Stolen Child

by Laura Elliot

  She would call in to Rockrose, pick up her phone and be on her way. A flying visit. With any luck Joy would not be there. Carla carried her suitcase to the car and locked the cottage, slipped the key under the nearest gnome. She reversed down the garden path, almost knocking over the gnomes nearest the edge. Outside the gate she indicated left and was drawing away from the pavement when she noticed the jeep approaching from behind. She switched off the ignition and lowered the window.

  ‘Are you leaving us already?’ David lifted his eyebrows quizzically when he saw her case in the back seat.

  ‘Yes. I’ve enough research done to complete my book.’

  ‘You left us so suddenly last night. Did something we do upset you?’

  ‘You were very hospitable. I’m sorry if I appeared rude.’ She fell silent, unable to think of a rational explanation for her sudden departure. She no longer needed to hate him but it was impossible to shake off the reason she had come to Maoltrán. ‘I found it difficult looking at the album. Those scans…they reminded me of another time.’

  ‘I understand.’ His expression was sombre as he leaned in the window and handed her the mobile. ‘Your fiancé was looking for you. He rang twice last night. He sounded suspicious when he heard my voice. I hope I reassured him.’

  ‘Thank you. He’s not my fiancé…not yet. I hope the hostel works out for you, David.’

  He had done nothing to harm her. Nor had his wife or their daughter. They were innocent projections of her own obsession.

  ‘Hopefully, it will.’ He shook her hand. ‘You’ll have to come and see it when it’s finished.’

  ‘I’ll certainly call in if I’m passing this way but—’ She was still holding his hand.

  ‘I’m not being polite, Clare,’ he interrupted her quietly. ‘I’d like you to pass this way again…and soon.’ He too seemed equally incapable of releasing his grip.

  ‘I’m sorry, David. I don’t think that’s a sensible idea,’ she said.

  ‘No, it probably isn’t.’ He was the first to draw away. ‘Good luck with your life, Clare.’

  ‘And you with yours, David.’

  He gave her a half-salute and walked towards his jeep.

  The shock of her discovery still trembled through her but with it had come another emotion, one she had not allowed herself to appreciate until this instant. Relief. A tiny sprig that freed her from the responsibility of breaking up his family. It had the power to release her from an endless expectation, to allow her hopes to fade. Finally, she could be at peace with those tiny bones resting in the Angels’ plot.

  David Dowling stopped and came back to her car. He leaned in the open window. Before she could move, he clasped her face between his hands and kissed her.

  ‘You’ve wrenched my heart, Clare,’ he said. ‘I wish I could tell you how I feel…this man who rang…you said he’s not yet your fiancé. Am I to assume he soon will be?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, David. I’m sorry.’

  Her antennae would have been alert on any other occasion. She would have sensed his desire, been aware that there were undercurrents playing between them. But those undercurrents had been flowing in different directions. Now, freed from the fury and the longing that had driven her to Maoltrán, she could allow herself to see what had been obvious all along.

  This time, when he walked away, he did not turn around.

  She sat in her car until the sound of his jeep faded. No other sound distracted her except the thud of her heart. She drove without stopping until she reached the coast. The sand dragged against her footsteps. The waves cast spume in the air, sprayed her cheeks with salt. She cried then, hunched into a sand dune, until she no longer believed it was possible to shed another tear. But, somehow the tears kept flowing. She drove away, leaving nothing behind but the husk of longing.

  On her return to Dublin she rang Frank and told him she had cut short her stay. He arrived shortly afterwards with wine and a takeaway. After they had eaten, she lay against him, wanting him with an urgency she had never before experienced in his arms. He, responding, slid hard and smoothly into her. Her body pulsed with a needling ache that sweetly turned to pleasure as her mind reached out and reclaimed that moment in the car. The touch of lips so fleeting, so electrifying. Madness.

