Folly's Child

by Janet Tanner

  ‘Tell me about her, per favore,’ Harriet said.

  ‘Hmm?’ The old nun cocked her head questioningly and Sister Anne repeated more loudly: ‘Can you tell her?’

  ‘Inglese? My English is not good now. I am too old …’

  ‘Your English is as good as it has ever been. But speak in Italian if you prefer. I will translate’, Sister Anne offered, adding quietly to Harriet: ‘It will be easier for her if she doesn’t have to think of the words.’

  ‘When did you first meet my mother?’ Harriet asked when Sister Anne had settled the old nun in her chair.

  ‘Quando? Oh, I don’t remember the year but it was in the summer – June? July? I forget which. Some local fishermen brought her to us. She was in a bad way. Ah, what she had been through, the poor child! She was soaked through, hungry, thirsty, burned by the sun and the wind. We did what we could for her, made her comfortable and nursed her body back to health. But she would not speak – could not, or would not, tell us who she was. I do not think she wanted us to know. Sometimes when she was alone I could hear her talking, just as if she was having a conversation with someone she could hear and we could not, but she would not answer our questions. We thought it was best not to press her, for such questions only seemed to cause her distress and she was oh, so sick in her mind. Sometimes she tried to harm herself. We had to watch her night and day. I worried about her very much and prayed for her every night. Then one day it seemed my prayer had been answered. She seemed to come out of her dream world. ‘‘Why doesn’t Hugo come to see me?’’ she said, as clear as anything. ‘‘Who is Hugo?’’ I asked her. ‘‘ He is my husband, of course. Don’t you know that?’’ ‘‘ I don’t know anything’’, I said, ‘‘unless you tell me.’’ And she gave me an address in New York. I asked the Reverend Mother what I should do and she gave me permission to write to this Hugo, even though Paula seemed to have slipped back into that strange world she inhabited which none of us could see. I hoped when she saw her husband it would help her, though looking back now I don’t think it would have made any difference. Anyway, he did not come. Instead a lady came – a very beautiful lady. She cried when she saw Paula. She said she was her sister. Paula just sat and stared. She wouldn’t even speak to her. I asked the lady – what should be done? She said we should keep Paula here with us, where she was safe. She would send us money. This she did – every month, faithfully, until Paula died. Then she sent a generous donation to help us with our work. Since then we have heard nothing from her. That is all I can tell you.’

  Harriet had sat motionless, her hands knotted in her lap, listening whilst Sister Anne translated. So, it was just as Sally had said. But still there were so many questions unanswered.

  ‘How did she die?’ she asked,

  ‘It was pneumonia – though in her state it could have been anything. She wandered off one day, the wind was blowing as it does here so often, and it was cold and raining. By the time we found her she was soaked to the skin and chilled. She died a week later and we counted her lucky for at least her immortal soul had been saved.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Harriet’s mouth was dry.

  ‘She had tried so many times to harm herself, poor lamb. If she had succeeded … ah, it is a mortal sin to take one’s own life. Yes, I think the Good Lord in his mercy sent her out that day into the rain. He saw she had suffered enough and he put an end to her misery.’

  There was an almost plaintive note to her voice as she said it, as if she too was waiting for the Good Lord to beckon her.

  ‘Is that all?’ Sister Anne asked briskly. ‘There is nothing else you can tell Harriet?’

  The old woman shook her head, her wizened face wistful. ‘ Well, well,’ she said softly. ‘I never thought I’d live to see it. Dear Paula’s little baby – here.’

  ‘Not such a baby,’ Sister Anne said robustly. ‘Paula’s daughter was four years old when her mother disappeared.’

  ‘Four years old?’ The old woman looked puzzled, her mouth working as her mind clicked over almost visibly. ‘Then you’re not …?’

  ‘Not who?’ Sister Anne pressed her.

  ‘The baby. Our little baby.’

  She is rambling, Harriet thought, wandering in a world of her own. But Sister Anne persisted genially: ‘What baby? What are you talking about, Maria?’

