Stolen Child

by Laura Elliot

  Shortly afterwards, Carla had heard a car and voices. Joy entered, followed by a striking, grey-haired woman in a navy business suit. Carla recognised her immediately. No wonder her son’s face had tugged at her memory throughout the afternoon. As Miriam Dowling warmly grasped her hand, Carla remembered the craft fair in Dublin. She had stood face to face with her child’s kidnapper, as blind as the stallion David had carefully wrapped, and which she had just as carefully carried all the way to Australia. Sweat broke out under her arms. She wondered if he caught the sour smell of her disbelief. She thought about the other horses, the colourful, jingling seahorses, now wrapped in tissue paper gathering dust, and allowed them to sway through her mind, to steady her nerves so that she could make conversation, answer questions, tell more lies. Was his mother oblivious to the truth or was she his confidante, his partner in a heinous crime? Miriam’s eyes were serene, her face open and welcoming. Towards the end of the meal she had asked Carla if she had children.

  ‘I had a daughter but I only knew her for two days before…’ She stopped, aware of the sympathy in Miriam’s eyes. David placed his hand over her clenched fist. His comforting touch almost unhinged her. Would her fury eventually become a conflagration and consume them both? She pulled her hand away before the desire to claw his face became uncontrollable.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Clare,’ said Miriam.

  Carla sat silently for an instant. No one made any effort to rush in with heedless comments. Eventually, she spoke again. ‘I bought one of your seahorse mobiles for her. I hung it over her cradle in the nursery we’d decorated for her.’

  ‘Did you now.’ Miriam’s eyes moistened. ‘Oh dear me…life can be so very tough at times.’

  David nodded but made no attempt to touch her again. Joy glanced warily from her father to Carla, as if she suspected they were exchanging signals. Jealousy. She saw Carla as a threat, someone who could possibly replace the woman she had loved. She looked away when Carla caught her eye and stabbed her fork into a chunk of meat.

  ‘Joy has a summer job, starting tomorrow,’ Miriam said as the meal drew to a close. ‘She’ll be showing visitors around the studio. Why don’t you drop in and see us? I’ve some meetings in the morning but I’d love to have lunch with you in the Amber Café. Phyllis is a wonderful cook. We’re lucky to have her.’

  ‘Phyllis?’ Carla struggled to deal with this new piece of information.

  ‘She’s our nearest neighbour,’ said Miriam. ‘You probably noticed the canary yellow house before you turned into the lane.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Impossible to miss.’ Miriam laughed. ‘Phyllis had it painted after her mother died. Between you, me and the wall, she was celebrating the first fling of freedom she’d known in her life.’ She smiled across the table at Joy. ‘We’ve a special place for Phyllis in our hearts.’

  Joy flung her eyes upwards in exasperation. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Gran,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sick of listening to that story.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it,’ said Carla.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t.’ Joy sighed with exaggerated weariness and rested her elbows on the table, pressed her chin into her fists. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Phyllis helped deliver Joy,’ Miriam explained. ‘Her mother was unable to make the hospital on time.’ She glanced sternly across at Joy. ‘Now, was that so difficult? Honestly, Joy, I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately. I’ve almost forgotten how beautiful you look when you smile.’

  Joy grimaced, a mock smile that stretched her lips downwards, and said, ‘Satisfied?’

  Behind her posturing, she was clinging to the secure bindings of childhood while struggling, at the same time, to free herself from their clasp. And those bindings would soon be ripped from her. But how…and when?

  David Dowling and his mother had made Carla welcome in their home. They fed her, poured wine into her glass, offered her second helpings, unaware that they had invited the enemy to sup.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Joy

  From the showroom window, Joy notices the silver car as soon as the driver enters the car park. Clare Frazier has lost no time accepting Miriam’s invitation. Joy will probably have to show her around.

  Last night her father had walked her to the gate after dinner and stood watching until her car rounded the bend in the lane.

  ‘Why did you bring her here?’ Joy had demanded when he came back inside. She had been so angry with him she wanted to smash glass. The urge quivered through her but it had no centre, no reason she could understand or control. Just an urge to smash glass. How crazy was that?