  When Frank was sleeping, she pressed her head deep into the pillow and forced herself to count sheep. But there was no momentum to their jumping. They crashed and scrambled and flipped into impossible huddles. Suddenly, she recalled a letter from the past. Frank flung his arm, heavy with sleep, around her. She slipped out from under its weight and made her way to her office. In Maoltrán, she had been so obsessed with Joy that she had not allowed a flickering memory to surface. Too much effort needed to concentrate. But now it flickered again. She remembered the address. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence. In her filing cabinet she took out the mail she had received after Isobel’s disappearance. Yellowed with age and ridden with unrealised hopes, she had not looked at these letters since the ending of the campaign. She separated those with a Clare postmark and, after a short search, found the one with his signature. She sat with it in her hands until she grew cold and shivery. She must have responded to him. What had she written? Did he still have it? Why should he? She had to let go. She searched for another letter. A place of stone…Miranda May. A fake name, as fake as the information she supplied. Carla placed his letters, along with Miranda’s crazy ramblings, into the shredder. Before switching it on, she added the photograph of Joy Dowling, and watched them flitter into the past.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  25 July 2008 Dear Dylan,

  You were right about circumstantial evidence but wrong about Susanne Dowling. I saw the scans taken in St Anne’s Clinic during her pregnancy. I understand you were trying to help and that, somehow, you believe you owe me a debt of gratitude. Nothing could be further from the truth. You have achieved much since the first time we met. I may have been a catalyst but what you have achieved is due to your own determination.

  Since I returned home, I’ve had time to reflect. Now that I know Joy is not my daughter, I feel a sense of relief, especially after seeing her with her father and grandmother. They adore her and she adores them. They’re a close-knit family and it would be impossible for me to sunder it.

  In a peculiar way, I’m glad this happened. I’ve been sleepwalking through my life, unable to accept my own reality. Well, even Rip Van Winkle woke up eventually. Now it’s time to rub the sand from my eyes. I want to move on with my life and accept that the search for my daughter is at an end. Soon I’ll be married to a thoughtful and loving man. So please don’t worry about me. My future is secure.

  Joy Dowling is suffering deeply over the death of her mother. I recognise the symptoms of bereavement and hope you will be able to help her.

  Yours sincerely,

  Carla Kelly.

  29 July 2008

  Dear Carla,

  I’m sorry. I know that’s an inadequate apology but no words can convey my feelings of regret. I acted in what I believed were your best interests but, in doing so, I’ve subjected you to an incredibly traumatic experience. I hope you can forgive me.

  If there is a sliver of a silver lining in this whole sorry business, it is the fact that you are moving on with your life. I wish you every happiness in your marriage.

  I’m sorry…

  Dylan.

  5 January 2009

  Dear Clare,

  A very happy new year to you. The letting agent for the cottage you rented kindly passed on your address so that I could contact you. I’ll be in Dublin on the 14th January, taking part in a glass designers’ exhibition in the Three Lanterns Galley in Dublin with my grandson Joey. He’s been working closely with me since he came back to us from Italy and will be displaying his latest piece, The Swan Maiden of Inchiquin Lake.

  We had a lovely day with you by that lake and I thought it would be nice to see you again. If you’re free, why not drop by and have
a glass of wine with us? David tells me you’re soon to be married, indeed, may already be married by now. Obviously, my invitation also includes your partner.

  How is your book progressing? I’m sorry you had to leave Maoltrán so suddenly. I was afraid we’d offended you but, afterwards, David told us you were upset by the album. I’m so sorry, my dear. You told us about the loss of your baby and I can quite understand how those scans would trigger your own memories. I’d no idea Susanne had placed them in the album but Joy’s pregnancy was an anxious time for her.

  We’re all keeping well and busy. Work on the hostel was delayed for a few months over some planning objection but that’s been sorted now and David is moving things along as fast as possible. He hopes it will be up and running by the summer and has already had lots of enquiries. It should do very well, particularly as plans for a hotel in Maoltrán have fallen through.

