face asleep. “I’ll get Sister.”

  Sheila ran through into the laundry, screaming for the nun. Esther sat waiting, the baby lying so stiff and still in her arms, like a tiny rigid doll! How did this happen? Her mind swirled with unbidden memories and she thanked God that her brother Tom had been the one to interrupt her plans to harm her own unborn child. They’d both be dead by now otherwise. What did this poor child’s mother do in a moment of desperation? Or had he been stillborn? The poor little pet.

  Sister Josepha arrived all in a fluster, almost falling over the baskets in her haste, a crowd of girls at her heels. Grim-faced on seeing the baby, she ordered Sheila to run and fetch Sister Gabriel.

  The nun leant forward and made the sign of the cross on the infant’s forehead. “He’s been dead a while, Esther. Could have been a stillborn, or suffocated. God between us and all harm, what poor girl was driven to do this?”

  Tears welled in Esther’s eyes.

  “Here, give him to me, child! You shouldn’t be upsetting yourself like this. I’ll take him.”

  Esther was relieved to hand over the grisly bundle into the nun’s arms.

  Sister Gabriel arrived, pushing her way through the waiting crowd. “Sheila! Take Esther into the kitchen and get yourselves a cup of tea! You’ve both had a shock. Then I suggest you both have a rest.”

  Esther stood up shakily. She wanted to get out of the room, away from that baby.

  Maura hugged her as she passed by. “It’s all right, Esther. Your child is fine.”

  Ina and the kitchen girls flapped around her, making her and Sheila sit down. They were all curious to hear about their gruesome discovery.

  “Is it true that the baby was still alive when you found him?” quizzed Ina.

  Esther shook her head. She felt tired. She was in no mood to talk. Sheila was sitting on the table, regaling them all with the gory details. Esther slipped away upstairs to lie down.

  It was dark when she awoke. She felt disorientated. She turned on her side, plumping her pillow, her belly like a water-filled jar, her baby stirring, kicking its foot against the wall of her stomach. How could she have ever wished her own child dead, wished to be rid of her baby, and do away with herself? She lay becalmed in guilt, dreading the thought of joining the others for tea.

  Detta appeared with a mug of tea and two slices of bread for her. “I sneaked this up for you. I thought you mightn’t feel up to coming down tonight and having them all quizzing you, Esther.”

  Relieved, Esther sat up, her hair standing on end. “Aye, thanks, Detta.”

  The old woman was always so kind to her, looking out for her. She ate slowly and awkwardly, terrified that one of the nuns would appear and they would both get into trouble.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Awful! I keep thinking of that little baby and what must have happened to him. Why didn’t his mother tell anyone, ask for help?”

  “The poor girl. God knows what kind of a family she came from. Maybe she was frightened that she’d end up somewhere like here.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “There will be an inquiry. Sister Gabriel had to call the guards. It’s upsetting for the whole house, something like this. They took the poor child away to be examined by the coroner.”

  Esther closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sight of the child.

  “They have to try and determine where the little boy came from. Ina heard that the sergeant was trying to imply that the child must have been born here, that one
of our girls did such a thing. Gabriel told him that the baby was found in one of the delivered laundry baskets. The nuns have the customer list and will be able to trace it back. There’ll be an investigation, you know.”

  Esther was worried. What if they tried to blame her, or say she had something to do with it all?

  “Don’t be upsetting yourself, child. Sister Gabriel told him that you would talk to them tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Detta, why do all these bad things have to keep happening?”

  “Esther girl, that poor baby dying had nothing to do with you. You have your own child to think of. You can’t be going blaming yourself for every bad thing that happens. People live and people die, that’s the way of the world, and if we’re lucky, in the next life we get to heaven and our just reward. You’re young, you want everything to be good for everyone; in time you’ll learn to just accept things.”

  Esther sighed. Detta was right. She was wise and always seemed to know the right thing to say to comfort her. Turning in the bed, Esther could feel a ripple of movement as her baby moved and kicked again in her stomach.

  “Ouch!” she squirmed.

  “Is it the baby?” Detta asked, concerned.

