by Laura Elliot
‘What do you think of my son’s work?’ David Dowling had approached quietly and now stood beside her.
He was dressed once again in a suit, formally polite, except for his eyes, raking her.
‘This is an exquisite piece of work,’ she replied. ‘You must be very proud of him.’
‘It’s receiving a lot of attention. We’ve very happy for him.’ Their shoulders touched when he stepped closer to her. ‘I’m glad you came, Clare.’
She nodded, laughed nervously. ‘I had an hour to spare and thought it would be nice to say hello to Miriam.’
‘She’s around somewhere with Joy.’ He waved his hand vaguely at the crowd. ‘That creep Baker is interviewing Joey.’
‘The Week on the Street is prime publicity.’
‘I agree.’ He shrugged, dismissively. ‘But Baker’s still a creep.’
‘He’s not one of my favourite presenters either,’ she agreed. ‘How is Joy?’ Funny to mention her name and feel nothing except polite interest.
‘Just out of bed. She’s had bronchitis.’
‘That’s a tough one. Has she fully recovered?’
‘Not quite. But nothing would keep her away. She has a severe case of hero worship of Joey. Is your fiancé, or should I say your husband, with you?’
‘My fiancé. And no. He’s launching a book tonight. It’s quite a celebrity event.’
‘Is that the book you told us about? Rocking your way from the bedroom to obscurity.’
‘That’s the one.’ Carla laughed and leaned forward to look closer at the swan maiden. Why did legendary women emerge from their watery kingdoms, she wondered, only to retreat back again, heartbroken and betrayed?
An elderly woman with a young man in tow elbowed her way in front of them. Carla did not need an introduction; the young man’s resemblance to David was immediately apparent. As the woman began speaking in a loud, authoritative voice about his design he looked sheepishly at David, who shrugged sympathetically and steered Carla away from the crowd.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said when they reached a quiet corner of the gallery. ‘I wanted to contact you and apologise for my clumsy behaviour—’
‘It’s okay, David—’
‘No, it’s not okay…’ He stopped as the noise surrounding them increased. A government minister, surrounded by his officials, moved past and stopped a short distance from them. Josh Baker shook the minister’s hand and they chatted casually to each other while the television crew set up the lighting and camera.
‘Would you mind stepping out of the picture?’ A young woman with titian hair and an angel tattooed on her neck gestured to Carla and David. ‘We’re about to interview the minister.’
Josh glanced indifferently in their direction then stepped into the space they had occupied. The minister assumed a dignified stance as he faced into the camera and his officials gathered supportively around him.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ David said. ‘Have a drink somewhere?’
Rain was falling when they left the gallery. He took her arm as they crossed the street and entered a small pub. When they were seated he lifted her left hand and held it lightly.
‘Quite a sparkler.’ He stared at her engagement ring. ‘When are you getting married?’
‘We haven’t settled on a date yet.’
‘I hope you’ll be happy, Clare.’
My name is not Clare, she wanted to shout, and you are disturbing my heart. You are dangerous. I came to you in hatred yet when you kissed me it seemed as if I’d known the taste of you forever.
As if attuned to her thoughts, he said, ‘I’d no right to kiss you. I’m not normally so impulsive but you were going away and I didn’t know what to do.’
‘We should forget that moment.’
‘I can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘All I knew was that I’d been waiting all my life for you to step into it. I couldn’t get you out of my head. I was going to follow you to Dublin—’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No, I didn’t. Joy told me she’d seen you in the Stork Club and well…there’s only one reason why women shop there. I thought you were—’
‘I’m not pregnant, David. Nor was I then. I was buying a present for my sister-in-law’s new baby. But even if you had contacted me, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Frank and I became engaged shortly after I returned from Clare.’
She had called into the Stork Club on an impulse. Raine’s baby son gave Carla an excuse to browse among the rails of maternity and baby clothes. She had casually mentioned Susanne Dowling’s name to the owner. Dee Ambrose was talkative and, after some prompting from Carla, she had started reminiscing about the amount of time Susanne had spent in her boutique when she was expecting Joy. As if Joy was aware she was being discussed, she had appeared in view then headed off with a young man, who, Carla had decided after summing up his flashy car, could only be Danny Breen. The sight of Joy going off with him had alerted such a strong maternal instinct in her that she had been unable to resist ringing David. The row that followed was now history, as was the maternal anxiety that had raged through her at the time.
David was still holding her hand. She should pull away and bring the conversation to a close, return to her apartment and gather its security like a protective cloak around her. When she made no effort to do so, his grip strengthened.
‘Logic does not even enter into this,’ he said. ‘Nor does honour. I sensed something between us from the first time we met.’
‘David, don’t—’
‘Let me say this…please,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you before it’s too late.’
‘It is too late.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think?’
‘I fell in love once,’ she replied. ‘Love at first sight. It didn’t work.’
‘So you believe it’s possible, love at first sight?’
‘Maybe. When you’re young and foolish. I’ve been through too much to believe it can happen again.’