  Joy is studying hard, although she’s down with a dose at the moment. Lots of snuffles and sneezes. It’s that time of the year again. Thankfully there’s been no repeat of her sillier behaviour earlier in the summer and Danny Breen has been keeping well out of David’s way.

  My grandson is proving to be a talented glass designer. I’m so proud of him. I hope you have an opportunity to see what he has achieved.

  Warmest regards

  Miriam Dowling.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Joy

  For over an hour Joy has been waiting to see Dr Williamson in a waiting room filled with sneezing, coughing, wheezing, spluttering patients. She’s coughing louder than any of them. Her throat aches and her nose, according to her father who is sitting beside her, could steer ships away from rocks in a fog. When her name is finally called, her legs ache as she drags herself into the surgery.

  She says ‘ahh’ and opens her mouth so that Dr Williamson can shine a torch down her throat. She shudders when she feels the stereoscope jabbing her back.

  ‘Bronchitis,’ declares Dr Williamson. ‘It’s bed, I’m afraid, Joy, and lots of tender loving care. How are you otherwise?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’ve been through a very tough time. It’s okay not to feel fine. I’m sure you must miss your mother very much.’ Dr Williamson sits back in her swivel chair and folds her arms. She’s got an army of patients waiting outside but she doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to call them into her surgery.

  Joy nods, too miserable to pretend otherwise. ‘Sometimes I wake up and think she’s still alive. She should be, shouldn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She should have gone to you and got better. I begged her to do so when I saw the bleeding the first time.’

  ‘The first time?’

  ‘One morning. The blood was all over the bed. I can’t stop thinking about it. Dylan says I’m suffering from unresolved grief.’

  ‘Dylan Rae?’

  ‘Yeah. I went to see him after I came back from Arizona. Sometimes…’ She begins to cough, that awful tickle in her throat acting up again. Dr Williamson gives her a glass of water and a throat lozenge. ‘I get so furious with her at times. She must have known it was serious but she kept talking about the menopause and how it was perfectly normal…but it wasn’t, was it?’

  ‘She did come and see me, Joy. And she was attending her gynaecologist in Dublin.’

  ‘What gynaecologist?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. Did she ever mention him to you?’

  Joy shrugged. ‘Not that I can remember. He didn’t help her very much, did he?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ Dr Williamson frowns and writes a prescription for antibiotics and a tonic. ‘Are you still seeing Dylan?’ She hands the prescription sheet to Joy.

  ‘No. He figured I needed a proper bereavement counsellor. He gave me a name, but what’s the use in talking? Mum’s still going to be dead, not matter how much I talk. And I’m still going to be furious with her. She wouldn’t let me tell Dad…I shouldn’t have listened to her, I know that now. Fat lot of good that is…me knowing.’

  ‘That kind of anger is not good for you.’ Dr Williamson stands up and walks to the surgery door with her. ‘Take Dylan’s advice and make an appointment with that counsellor. But in the meantime, go straight home to bed and stay there for the rest of the week. I’d like a quick word with your father. Will you ask him to come into the surgery for a moment?’

  Her father doesn’t speak until they arrive home. Joy falls into the sofa and huddles into the warmth of the kitchen. He makes tea and toast and places a tray beside her.

  ‘I don’t feel hungry,’ she says.

  ‘Try and eat something.’

  ‘I can’t…what did Dr Williamson say?’

  ‘She wanted to know the name of Susanne’s gynaecologist in Dublin.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I never knew she had one…other than Professor Langley in St Anne’s. She should have told me…’ He presses his lips tightly together and sinks down beside her on the sofa.

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘She told me to talk to you about Susanne’s death.’

  ‘Did she tell you it’s all my fault?’

  ‘Of course not. Why on earth should she say such a thing?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth.’ The tickle gathers at the back of her throat. She is going to cough again. Her eyes water from the effort of holding it back but it’s impossible. Her breath splutters free as she bends over her knees, her chest heaving. Her father runs cold water and soaks a flannel, places it across her forehead. When she is able to speak she tells him about that morning and the expression on her mother’s face when she turned and saw Joy standing at the door. That lost, hopeless expression that has been burning a hole in Joy’s head ever since. If she starts crying she won’t be able to stop. Never ever.