  “Aye!” she smiled, taking the old woman’s hand and placing it on her stomach.

  “Well that’s the kick of a good strong child, Esther, be thankful to the Lord for that.”

  Esther finished off the tea, passing the cup and plate to her.

  “I’d better bring these back down to the kitchen, child,” offered Detta. “I’m doing an hour’s vigil in the chapel at half-past seven. You rest easy there and I’ll say a few prayers for the both of us.”

  She pretended to be asleep when the others came to bed. They all seemed subdued, switching off the lights almost at once, leaving her in peace.

  Sergeant Brian Dawson leant on the mantelpiece in the parlour. He checked his reflection in the glass-framed painting of “Jesus in the Garden.” He always felt uncomfortable coming to the convent. His visits generally entailed bad news of some sort or other. Sister Gabriel had gone down to the laundry to fetch the girl. He pitied the poor wretches that worked here.

  This latest thing was an awkward business: the discovery of a foetus or a dead child in a home for fallen women and unmarried mothers was morbid. He’d had to bring the small corpse to the morgue himself. That place gave him the creeps. They told him that the child had been dead for a week or more, judging by the extent of putrefaction. Bill Kenny, his inspector, had warned him that it was probably one of the sly bitches in the convent that had hidden the dead infant in the laundry. Having talked to Sister Gabriel, he had to agree that such an act would make no sense.

  “Our mothers are supported. We already know that they are pregnant. That poor child was from outside!” the nun insisted.

  Sister Gabriel ushered a young woman into the room. “This is Esther Doyle, Sergeant Dawson. She found the baby yesterday.”

  The garda began to write down some details. The unwed girl looked only about nineteen or twenty. Her birthday was in March. She’d have had her own child by then. He noticed that she had not bothered to place a brassy fake wedding ring on her finger like some of the women did. Dark smudges shadowed her eyes, and with her hair drawn back it only served to highlight her pale face, long neck and fine features. She was pretty, and he supposed if she wasn’t pregnant he might have even said beautiful. A country girl with a soft, lilting accent.

  In her own words, she took her time telling about helping the van driver with the baskets, and how busy they were yesterday, and about the cloying sweet smell of decay. Her voice broke as she described to him the unrolling of the sheet and her discovery. He took note of everything she said.

  “That’s fine for the moment, Esther. I’d like to have a word with your friend Sheila too.”

  Relieved, Esther stood up to go.

  “I’ll be back in touch with you again, Miss Doyle, should I need your assistance.”

  She nodded, glad to be out of the room. Sheila was waiting outside, and was called in straight away. Jim Murray was sitting on a narrow mahogany chair with spindly legs, waiting too.

  Esther suddenly felt weak after the interview, the blood draining from her head. Jim rushed forward to catch her, making her sit down. “Sit down, Esther girl! ’Twas just too much for you, that’s all.” He disappeared to the kitchen to fetch her a glass of water, standing over her and making her sip it. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, his voice full of concern as he knelt down in front of her.

  Esther felt such an eejit getting weak like that.

  “It’s just this whole thing, Esther, I can hardly believe it myself,” murmured the Dublin man. “In all my years driving there’s never been the like of it!”

  Esther sat quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It must have been dreadful for you, finding that when you’re having a baby yourself, given you a right old scare.”

  “How’s your little girl?”

  “Not too bad. The doctor fellah gave her a cough bottle, said she’s a bit chesty and I’ve to keep an eye on her. The wife died of TB about a year ago so naturally I was worried.”

  “Oh Jim, I’m sorry! I didn’t know, nobody told me.”

  “That’s all right. Herself and my other girl Julie got it. They were both in the fever hospital. Julie got better and poor Dolores didn’t make it.” Without thinking, she reached for his hand. “‘Tis all right, lass. I’m getting used to it now, to being on my own. ‘Tis the children I feel sorry for. They miss Dolores something awful. Girls need their mother.”

  “I know!” she agreed.

  “The guards asked me to bring a map of my regular route. I was up around Dartry and Rathgar, where all those big posh houses are. I have my suspicions ’tis one of those families, a daughter of the house in trouble, no doubt, too bloody scared to tell anyone, God help her!”

