‘There are probably rooms that I haven’t seen yet either,’ said Nicolas. ‘And I’ve lived here on and off for my whole life!’
She knew that he was only saying it to make her feel at home. Buttering her paws. But it was kind of him.
She went back to Dunshee from time to time, to see her grandfather and to brush the cat. She still called it ‘home’ in her own mind. She could walk over the fields and be there in half an hour. The first time she went back, the weather was cold and sunny, and when she got to the top of the track, she half expected Finn to rise up in front of her, the way he used to. There was nowhere on the whole island that didn’t have memories of Finn, nowhere except Ealachan.
Finn had never been there. The closest he had been was the back door, with the occasional delivery of something from Dunshee. They would never have thought of inviting him in. But everywhere else, every stone, every pathway, every stretch of turf or sand and even the seas around the island; all of them seemed to have some past association. The heart of her ached with the loss of him, and there was nobody she could tell, certainly not Nicolas, and not even her grandfather. Even when she went to the cemetery, she was not free of the memories. Roughly once a week, she would take flowers to Isabel’s neat grave in the new cemetery, but there was an older graveyard and ruined kirk nearby, with many ancient slabs and enclosures, choked with weeds. She couldn’t resist scrambling down into the old graveyard. She closed her eyes, remembering a time when she and Finn had gone there at twilight.
It was winter, they had been at a loose end, and he had dared Kirsty to run three times around one of the grave slabs and summon forth the dead. She had to go counterclockwise. God knows where he had got the idea from – perhaps from some tale told by the tattie howkers. The tomb belonged to a past chieftain of the island. Finn thought he was so much older and braver than she, but she wasn’t going to be beaten. She had called his bluff.
When she closed her eyes, she could picture herself running round and round, with the brambles tearing at her ankles, and then jumping up on top of the slab and calling out, ‘Come forth, Macdonald!’ into the gathering darkness. At that moment, a white hare had erupted from the undergrowth, right at their feet, and scuttered away. She smiled at the memory. Finn was as white as the hare, in the gloom, and Kirsty wasn’t much better. He said ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Then they started laughing and couldn’t stop. She remembered them holding onto each other, laughing as they stumbled about among the gravestones until they were weak with it and then walking home, still spooked, still laughing.
She thought that if she could just reach out her hand, she would be able to touch him. It was so cold and she could almost feel his warm breath on her cheek. She wanted him to say ‘Kirsty,’ wanted to hear him say her name one more time. But when she opened her eyes there was nothing to be seen except the brambles effacing the old stones. There was some fruit on them still, but the frosts had nipped the berries and they were shrivelled and mean. The folk here said that they belonged to the devil now, the brambles that were left behind. She cradled her belly which was only just beginning to swell, the smallest of bumps, rubbing her two hands gently up and down.
Is he dead, she wondered? No. He couldn’t be. Not Finn. She would know if he were dead. She would feel it, and she felt nothing. Which was daft when she remembered how lucky she was. Queen of all she surveyed. That’s what Nicolas told her. And after all, it was true. Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
One winter’s night, Finn and Kevin Gleason were sitting over a quiet beer in a corner pub, not far from the church. He and the young priest had taken to coming here occasionally. The pub was Irish. There were pictures of Celtic players on the walls, as well as banners and scarves. The music was defiantly Republican.
What’s the news? What’s the news? O my bold Shelmalier,
with your long barrelled gun of the sea?
Say, what wind from the sun blows his messenger here,
with a hymn of the dawn for the free.
Goodly news, goodly news do I bring, youth of Forth,
goodly news do I bring, Bargy man!
For the boys march today from the south to the north,
lead by Kelly, the boy from Killane.
‘Your man Luke has a great voice on him,’ said Kevin, savouring his Guinness and his cigarette, drawing in smoke like a drowning man.
‘Who is it singing?’
‘Do you not know the Dubliners when you hear them?’
‘Not really.’ He had only listened to Kirsty’s records and – occasionally – the wireless at Dunshee. At the school, they had heard nothing but hymns.
‘But I don’t think he can have been all of that, do you?’
‘All of what?’
‘Kelly the boy from Killane. He fought in the Irish Rebellion in – oh, I don’t know for sure – late 1700s? Seven feet is his height with some inches to spare. Nah. I don’t buy that!’
Finn laughed. ‘You know, I never knew it was like this over here.’
‘You mean the whole Republican bit? The sectarianism? The divisions?’
‘I was told about it. But I didn’t know. I never experienced it.’
‘What about where you worked?’
‘There was a bit of it. They didn’t much like the tattie howkers, that’s for sure. Well, not the Irish, anyway. Or only for the work they could get out of us. Except for my boss. He was a good man.’ And Kirsty, he thought. And Kirsty.