  ‘The baby!’ Maria Theresa insisted querulously. ‘The baby who was born here, in our hospital. Didn’t I say? When Paula came to us she was with child. We didn’t know at first – it was early days. But when her belly began to swell we knew all right. And she knew, I’m sure she did, though she pretended not to. She seemed to hate it. Whenever she saw herself in a mirror it made her worse. She would scream and cry, trying to tear at her stomach. I was very frightened for her. I thought maybe when the poor wee bambino was born she might be better. But she wasn’t. She was never any better. Not for long.’

  Harriet’s nails were digging deep crescents in her palms and she could hear the blood thundering in her ears. It couldn’t be true! Yet why should this woman be mistaken? She had remembered everything else just as it had happened, as Sister Anne had said, probably more dearly than she remembered the events of just yesterday. But a baby …?

  ‘What happened to the baby?’ she asked. Her voice sounded high and tense to her own ears.

  ‘It was a little girl. That’s why I thought “But what became of her?”

  ‘Sally, Paula’s sister, took her away. She arranged for her to be adopted. We never saw her again …’

  ‘And didn’t Paula mind?’

  ‘Oh no. She would have nothing to do with the baby. I tried once to put her in her arms. She said: ‘‘Take it away. I hate it! I don’t want to see it – ever!’’ It was one of the times when she was quite lucid. Oh yes, she could make herself clear when she wanted to. ‘‘You mustn’t do this,’’ I said to her. ‘‘ Your baby needs you.’’ But: ‘‘No!’’ she said. ‘‘It’s not mine. I didn’t want it. He knew I didn’t want it and he made me. I hate him – and I hate the baby. Take it away or I’ll kill it.’’ So you see, there was nothing to be done.’

  ‘Did she say who ‘‘he’’ was?’

  ‘No – no names. I supposed it was Hugo, who never came. Perhaps it was because of him she was – as she was. If so, then I can never forgive him. Oh, I know I should be generous, and I should love all God’s creatures, no matter, what, but I am old and weak and there are some things I cannot forgive. That beautiful girl, turned to madness by some man …’

  ‘All right, Maria, don’t distress yourself.’ Sister Anne placed a comforting hand on the old woman’s skinny shoulder. ‘It was all a very long time ago.’

  ‘Was it? It seems like yesterday. The past is with me, you know. She is with me.’ She looked at Harriet. ‘I thought you were Paula, made whole and well. But you aren’t.’

  ‘No,’ Harriet said, ‘I’m not. But you are right – the past is still alive. Her baby is alive. Somewhere …’

  ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ The old woman’s face brightened. ‘God bless and keep her, the poor little mite.’

  ‘Do you want me to check our records to confirm all this?’ Sister Anne asked Harriet. ‘I don’t suppose we can tell you who adopted the baby, but there may be something.’

  ‘Would she have been adopted here, in Italy?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘No – no!’ Sister Maria Theresa interrupted sharply. ‘ The sister took her, I tell you. She said she was going to take her to England.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Harriet said. ‘ I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll pursue my own line of investigation now. But believe me, I am most grateful.’

  She crossed to the old nun, kissing her lightly on the wrinkled cheek. ‘And thank you especially Sister, for your kindness to my mother, and for loving her. I’m not sure anyone else did. But even when she was … as she was, you cared for her. God bless you.’

  ‘Ah, luie, he has,’ she said in Italian. ‘ More than you will ever know.�
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  The wind was blowing hard from the sea as Harriet emerged from the convent but she was scarcely aware of it. She had come to Italy to learn the truth and now she had it what was she going to do with it? For the moment Harriet did not know. Only one thing was at the forefront of her mind, beating a tattoo with the dull ache that had begun in her temples.

  Paula was indeed dead but somewhere in this wide world was a child she had given birth to in confusion, pain and madness.

  I have a sister, Harriet thought, and I never knew it.

  Even confused and shocked as she was the knowledge was like a shout of joy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The triplex on Central Park South appeared empty when Harriet let herself in. She dumped her bags in the entrance hall and headed for the kitchen.

