As she walked through the grounds and down the driveway, she wondered how Kitty was coping with the poultry. Mick’s new wife had bent over backwards to be helpful to Tara, and kept apologising, saying that she hoped Tara wasn’t staying at Ballygrace House on account of her having moved into the cottage. Tara told her several times that it wasn’t the case, but the fretful look on Kitty’s face had said she was not convinced.
As she paused to examine a bush full of tight purple buds, Tara’s mind suddenly flitted to Biddy and the baby. It should be due in the next few months and she wondered how her friend was coping with it all. She had received two letters from the convent in Dublin that Biddy was staying in, saying she was being treated all right, and had made friends with some of the other girls. The letters surprised Tara, for they were written in a tidy script, and the spelling and grammar was much better than she would have expected.
‘They say the baby is to be adopted,’ Biddy had written on tear-stained paper, ‘and will be given to a good family who have the money to look after it. Father Daly has been up to see me a few times. I don’t really like him coming up but he’s the only visitor I have. He says that he won’t help me anymore if I argue with them about taking the baby away. I suppose it’s the best way. What could I give a child and me only an orphan myself? If you ever get the chance to come up to Dublin, Tara, please, please come and see me. You can get a bus to the convent from O’Connell Street, it only takes about twenty minutes.
If you don’t manage to get up to Dublin, I will see you after the baby’s born. I’ll phone Father Daly and let him know when it comes. Some of the nuns are nice to me here, and some of them are horrible – giving out all the time, and making us do all the cleaning and the laundry. One of the younger nuns, Sister Agnes, has been very kind to me, and she has helped me with my writing and spelling. I’ve got much better than when I was at school, and going into classes saves me from doing all the housework. Sister Agnes says I’m quite clever, and she’s much nicer than the teachers were to me at school.’
Tara realised with a sudden pang that she missed Biddy very much. Maybe next weekend she might take the train up to Dublin to see her. They might be very different in their ways, and in their taste in boys, but Biddy was a true friend – and she knew how to keep a secret. Never once had she mocked Tara for her ‘fancy ways’ or for the serious manner she took her studies and music – and for her interest in Gabriel Fitzgerald. And she knew Biddy would understand how awful things were over this business with Rosie Scully.
Tara sighed deeply, wishing that she could cycle out to Ballygrace to sit and chat with her friend for a half-an-hour. She wondered if Biddy would come back to live in the village again after the baby was born and adopted. She didn’t know how she would advise her, because if people could be so awful over a lie started by a jealous housekeeper, what would Biddy have to face on her return? The priest might be on her side, and he could remind his parishioners about the way Jesus treated Mary Magdalene – but that wouldn’t help Biddy when she encountered the acid tongues of the women on her own. In any case, Lizzie Lawless was unlikely to take her back in, given all the terrible things she had spread in Ballygrace about her.
When Biddy had initially left for the convent in Dublin, Tara had a small idea in the back of her head, to ask Mick if she could move in with her when she came back. That plan seemed to have been made a long time ago, long before Mick changed from a confirmed bachelor into a married man with a cottage bursting at the seams with Kitty’s beautifully polished furniture. There was no room in the cottage for Biddy now, just as there was no room in it for Tara’s piano – and however Mick and Kitty would have liked otherwise, there was less room in it every day for Tara.
She came to the conclusion that really she was no better off than Biddy at the minute. She couldn’t go back to her homeplace for much longer either. She had no family who could offer her a better situation, for Shay was never a bit better off at the beginning of one week, than he was at the end of the previous one. She knew if she were really desperate, that there was always Joe’s little room going spare, during term-time at Molly and Maggie’s. Tara shuddered at the thought of the dark little house full of holy pictures and statues, and she remembered the last time she’d seen the hunched-up, sick Joe, being fussed about by the two old aunties. No – she shook her head, her long red curls swinging violently from side to side – the aunties’ house was not a viable option either. Just the thought of it made her feel shivery and claustrophobic.
Tara turned when she reached the bottom of the drive and then slowly started to walk back to the house again, her forehead creased in thought. She still had a few hours’ studying to do, and she knew she must put all these morbid thoughts out of her head, and get on with it.
Around eight o’clock, the headlamps of the car shone as they came up the driveway. Tara was greatly relieved, because just minutes before, Madeleine had come floating down the stairs in her dressing-gown, her blonde hair bobbing gently about her shoulders. From the minute Tara caught the glassy look on her friend’s face, she knew all was not well. When she heard the peculiar ramblings which came out of her mouth, and then the all the crying and sobbing, she was positively worried.