I suppose it’s worse here, but it’s the same all over the central belt. They ask you what school you went to. That was the way it was when I was growing up. My parents are both Irish. And as soon as you tell them, they know. Saint this or saint that. Holy Family. Corpus Christi. Dead giveaway. You can see it, even if they don’t say it. None of that changes. We’ve had to put bars on the church windows. You’ll get the odd brick hurled through. Or graffiti. And in summer, the parades will stop outside and they’ll be banging that drum, fit to burst. Papes. Left footers, they call us.’
‘Why left footers?’
‘Because we genuflect. Go down on one knee! Did you not know that, Finn?’
‘I never did.’
Did you have none of that when you were working at the tatties?’
‘Sometimes. But it was a small place. And I kept my head down.’
‘Much as you do here.’
‘That’s right.’
Throughout that first winter in Glasgow, Finn had begun to confide in Kevin, telling him a little about his past in the industrial school, although not much about Dunshee or the island. He found the quiet diffidence of the young priest reassuring. Kevin Gleason would never ask questions or only in the most roundabout way. Instead, he told Finn about his own initial uncertainties as to whether he really had a vocation, his gradual sense of assurance. These confidences seemed to invite some kind of rejoinder. Finn found himself speaking about his time at the school, although not in any great detail, because it seemed tactless to broach these things with a priest of all people. But there was no need to go into detail, because Father Gleason seemed to know things already, understanding them more clearly than Finn himself.
On the advice of the priest, he had enrolled for evening classes in Maths and English. His teachers were pleased with him, and he had begun to realise that Alasdair and Kirsty might have been right all along. He was capable of learning, and probably more intelligent than most. Besides, he was single minded. His only real friend was Kevin Gleason, and even then there was nothing effusive or intimate about the relationship
‘You know...’ Kevin hesitated. ‘You know you mentioned your mother? And how you were wondering if you might be able to find her?’
Finn coloured up. Incautiously, he had spoken about Mary one night, after one pint too many.
‘I quite understand if you don’t want to talk about this.
‘No. No, I do. It’s just difficult. When I was at the school there, back in Ireland, the other boys said she might
be in a Magdalene Laundry. I didn’t even know such places existed. Not then.’
‘And did you never hear from her?’
‘Not a thing. In all these years.’
‘Well, it happened. Women were sent to these places. It wasn’t so very uncommon you know. And they are still on the go. Although there are fewer and fewer of them. But I think some of the poor souls are so used to them that it would be a cruelty to turn them out now. Women were committed to them for the most spurious of reasons. I’ve heard tell of poor lassies who were assaulted themselves maybe and were carted off for being a temptation.
‘An occasion of sin?’
‘Yes, that’s right. One of the priests I studied with, it happened to his own sister. He got her out, eventually, but it’s a shame for the church, so it is.’
‘It’s all a shame,’ said Finn. ‘What happened to me, and the other boys, that was a crying shame as well.’
Kevin didn’t know how to respond. Finn hadn’t told him very much, but the things he had let slip, over the past few months, were enough to make a grown man weep. He had wept about them in the privacy of his room, wept for the cruelty and the betrayal. And he had prayed about these things too. So far, there seemed to be few answers. He still found himself wondering if anyone was actually listening. But you had to soldier on through the doubts. It was the only way to survive. Especially when you had invested so much in your beliefs. And just occasionally, he thought that maybe it wasn’t the fixed beliefs that mattered, but the stories behind them. Those were important. The kind of stories that might show a man how a life ought really to be lived.
‘How about I make some enquiries for you? Try to find out where your mother might be?’
‘Could you do that?’
‘I could try. I might have more success than you will. Give me her details as far as you have them. Her maiden name, her place of birth, all that. I can’t promise anything. And what I find out may not be what you want to hear.’
‘It would be good to know something.’
It might help. But you never know, Finn. She could have come out by now. She might have remarried.’
‘She would have looked for me, surely.’
‘Maybe. But people don’t always do what we expect them to do.’
‘No, they don’t.’
‘That’s what I mean about finding out something you don’t want to hear. How old were you when you finally moved over to Scotland? Not just to the tatties.’
‘I was sixteen. Almost seventeen.’
‘I don’t suppose many people knew where you were.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘And there could be other reasons. Maybe she was told that you were well settled.’
‘But even if you do find her. If you find her for me... how can I ever go back?’
‘You mean to Ireland? Do you not want to go back? That would be understandable.’
‘I’m afraid to go back.’
It would be nerve racking, right enough.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I’d be afraid they might take me back...’
‘Take you? Where?’
Finn shifted in his seat. ‘They might send the police after me. They sent a priest after me before, when I was sixteen. They sent a priest to fetch me from the farm, and if it hadn’t been for my boss, if it hadn’t been for Alasdair...’ He stopped, remembering Kirsty, her anxious face framed by fat red plaits, Kirsty, hugging him, while he couldn’t stop trembling.
‘Oh, Finn, don’t talk daft! You’re a grown man, with a job and a home here. Nobody will be after you. In fact, you should bloody well be after them!’ Kevin looked so angry that, for a moment, Finn was taken aback, but then he was reminded of Alasdair, and realised that the anger wasn’t directed at himself.