  As she passed the den, however, a voice called: ‘Mum, is that you?’ The door was thrown open and Mark poked his head round. ‘Harriet! I thought you were in Italy?’

  ‘I was. Quite the jet-setter these days, aren’t I?’ she said lightly, but her voice was tired. The strain of the last days was really beginning to tell on her now. ‘ I’m dying for a cup of tea. Come and help me make one, Mark.’

  ‘You must be in a bad way!’ he teased, but he followed her anyway.

  The kitchen was deserted; it was Jane’s afternoon off. Mark perched on a stool, Harriet put on the kettle and sank onto the bench that ran the length of the huge refectory table.

  ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘Making steady progress, as far as I can make out. Sally is visiting him now. She’ll be with him all afternoon, I imagine.’

  ‘Oh yes – Sally’, Harriet said, the bitterness spilling out into her voice.

  Mark looked at her quizzically. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  Harriet shrugged, chewing on her thumbnail. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to talk about it yet.

  ‘Come on, Skeet, what’s Mum done to warrant a black look like that?’

  She nicked her eyes up, opened her mouth to tell him, then changed her mind. She loved Mark dearly, he was a friend and brother, but Sally was his mother. She was reluctant to make trouble between them.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asked instead.

  ‘Oh, I thought I’d give myself a few days off and stay around until we’re sure Hugo is going to be all right. Things are reasonably quiet on the business front, it’s a long time since I took a holiday, and Mum has been in such a state about everything that I felt I should be around to support her in case of emergency.’

  She nodded. It was typical of Mark. No one could call him a mother’s boy – he lived his own life too successfully for that – but he could be relied on to be there if he was needed.

  The kettle boiled and she made the tea – Earl Grey, just the way she liked it.

  ‘Do you want a cup?’ she asked Mark.

  ‘That scenty muck? No thanks. I’ll have a beer.’

  He took a can from the refrigerator, snapped it open and drank straight from the can. Sally would have a fit if she could see him, Harriet thought wryly.

  The tea was refreshing her – but not enough.

  ‘You look tired, Skeeter,’ Mark said.

  ‘I am. Very. Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘I guess I would. Oh, by the way, there was a call for you. A Tom O’Neill.’

  ‘Oh no! What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. It was you he wanted to speak to. I told him you were in Italy and he said he had phoned before and Jane had told him that but he had thought she must be mistaken. I said no, you were definitely in Italy, and after a sort of deathly silence he asked what you were doing there.’

  ‘None of his business.’ Not that that was true. It was too much his damned business!

  ‘What were you doing in Italy?’

  ‘None of your business either.’

  ‘Skeeter,’ Mark fixed her with a long hard look, ‘what the hell is the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. Something is. And it’s not just that you are worried about Hugo, either. You are on to something, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You know damned well you are. And whatever it is it’s worrying you. There’s more to this whole business than meets the eye, isn’t there?’

  What could she say? She was too tired to deny it and besides he would have to know sooner or later. She nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is it? Paula’s not still alive, is she? She hasn’t been in Australia with Greg Martin all this time, has she?’

  ‘No, she’s dead, I’m afraid. But she didn’t die in the explosion any more than he did. She died in a sort of asylum on the island of Savarelli.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She went mad, Mark. My mother died a madwoman.’ And suddenly it was all pouring out. Tears ran down her face as she told him. He put his arm around her and she let her head rest against his shoulder, her body shuddering with silent sobs. At last he held her away, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief and handing it to her.

  ‘Poor Paula. But how the hell did she come to be drifting in a dinghy?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I wouldn’t mind betting Greg Martin does. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it and I can only think he was behind it. I suppose she threatened all his carefully laid plans turning up when she did and he tried to get rid of her. Anyway, whatever happened it was enough to send her completely over the edge. She never recovered, either mentally or physically. And there’s something else, Mark.’ She blew her nose, wiped her eyes again and brushed her cheeks with her fingers. ‘When all this happened Mum was pregnant.’