  “The poor thing!” murmured Esther. “She must have been terrified, too terrified to tell anyone or to get help.”

  “Were you like that?”

  Esther was taken aback by Jim’s forthright question but, looking into the sincere brown eyes of the middle-aged widower, knowing that he meant no insult or harm, felt the need to tell him a bit about herself.

  “Aye, I was too, I didn’t know what to do. I thought the baby’s father loved me and would marry me. I nearly died when I realized that I was on my own. Then my mammy guessed about the baby. All she could think of was the scandal and what the neighbours would say.”

  “You poor pet,” he said softly. “It must have been desperate.”

  “I grew up in a tiny village in the west of Ireland, Jim. In a small place like that even the stones could talk, everyone knows everyone else’s business. My mother said that I’d brought shame and disgrace on them all, so between them the family arranged for me to come here to Dublin.”

  An embarrassed, uncomfortable silence grew between them.

  “I wouldn’t ever send my girls away if the same happened to them,” he said fiercely. “Their mother suffered before she died and I’ll tell you straight there’s no benefit in suffering and pain. None!”

  Sheila emerged from the parlour, and she and Esther were sent straight back to work. Everyone kept asking about their interview, and what did the guard want to know? Had they caught the girl yet?

  The mystery of the dead baby remained unsolved, no customer on the list admitting that their daughter had recently given birth. The unwanted child was interred in the convent grounds. The garda would keep on with their investigation, Sergeant Dawson informed Sister Gabriel, insisting that they were determined to find out who was responsible for the death of an innocent child. In some part of Esther’s soul she hoped they never did. Whoever she was, the mother had suffered enough, and she prayed that the garda never found her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bishop Dunne was coming to lunch in the convent. The parish priest, Father O’Connell, and the chaplain,
Father Enda Clancy, would be joining him. Although still mid-December, this would be his official Christmas meal with the Holy Saints Sisters and the penitents. His Grace’s diary of official duties filled up quickly.

  Ina Brady had been instructed to roast an enormous turkey that came from Sister Gabriel’s brother’s farm in Athlone. Two smaller birds roasted in the side oven, and she had boiled two bright pink hams. His Grace was partial to a nice bit of ham, and loved turkey breast.

  Sisters Gabrielle and Margaretta had already escorted the priests into the parlour when the bishop’s chauffeur-driven Ford drew up outside the convent door, and the portly figure of Bishop Kevin Dunne, clad in his rich purple robes, emerged. The nuns served the men with a pre-luncheon glass of sherry, abstaining themselves. Then Sister Gabriel led them on a tour of the laundry, pointing out the various areas where the girls and women were working. The bishop’s ruddy colouring matched the hue of his clerical outfit, as the sweltering heat of the laundry steam room made him break out in a sweat. Father Maurice O‘Connell, a pompous little man, followed a step or two behind, strutting along and nodding at them as if he were the Pope himself. He wouldn’t demean himself by speaking to any of the Maggies. Rita made a rude gesture, jerking her closed hand up and down as he passed by, and Esther had to stifle her laughter. The whole laundry knew about the blessed Father O’Connell and the stiff yellow semen-stained pyjamas and sheets that were delivered from the parish house down the road. Sometimes even his cassocks and soutanes bore the revealing stains of his need for constant self-gratification. “Wanker!” whispered Rita, setting them all bursting with giggles again.

  “Just as well he decided to stay celibate and not marry!” added Sheila. “No woman in Ireland would have been able for that randy little devil!”

  The chaplain was a grand fellow, though, and used to blush crimson when the women confided their romantic and sexual indiscretions to him in the privacy of the confessional. He was young yet.

  Extra help had been drafted into the kitchen, Detta running hither and thither at Ina’s bidding, and one of Ina’s daughters carving the turkey expertly. An additional table had been set up in the refectory for the visitors and the nuns. All the shuffling of chairs and the rattling of crockery stilled as the bishop stood up to say grace before the meal, all the women bowing their heads and murmuring “Amen” as he finished.