‘But it has,’ he said. ‘And I can’t imagine a future without you.’
‘You know nothing about me—’
‘What is there to know?’
‘That I intend getting married to Frank. I wish it was different, David.’
‘You’re getting married to a man you think you love?’
‘Yes.’
The lounge girl placed two drinks on the table. He drew his wallet from his pocket and handed her a twenty euro note. He lifted his glass then placed it back untouched on the table. ‘If only I’d met you sooner…all those years wasted. Like you, I thought I was in love. But you don’t think you’re in love. You know you’re in love because it hits you like an express train and you realise that nothing will ever be the same again.’
‘I hope you meet someone, David. You deserve to have a happy life.’
‘As you do, Clare.’ His earlier urgency had been replaced by subdued politeness. He lifted his glass again and clinked it off hers. ‘Here’s to happiness.’
His mobile phone rang, startling them both. He checked the name and spoke to the person at the other end.
‘Excuse me.’ He turned apologetically to her. ‘I have to take this outside. The connection is bad in here.’ He stood up and walked towards the exit.
The lounge girl returned with his change. Carla accepted a ten euro note and some coins. His wallet had a seasoned look, well travelled leather. How many times in strange places had he taken it out and stared at the inserted photographs? She placed the note into the flap. The photograph of his daughter and son was similar to the one Dylan had taken. Seeing it again, she was reminded of the passion and fury that had driven her to Maoltrán. The second photograph, she figured, had to be his wife. The woman had short blonde hair and a heart-shaped face with wide-set blue eyes. The kitchen dresser was visible behind her and she was laughing, her hand raised in a startled gesture, as if warding off the photograp
her. Her other arm held a small bundle against her shoulder.
Pain shot through Carla’s forehead, sharp as ice against her teeth.
She was still holding his wallet when he returned. ‘Your wife?’ she said, pointing to the photograph.
He nodded and accepted the wallet from her. ‘I took that a long time ago,’ he said. ‘It was our happiest time.’
‘I know her face,’ said Carla. ‘What was her maiden name?’
She knew the answer but she needed to hear it from his lips.
‘Sheehan. She was originally from Dublin.’
Carla picked up her handbag and clutched it under her arm. David Dowling had sensed something between them. It had been an earthquake shuddering deep within her and now it had cracked wide open.
‘I have to go now.’
‘But your drink.’
‘I’ve something to do. It can’t wait any longer. Goodbye.’
‘I’ll walk you to your car.’ He shoved the wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket and attempted to rise.
‘No!’ She would collapse if he moved any closer…or smash a glass and then…and then…she spun around and walked rapidly away from him. Outside the pub she ran towards the car park, expecting at any moment to feel his hand on her arm, holding her back, pleading with her to think…think…The street lights danced in dizzying circles as she drove from the city centre back to her apartment block. But her apartment was no longer a refuge. Its walls would be unable to contain her anger.
She parked by the canal and walked along the bank. A swan emerged and glided silently in a circle before disappearing again. No ghostly transformation would be played out among the reeds tonight. The swan maiden was trapped in glass, forged from the heat of a furnace. Solid mass until a crack or splinter shattered the illusion.
Edward Carter…Sue Sheehan…silent, the two of them, silent as the grave. This time Carla would not be deceived by fake scans and the gold circle binding Joy Dowling to her father. She would return to Maoltrán and reclaim her stolen child.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Joy
The cars arrive just before Joy leaves for school. A white police car with yellow markings, followed by a grey Toyota Auris. At first, glancing out her bedroom window and noticing them, Joy assumes the policeman who emerges, Eoin Morris, her father’s friend, is calling about the Ramblers. He’s the secretary of the club and often drops in on his way home from work. But that’s usually in the evening. Joy can’t remember the name of the second guard who joins him…it’s something Irish…Sinéad or Sorcha or Siobhan – yes, Siobhan Comerford, whose sister is in the same school year as Joy.
The doors of the grey car also open. A woman steps out from the driver’s side. She’s dressed in a navy suit and carries a briefcase, which she rests on the bonnet of her car. A man emerges from the passenger side and hurriedly buttons his jacket when the wind flaps it open. The woman removes documents from the briefcase while she talks to Eoin.
Joy’s father comes into view from the side of the house and hurries across the grass towards them. His mood since they came home from the exhibition yesterday has been dire. Today he intends working on the cottages. His jeans are tucked into his wellingtons and he’s wearing the chunky fleece jacket Joy bought him for Christmas. His head jerks back when Eoin holds up his hand like he’s stopping traffic and says something to him. The woman glances up and notices Joy at the window. The winter sun shines with a harsh, metallic glare. Her tinted glasses flash across the space separating them. Together with the man, she moves past the guards and heads towards the doorway.
Joy hears voices downstairs, Miriam’s raised in protest. She opens her bedroom door as Miriam reaches the landing. Her grandmother’s face is waxy, her hands trembling. Beyond her shoulder, Joy can see the man and woman standing in the hall.