  ‘With Greg Martin’s child?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The baby was born almost exactly nine months after the explosion. From what Sally told me Paula hadn’t seen Greg for some time until they left for Italy. He’d been out of town. But there’s every chance the baby is Dad’s. I don’t know how to tell you this, Mark, but something happened between her and Dad the night before she left. He raped her and I saw it. I saw it all.’

  She broke off. She was shivering again, reliving that night when she had stood and watched from the doorway of his bedroom, shaking with fear. She had thought then, because of the raised voices, that he was hurting her mother, and of course in a way he had been. But there had been more to it than that. As an adult she had realised the implications of what she had witnessed. But it had never occurred to her that she might have seen her sister conceived.

  ‘Oh Skeeter, For Christ’s sake …’ Mark was nonplussed now, totally lost for words and oddly embarrassed as if it had been him, not her, who had watched the forbidden through the eyes of a child.

  Her nose was running again though she was no longer crying. It was as if the tears had lost their way.

  ‘I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? It stayed with me for years, like a nightmare that wouldn’t go away. But I never knew …’ She broke off, crumpling his handkerchief fiercely between her fingers. ‘ I feel now as if I never want to see any of them again.’

  For a moment they sat in silence, awkward, not companionable. Then he said suddenly: ‘ What happened to the baby?’

  ‘She was adopted – in England, the nun, Sister Maria Theresa, said. Sally took her away and had her adopted. I don’t know what became of her but she’d be almost twenty-three now.’

  She glanced at Mark. He was motionless, his expression one of total blank shock.

  ‘Mark?’ she said.

  The emotions began to chase one another across his face, each more fleeting that the last. Every working of his mind was there in minute detail and yet she could not read them, could not understand.

  ‘Mark – what is it?’ she cried, frightened. ‘What have I said?’

  He looked at her unseeingly, looking away again. Then he buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Theresa,’ he said. It was little more than a sob.

  PART SIX
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  The Past

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They had told her, as soon as she was old enough to understand, that she was adopted. Perhaps they had told her even before that, because it came as no shock.

  ‘You are very special, Theresa,’ her mother had said, cuddling her, along with her huge-fluffy teddy bear. ‘Most mummies and daddies have to take the baby they get. It wasn’t like that with us. We chose you. That’s what makes you so special.’

  Theresa had smiled, sucking on her thumb. Chosen – special – yes, she felt special. Special for Daddy, who called her ‘dumpling’ and played with her every night before bed, special for Mummy who kissed and cuddled her a lot, let her have a spoon to clean out the mixing bowl when she made cakes and didn’t mind her hiding in the laundry basket when she was doing the washing. Her room was special, with stars stuck on the ceiling that glowed when the curtains were drawn and there was only the tiny pink nightlight by her bed because she was a little afraid of the dark. They both read to her a lot and that was special too, sitting curled up on a comfortable lap, looking at the bright pictures and listening to the familiar loved voices. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters but she didn’t mind that. It just made her feel all the more special.

  As she grew older Theresa sometimes wondered who she really was. Perhaps her real mummy was a princess or a pop star. Or perhaps she wasn’t an ordinary person at all but a visitor from another world. It was exciting to daydream about it. But never for one moment did Theresa wish to exchange the mummy who was here all the time, who picked her up and dried her tears when she fell down, and sat beside her bed feeding her ice-cream on a spoon when she was recovering from tonsillitis. That mummy was real. The other one … well, she was no more than a character from a fairy story.

  When she was fourteen she asked a few questions and they told her all they knew – which was not a great deal. When she was eighteen she applied to Somerset House for a full birth certificate, partly because she was curious and partly because she thought it would be nicer to have the ‘proper thing’ rather than the short form that dated from her adoption. But she had no real intention of following up the information contained in it. Her feelings on the subject had not changed since she was a child – Les and Doreen Arnold were the substance, the woman named in the birth certificate was just a shadow. Theresa did not think she wanted to meet her. That way would surely he disappointment and disillusion. Besides it would hurt Les and Doreen. Theresa cared for them too much to want to do anything that would cause them pain.