  ‘I was simply being friendly.’ Her father had been as cool as a cucumber as he began to clear the table. ‘She seemed a bit lost, don’t you think?’

  ‘She knows the way back to Dublin,’ Joy replied. ‘The road signs are clear enough.’

  ‘What’s that puss on your face for?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t puss. I pout.’

  ‘So, what’s up?’

  ‘She scares me.’

  ‘Who, Clare? Oh, for crying out loud!’

  ‘Did you see her eyes?’

  ‘Impossible not to. She has very striking eyes.’

  ‘She was summing up everything. She wants to take Mammy’s place.’

  ‘No one will ever take your mother’s place.’ Miriam had turned from the dishwasher and smiled across at her.

  ‘You have,’ said Joy and wanted to bite down hard on her tongue. Smashing glass was safer than being rude to her grandmother but she couldn’t stop. ‘You’re changing everything…like…like her bedroom and the living room. I hate those paintings you bought and those new armchairs are really tacky. Where have you put her photograph?’

  ‘It’s in the conservatory. I thought you’d like it to be in her favourite place.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong,’ Joy shouted.

  ‘Apologise to your grandmother this instant.’ Her father had been furious with her.

  ‘David, leave her alone. Joy and I can talk this out.’ Miriam seldom gets angry. It’s a negative emotion that interferes with her creativity. Hatred is another bad one. She burns scented candles and chants for ten minutes each morning so that her creative energy is channelled in the right direction. ‘Mainly into my bank accounts,’ she jokes but last night she had looked so hurt that Joy’s anger disappeared as suddenly as it erupted. Yet she had been unable to apologise. She had plumped up the cushions on the sofa where Clare had sat after dinner. The faint lingering perfume reminded her of roses when they have been disturbed by a breeze.

  Clare enters Reception and disappears from sight. A bus with Canadian tourists has just arrived. The visitors enter and fill the studio with voices. They’re anxious to see the glass blowers at work in the furnace room. Their accents remind her of Joey, although he sounds sort of Irish too. He always enjoyed showing off his skills as a glass blower to the tourists. Joy cannot believe how much she misses him. The longing to see him again shames her. Impossible to imagine Leanne or Lisa having the same tremblingly awful thoughts about their half-brother.

  Clare Frazier can tag along with the Canadians. No way is Joy going to give her a private tour.

  She smiles at Joy and says, ‘That sounds perfect.’

  Today she is dressed in sandals and a dress with triangles of material that sway when she moves. A light cardigan is slung over her shoulders, the sleeves tied under her neck. In the showroom she touches a seahorse mobile and sets it chiming. She walks to the window and stares into the car park. She must be thinking about her dead baby. Joy had no idea why she finds her so frightening. She’s wearing the same perfume today. Joy can smell it, even though Clare is standing on the other side of the showroom. It’s been in her nostrils since last night, which is such a crazy thought she can hardly concentrate when one of the tourists asks her about the legend of the blind stallion and Maura Rua.

  Clare Frazier looks around as Joy holds the stallion towards the lig
ht. Then she turns to face the window again, but Joy knows she’s listening to every word. She hears her own voice rising. Suddenly it’s like being on stage, singing her heart out so that her mother will praise her afterwards, single her out, instead of saying, as she did after the opening night of Annie, ’It was a fine performance. Everyone gave it their best shot.’

  When she finishes, Clare walks across the showroom and clasps both her hands. ‘That was wonderful, Joy,’ she says. ‘I could have listened to you all day.’

  ‘Time for lunch.’ Her grandmother enters the showroom. ‘Come with us, Joy. The next tour isn’t for an hour.’

  The Amber Café has wide windows overlooking the ocean. The tide is out and the rocks hunch like basking seals, wet and gleaming. Phyllis comes out from the kitchen to say hello. Her chef’s hat is tilted to one side and there’s a red stain on her white apron. Joy knows it’s pasta sauce but she can’t take her eyes from it.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Clare.’ Phyllis shakes the woman’s hand and asks where she’s staying.