Tara had sat her in a chair by the fire with a blanket, and after calming her down, tried to tease out of her what was the matter. It was difficult to make any sense of the things Madeleine was saying, but Tara found the gist of it to be religious. “We have to put the radio on,” she told Tara in a near-hysterical voice. “I’m waiting for a message . . . a sign.”
“Why the radio?” Tara asked, completely confused.
“Sometime the messages come through the radio. . . it’s the only way they can communicate from Africa.”
“Africa?”
“The nuns . . . the ones who give the signs.”
Ella knocked on the sitting-room door to say that she would be putting supper out in the dining-room in ten minutes. Tara thanked her and said they would be along shortly, when Madeleine suddenly cut in. “You’ve been tampering with the radio . . . haven’t you?”
“What radio?” Ella’s face was a picture of confusion. “I never touched any radio.”
Madeleine stood up, a pinkish tone suffusing her neck and face. “Don’t lie to me!” she said hysterically. “You’re the one who’s been interfering with things . . . touching the papers and the books! Contaminating everything . . . spreading the work of the devil!”
“Sorry, Miss Madeleine,” Ella stuttered, backing out of the door, “ but I don’t know what you’re going on about. As God’s me judge, I never touched any radio! I never touched anythin’.”
At that point, William appeared at the sitting-room door. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked, looking from Ella to Madeleine. “Has something happened?”
“It’s Miss Madeleine,” Ella said, her voice high and breathless. “She thinks I’ve been touchin’ things . . . her radio and books an’ that!”
Madeleine’s eyes were heavy and brooding and she twisted a strand of blonde hair between her fingers. “She’s contaminated the holy scriptures . . . she’s interfered with the radio reception, so that I won’t receive my messages.”
Ella’s hand flew to her mouth, and she shook her head from side to side in stifled denial.
“Messages?” William was deliberately calm as he took off his hat and scarf. “And exactly what messages would you be referring to, Madeleine?”
“The messages from my Guardian in Africa,” she said wearily, as though everyone should have known. Her voice now sounded dull and flat, as though all the energy was seeping out of her.
William stared at her for a few seconds, and then he wheeled round to the young maid and said in a low but kind voice: “Go about your work, Ella – and forget about all this business.”
“The supper –” Ella struggled out, “it’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She then took to her heels and fled along the hall to the safety and normality of the
kitchen.
“I think,” William said, guiding his daughter by the arm into the sitting-room, “that we need to check on your medication.”
“I’ve already taken my medication,” Madeleine replied, struggling out of his grip. “It makes me feel funny . . . all sleepy. I’m sure I’m missing signs because of it.”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll ring Dr McNally later and we’ll see what he advises. In the meantime, we’ll have something to eat in a sane, civilised manner.”
Madeleine froze. “I’m not having anything to eat if that girl has prepared it!”
“Ella’s a very good cook,” Tara said quietly, “and she’s a very nice girl, too.”
Madeleine put both her hands tight on her throat. “I won’t eat it! I won’t eat anything she touches.” She turned to her father and flung her arms around him – feverishly clutching at him like a distressed child. “Ella . . .” Her voice was high and hysterical. “Ella is controlled by the devil! He has told her to kill me . . . and she’s been poisoning my food!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” William gasped, struggling to extricate himself from his daughter’s arms without upsetting her further. He straightened up his collar and tie, trying to regain his composure. “This is utter nonsense, Madeleine! Ella’s a completely harmless girl.”
Madeleine gave a loud whine like a wounded animal and cowered against the wall, her arms covering her head. “You understand, Tara, don’t you?” she sobbed. “Please say you understand. Everyone else is against me!”
Tara went over and very gently put her arms round her friend. “You’re all right, Madeleine,” she said in a soothing voice. “Of course I understand you.” She held her for a few moments until she felt Madeleine relax against her. “Come on, we’ll go into the sitting-room, and I’ll play your favourite tunes for you.”
“Will you? Will you play me some Christmas carols?” she asked pleadingly. “They’re my favourite. I like to think of Jesus when he was a baby – all nice and innocent. Before all the terrible things started happening to him.”
Tara motioned her to go into the sitting-room. “If you find the music in the bookcase for me,” she bargained, “then I’ll play anything you want.”
As soon as she was in the room and out of earshot, Tara turned to William Fitzgerald. “I think,” she said quietly, “that Madeleine’s medication might not be helping her. I’ve never seen or heard her like this before.”