‘Well, I’d be grateful if you could find out anything about her. If you do, I’ll maybe go over and see her. After all, that was one of the reasons why I came away.’
‘From your island?’
So many unfinished things. I couldn’t settle. I had to get away. Had to try to remember.’
‘Remember what?’
Finn started to laugh. ‘If I could remember that, I wouldn’t need to find out, would I? It’s hard enough to remember ordinary things from back then, when I was a child. But I always had this feeling that there was something important. Something I did or didn’t do. I don’t know what it was. But I blame myself. I think it might help if I knew what had happened to my mother.’
‘You were a wee boy. How could you be to blame for anything?’
‘I only know the way I feel. And I feel guilty as sin.’
‘Oh!’ Kevin raised his glass, briefly. ‘Well, there you go. It’s pretty normal, isn’t it. Cradle Catholics. That’s what we were born for, isn’t it? Guilt? Absorbed it with our mother’s milk.’
When Kevin Gleason finally brought news of Finn’s mother, it seemed as much of a surprise to the priest as it was to Finn himself. Finn had just come in from work and he rushed around, pulling the bed straight, clearing away his dirty breakfast things.
‘Finn, Finn, it’s alright. You don’t need to clear up for me. You should see my place in the morning. If I didn’t have Mrs Mackay coming in to sort it all out, I’d never find the time.’
‘But I like to keep everything straight.’
‘I can see you do.’
‘Sit yourself down.’ Finn whisked a newspaper off a threadbare armchair with lurid green upholstery.
‘Thanks, Finn. I’d have said let’s go out, but I think this needs to be said in private.’
Finn perched on the bed. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘No, no. She isn’t dead.’
‘No?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I just had a feeling...’
‘She’s not dead, Finn. But the lads in your school were right. She was admitted to one of the Magdalene Laundries, not far from Dublin. I’m assuming there was plenty of laundry work in the city so the place must have done rather well. You were sent to the school and she was sent to work in the laundry.’
Kevin glanced around, uncomfortably. He had known that this would be a difficult conversation. He liked Finn, liked his honesty and his lack of guile. And he pitied him. The young man had been cruelly treated, mostly by those who claimed to know better, who should have known better. He needed a friend. But that didn’t make dealing with him any easier. There was an electric kettle on a plastic tray, with a single mug and a packet of Tetley’s teabags.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea or something?’
Finn shook his head. ‘There’s whisky. In the cupboard there. Have one yourself.’
Kevin got up, found the half bottle with two thick tumblers, poured out a measure for Finn, and one for himself. ‘Here. Take a good swig.’
‘Is she still there? In that laundry? How can I get her out? Will they let me go and get her do you think?’
‘She isn’t there. Not any more.’
‘They let her out? When did they let her out? Where is she? Can I see her?’
‘Finn. It’s complicated. She’s not dead. And yes, I think you can see her. I can arrange it. If she’ll agree to see you. Which I think she will. But it will have to be done carefully. And you won’t need to go back to Ireland.’
‘So where is she?’
‘She’s in England. You’ll need a long weekend, maybe. A day or two off work would do it. If I can arrange a meeting, I’ll ask Hugh to give you the time off. It’ll be alright. Drink your whisky and I’ll tell you all about it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Kirsty’s pregnancy was smooth and uneventful. She even escaped with only minor queasiness instead of proper morning sickness. All her tests were clear and there was, so she was constantly assured, nothing to worry about. The baby was very active, especially at night. When she and Nicolas lay in bed, he was enchanted to feel the energetic kicks and punches against his back. ‘Do you think it’s a boy?’ he whispe
red. ‘It feels like a big strong rugby player to me!’
The labour was another matter. Nicolas made sure that she was taken to a mainland hospital in good time which was just as well, since the child arrived earlier than predicted. If it had been up to Kirsty, she would have preferred to stay on the island, with the local midwife in attendance, but Nicolas was so solicitous and so insistent that there was no arguing with him, and the doctor agreed with him.
Kirsty had never known pain like it. Why did nobody warn me about this, she thought. Why did nobody tell me? Nevertheless, the memory of the pain soon slid away from her in her preoccupation with the baby. She remembered the sharpness of it, but time itself had contracted and instead of hours, it felt like minutes. She understood why nobody told you about the pain. It was because nobody could remember it as it truly was. Perhaps this was a biological imperative, something that happened so that you would be able do it again.
The child – a girl, and not Nicolas’s rugby playing boy - was big for a first baby, big for an early baby. Kirsty didn’t like to dwell on that fact. It was just as well that she was a long, strong girl, since it took forceps to drag her into the world, and she spent her first night in a Special Care Unit with the other premature children. She weighed all of nine pounds, and looked like a cuckoo in a nest, with her face all bruised from the forceps and a crest of black hair peeping out from the top of the blanket.
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