  ‘The cottage with the gnomes,’ Clare replies and everyone nods, smiles, even Joy.

  ‘Lucy Baker’s place,’ says Phyllis. ‘She’s gone to the States for six months. How long are you staying, Clare?’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘And what’s your book about?’

  Phyllis is so nosy. Joy taps her foot against the floor. She’s finished her lasagne and is anxious to email Joey on Miriam’s computer.

  ‘Do you mind, Gran?’ she asks. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Miriam nods and listens to the woman’s reason for writing about tombs. It’s some kind of guidebook on the Burren. She’s come to the right place, Joy thinks, as she runs up the stairs. Her father could write that book blindfolded. The heat from the furnace room reaches out and grabs her. Joey used to strip off his T-shirt when he was working there. She remembers the intense concentration on his face as he rolled the blowpipe, knowing the exact instant to gather the glass and draw it from the furnace.

  The low growl from the furnace room dies away as she closes the office door. Quickly she clicks into her email and sits staring at the screen. If she had a pencil she’d chew the tip.

  Hi 1/2-Bro,

  Greetings from the Burren where even the rocks suffer from boredom. Same old, same old here, except that I’m working in Gran’s studio. I’ve just brought a group of Canadians on a tour and they were raving about your glass bowls. They loved the amber ones most.

  How are things at your end? Italy sounds cool. I saw your glass designs on Facebook. Deadly.

  Hot news from the home front. Dad has met someone. She is strangely beautiful and beautifully strange, at least that’s what he claims. Personally, I found her a bit pale and weird. Turns out she’s a ghostwriter so that’s not surprising. He can deny it all he likes, but I believe he has the hots for her. Watch this space!!!

  But on to more serious matters and the reason for this email. It’s time I cleared the air between us. I’m sorry, Joey, for being such a stupid ass. I suspect it’s something to do with the geographical distance between us. Leanne and Lisa had the opportunity to smell your dirty socks and spot your warts (metaphorically speaking, of course) but I, your other sister, half-sister, whatever, have only met you three times in my life. I’m also hormonally challenged at the moment and expect to develop acne fairly soon…I’m really sorry about that stupid, stupid email. Forgive me, forget it.

  I took your advice and spoke to Dylan. He’s brill and I’m now restored to my former sanity. I’m actually seeing Danny Breen. Don’t tell Dad. Bit of bad blood going on there. Danny fancies me, although he has been known to cast a sly glance at Lucinda who’s taken to wearing a string bikini. Not a good idea since she refuses to give up Big Macs.

  Bye for now, bro.

  Joy.

  When she returns to the table, Phyllis is back in the kitchen and her father has arrived. She doesn’t know anyone else who can look so uncomfortable in a suit. He had a meeting about the hostel with his bank manager in Ennis. He gives Joy a thumbs-up signal and leans back in his chair, tilts the front legs. He keeps stealing glances when he thinks Clare is not looking. When he sees Joy staring, his eyes flicker away. Guilty as sin. He’s going home to change, then he’ll bring Clare to see wedge tombs. It sounds as exciting as watching cows chewing the cud but Clare nods, like she’s really interested.

  They walk from the studio towards his jeep. Joy wonders what’s on her father’s mind. One thing she knows for sure, it’s got nothing to do with tombs.

  As soon as she finishes the next tour, she nips back into Miriam’s office. Joey has replied.

  Hi kid,

  Don’t give it another thought. Forgive, forget, absolutely. Glad Dylan’s working out. So Dad’s hit it off with someone. Mmmmm. Italy is still amazing but Gran knows every bit as much as Alanzo. I miss you all and am thinking of heading back to the Glasshouse when I finish here. Be warned. I’ll be keeping a close eye on Danny Breen. No monkey business now!

  Hang loose.

  Joey.

  It’s wrong to feel ticklish and warm when she thinks about him living with them again. But there’s nothing she can do about feelings. Like her feelings for Clare Frazier. Joy doesn’t trust her. It’s to do with her eyes. Apart from the colour, they’re like her own, bold and demanding. That’s what her mother used to say.