‘Joy, they want to talk to you.’ Miriam sounds hoarse, her breath shallow.
‘What do they want?’
‘I don’t know, darling. It’s some dreadful misunderstanding but you’d better do as they say.’ She takes Joy’s hand and leads her to the top of the stairs.
‘Are you Joy Dowling?’ the woman asks when Joy reaches the hall.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks. ‘What’s happening to my father?’
‘Are you Joy Dowling?’ The woman repeats the question in the same polite tone.
‘Yes. Of course I am. What’s wrong?’
‘My name is Althea Egan,’ the woman replies. ‘I’m a social worker and this is my colleague, Hugh Colley. Please come with us, Joy. Everything will be explained to you shortly.’
‘Explained? What will be explained? I’ve done nothing wrong…Gran, tell them to get out of our house.’
The woman keeps talking about Joy’s welfare and how her safety is the most important thing to be considered. Joy runs past her and out the front door towards her father. He’s handcuffed to Eoin who, stiff and red-faced with embarrassment, is also talking about her welfare. He keeps going on about some Child Care Act and how Joy must be placed under the protection of the state.
‘What are you talking about? What Child Care Act—’ her father demands.
‘The 1991 Child Care Act.’ Eoin sounds as if he’s reciting by rote but when her father tries to embrace her with his free arm, the policewoman barks an order that freezes him to the spot.
‘Tell me what’s wrong…what have you done?’ she cries. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happening. Please tell me.’
When her father reaches out to answer, his voice cracks. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday and the rasping noise he makes when he rubs his hand against his chin reminds her of the night her mother died. That same nervous gesture, repeated again and again, as if he must touch something rough in order to focus. Nothing can be as awful as that time, she thinks. Miriam, reaching her, holds her hand so tightly that the ring she wears, the one with her birthstone – which she has promised to leave to Joy when she ‘pops her clogs’ – cuts into Joy’s fingers.
Joy turns to Eoin. He used to crawl like a bear along the floor and let her ride on his back when she was small; now he stands still as a statue, no expression on his face, apart from his cheeks flaming, when he says, ‘Joy, this is for your own good. Please go with the social workers. They’ll take good care of you until all this is sorted out.’
‘Fuck off!’ Joy jerks away when the woman attempts to hold her arm. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’
Her father speaks directly to Miriam. ‘Contact my solicitor, Maurice Doyle, immediately,’ he says. ‘There’s been an appalling mistake and I want him to come to the Garda station immediately.’
‘We have to go, David.’ Eoin still sounds like a friend but Joy knows that their friendship is dead forever. ‘Like you say, it’s a cock-up but I’m just following orders.’
Joy moves back towards the house. ‘But I don’t have to go—’
‘Go with them, please,’ says her father. ‘Miriam will stay with you.’
‘No,’ says the social worker. ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s not allowed.’
Her father stumbles when Eoin moves forward, then falls into step beside him. The Garda car moves off. He is visible in the back seat, his face straining towards her until the car disappears between the hedgerows.
‘We must leave now, Joy.’ The man speaks for the first time. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to move so fast but your welfare is our responsibility now.’
If she hears one more word about her welfare she’ll scream.
‘I demand to know where you are taking my granddaughter.’ Miriam sounds like herself again, calm and even more authoritative than the social worker. ‘I’m warning you now. Heads will roll for this.’
‘Visiting hours will be arranged as soon as possible,’ says the woman. ‘But, as of now, you are obstructing us in the discharge of our duty.’
It’s too ludicrous for words but it is those commanding words that direct Joy into the car and away from Rockros
e. The road stretches through Maoltrán and weaves through the Burren, past the broad Atlantic rollers and the kittiwakes swirling against the tide, onwards towards the signposts pointing to Dublin.
Joey is in Dublin. He stayed on after the exhibition to buy materials and do some more interviews. When her mobile rings she knows, without looking at the screen, that it’s him.
‘I’ve just been talking to Gran,’ he says. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ she sobs, and she arches her shoulder away from the woman. ‘They just burst into my house and took me away…and Dad’s been arrested.’
‘I know. Can I speak to someone?’
‘Yes.’
She holds her phone towards the woman. ‘My brother wants to talk to you.’
Joy can hear the sound of Joey’s voice but not what he’s saying to the woman.
The social worker listens impassively and says, ‘I’m not free to disclose that information.’
Joy can tell that Joey is becoming increasingly upset but the woman’s expression doesn’t change.
‘Joy is under our care and will receive a full explanation as soon as we reach Dublin.’ She nods at something Joey shouts then says, ‘I’m sorry you think I sound arrogant but I’m not prepared to have this discussion with you over the phone. Of course Joy is free to ring you at any time. I’ll pass you back to her now.’ She smiles at Joy and hands over the phone.
How dare she smile? Joy wants to hit her, kick the seats, headbutt the man, leap from the speeding car. Her eyes are swimming in red.
‘Ring me when you reach Dublin,’ says Joey. ‘It’ll be sorted by then. I’ll come straight away and take you home.’