  ‘All my fault,’ she sobs. ‘She said I mustn’t tell you…it was women’s stuff and you’d hate to know…it’s all my fault…all my fault.’

  ‘No, Joy. It isn’t your fault. Have you been carrying those thoughts around in your head since she died? You silly, silly girl. Come here to me…come here…’

  Then she is in his arms, crying against his rough tweed jacket. It doesn’t matter if she can’t stop because no matter what awful things happen he will always be there to look after her.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Statement of Dr Una Williamson.

  Address: Wheat Acres, Maoltrán, Co. Clare.

  Occupation: Medical Doctor.

  Taken on Monday 14 January 2009 at Maoltrán Garda Station by Garda Eoin Morris. I hereby declare that this statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and that I make it knowing that if it is tendered in evidence I will be liable to prosecution if I state in it anything that I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

  My name is Dr Una Williamson and I have been in general practice in the town of Maoltrán for twenty years. During that time, I saw Susanne Dowling professionally on only two occasions. On one occasion she discussed symptoms related to anxiety. On the second occasion I had reason to be concerned about dysfunctional uterine bleeding which began to occur prior to the onset of her menopause. I found Susanne Dowling to be evasive about her gynaecological records. She was insistent that she had had regular smear tests carried out by her gynaecologist, who was based in Dublin. As she was originally from Dublin, I had no reason to doubt her word but I did find it strange that she never revealed his or her name. I knew her personally and she had been my bridge partner for a number of years. Shortly after her last appointment in my clinic she explained to me that our partnership was over as she was becoming increasingly involved in selling property in Spain. Again, my suspicions were not aroused. I was, however, shocked by her sudden death. If she had consulted her gynaecologist, which she claimed to have done, then her symptoms should have been immediately apparent. I contacted the Medical Council with my concerns but they failed to establish a link between her and any of the Dublin-based gynaecologists.
I could only assume that she had lied to me for reasons that would always remain a mystery. I had occasion to speak to a counsellor, Mr Dylan Rae, who admitted that he had concerns about the identity of Susanne Dowling’s daughter, Joy. He had reason to believe Susanne Dowling was not her natural mother. Although I found his suspicions almost impossible to believe, I decided to check the blood records of Susanne Dowling, her husband, Mr David Dowling, and Joy Dowling. My own suspicions were immediately aroused when I realised that both Susanne and David Dowling were rhesus positive while their daughter, Joy Dowling, was rhesus negative, thereby making it impossible for them to have conceived her. However, it was possible that David Dowling was not Joy’s father. Susanne Dowling may have conceived her child by another man. But after a further conversation with Mr Dylan Rae, I reached the conclusion that Susanne Dowling did not give birth to the child she claimed was her daughter. I have read over this statement and it is correct. I have been invited to make any amendments or changes to it and do not wish to do so.

  Signed: Una Williamson

  Witness: Eoin Morris, Garda

  Witness: Siobhan Comerford, Garda

  Date: 14 January 2009

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Carla

  The speeches were over and the exhibition launched by the time Carla arrived at the Three Lanterns Gallery. She pushed her way through the crowd but was unable to see the Dowlings anywhere. In the centre of the gallery, the level of noise dropped to a murmur while Josh Baker interviewed one of the designers. Carla stopped abruptly when she saw him, then she merged back into the crowd. She heard the seahorses before they came into view, a kaleidoscope of flashing jewelled colours swaying gently above the laughter and conversation. Joey’s design revolved slowly on a display stand. The plinth formed a glinting, rippling pool from which the swan maiden arose, translucent, ephemeral, her glossy hair drenched from the lake, pearls of moisture on her arms. She reached upwards, each delicate fold of her cloak and hood perfectly chiselled.