  ‘Stop staring at me with those bold eyes.’ Joy can hear her voice inside her head. ‘Those eyes…why are they always demanding something or other from me?’

  She never explained what the ‘something’ or the ‘other’ was and now it’s too late to ask.

  Chapter Sixty

  Carla

  They stopped off at the rented cottage first. David followed her into the small living room and waited while she changed her dress. She pulled on a pair of jeans, then, as the heat of the afternoon had flushed her cheeks, she changed into shorts. She was hungry for information about her child. If that meant climbing over rocks with David Dowling, she would willingly do so. She walked briskly along the corridor towards the living room. Outside the door, she hesitated, unable to tolerate the thought of his gaze glancing off her bare legs. She turned and ran back to the bedroom, flung the shorts across the bed and dragged her jeans on again.

  She stared into a full-length mirror and ran a comb through her hair. Her roots were beginning to show. She had hair dye with her. Tonight she would touch them up.

  ‘Because I’m worth it.’ She mouthed the words at her reflection then clasped her arms around her chest, allowed her terror to surface. Already she was sinking under the weight of all the information she had gleaned. These people were so open, so friendly. Especially Phyllis Lyons, who had managed in the short time Joy was absent to give a graphic description of the night she was born.

  ‘How did you manage to cut the umbilical cord?’ Carla had forced herself to ask the question, her skin prickling when Phyllis, without hesitation, answered, ‘I used scissors and thread. You clamp both ends with the thread.’

  David drove to Rockrose, where he also changed into jeans and a white T-shirt that emphasised his tanned arms. Halfway down the lane he stopped the jeep.

  ‘Would you like to see the site of the hostel?’ he asked.

  ‘Why not.’ She opened the passenger door and jumped down.

  He led her through a gap in the hedgerow into a shadowy clearing. The cottage walls were still standing but the roof was missing, the stony window ledges covered in lichen. She sat beside him on a low boundary wall leading from the side of the ruin and studied the plans he had taken from the jeep. His earlier meeting with his bank manager had been successful. Work would begin shortly.

  In the early evening they reached the Poulnabrone dolmen. She took notes and photographed the dramatic alignment of rocks. Translated from Irish, Poulnabrone meant ‘the hole of the sorrows’. Ancient bones had been found there, a newborn baby among the remains. She thought about the bones in the Angels’ p
lot. How desperately Robert had wanted them to belong to Isobel. A place of stone. Miranda May’s prediction seemed so clear now.

  ‘A friend of mine was buried in reeds.’ Carla had no idea why the young prostitute should come so forcefully to mind. ‘She lay there for four days before she was found. Her name was Anita.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He seemed taken aback by her sudden outburst. ‘It sounds horrendous.’

  ‘She was like a shadow passing over my life. But I was arrogant enough to believe I could save her from herself.’

  ‘Did she need saving?’

  ‘She was a teenage prostitute and a drug addict. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’d better tell me about her.’ He helped her up onto a plateau of rock and sat beside her.

  ‘She had a limp but she was born with two straight legs.’ She was forced to take a deep breath before she could continue. ‘Her father pushed her down the stairs when he was drunk. And he did worse…the bastard. Then she was killed because she owed money to a scumbag who, thankfully, is rotting in jail. Can you make sense of it? I sure as hell can’t. I met her when I was going through a difficult time. I’m not sure whether she saved my life or my sanity…but I could do nothing for her…nothing.’

  ‘You can’t be the judge of that,’ he replied. ‘None of us knows what impact we have on the lives of others.’

  ‘The proof was lying in the reeds. I didn’t even know her second name until the guard who interviewed me mentioned it. I wonder…’ she controlled a sudden urge to weep, ‘what it was all about…her short life. Was it to save me from myself? Or to give some punter brief satisfaction in the back of a car? I don’t know why I’m telling you about her…I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing…’ She tensed, thinking he might touch her hand, as he did yesterday when they were dining in his kitchen but he sat with one foot resting on the rock, his arms wrapped around his knee.