William ran his fingers through his hair. “If you can keep her occupied . . . then I think I should phone Dr McNally now.”
The doctor was out on an urgent call with a sickly young baby, and it was some time before he could be contacted, and then make his way out to Ballygrace House.
Madeleine, having tired of the musical session, said she was going upstairs to read. Tara continued to practise some of her own more difficult pieces on the piano, to pass the time until the doctor’s arrival.
“I’ll get it,” William Fitzgerald told the nervous young housemaid when the doorbell sounded. “You can get off home early tonight, Ella – it will make up for the upset with Madeleine earlier on.” The gesture hid the fact that he did not wish the young girl to be around, should there be any problems later in the night with his daughter.
When he and Doctor McNally mounted the stairs, the problems which lay ahead were all too apparent. In the half-hour or so since she had been alone, she had very quietly accumulated every holy picture, statue and cross in the house, and spread them out from the top of the stairs all the way along to her bedroom door.
Pinned on the bedroom door was a large notice – scrawled in charcoal on white paper: ‘I am The Way, The Truth and The Life.’ And underneath it: ‘Satan – Get thee behind me.’
“I think,” Doctor McNally said slowly, “we are looking at hospital treatment. Given the serious nature of things and the travel factor – Maryborough would be advisable.”
There was a silence, while William contemplated the doctor’s verdict. “Hospital, yes – but not Maryborough. It’s too close . . . word of her condition would have spread round the Midlands by tomorrow morning. When she recovers, she would never be allowed to forget it.” He shook his head. “Elisha’s not bearing up too well at the moment. She’s gone to London for a break. If I have to tell her that Madeleine’s in Maryborough Asylum then . . .”
Dr McNally nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, yes – of course.” His brow creased in deep thought. “If it’s Dublin, I’m afraid I’ll have to sedate her. Otherwise, you may have trouble. . . with the journey being that much longer.”
The evening was more difficult than anyone envisaged, with Madeleine refusing to open her bedroom door – and then cowering in hysterics when her father finally burst the lock. After a long time patiently explaining to her about the doctor and the hospital, eventually Madeleine had to be restrained by William and Tara, while Doctor McNally gave her a sedating injection.
It was not far off midnight when William pulled in at the hospital in Dublin. Together, he and Tara managed to get Madeleine out of the car and into the building. Another hour passed sorting out administrative details, and then more time settling Madeleine into a private room. Some time later, weary and tired, they set off on the return journey to Offaly.
* * *
Tara found it strange coming into Ballygrace House in darkness. Most of the lamps were burnt out and it was unusually chilly in the house, since the fires had died down.
“I think the kitchen would be the warmest place,” William decided after inspecting the fires in the reception rooms. He re-lit the main lamps, and then led the way down the hall to the kitchen. An inviting, comforting warmth greeted them on entering Mrs Scully’s domain. “I’ll make us both a hot brandy, then I’ll boil some water for a stone jar for your bed. Ella will have stoked up the fires in here, so the stove is fairly hot.”
Tara followed behind, her thoughts lingering back in the events of the awful evening. She sat down in the big armchair by the fire which was slowly coming back to life and hugged her coat around her, as her employer rattled about in the unfamiliar territory of the kitchen cupboards.
After a few moments opening and closing doors, William gave a sigh of relief. “Here we are!” he said brightly, producing two large brandy glasses. “They’re especially thick – to withstand the heat.” He then poured two large measures into the glasses, and two spoonfuls of sugar in each.
It occurred to Tara that she should say she had never tasted hot brandy and might not like it – but she kept quiet. After everything that had happened tonight, trying out a new drink was hardly a trial. In any case, William Fitzgerald had told her that hot brandy was the best thing to revive anyone after a shock, or if they were feeling chilled. Since they had experienced both those very situations, it was the most appropriate drink.
William actually looked more in need of something to revive himself, Tara thought. His face was an unusual greyish colour, and the bones high in his cheeks seemed more pronounced than normal. Tara supposed it would be strange if he had not shown signs of strain, at having his only daughter committed to a mental hospital – and she shuddered at the thought of poor Madeleine lying sedated in a hospital room tonight.
“Here we are,” William said coming across the stone floor. He handed her the brandy glass, wrapped in a thick napkin. “That will take the worst of the chill out of you. Drink it up quickly while it’s hot.” He then sat down in the armchair opposite the fire to her.
As she took a tentative sip of the scalding drink, it dawned on Tara that she was probably sitting in Mrs Scully’s armchair. She wondered what the gossipy old woman would make of the situation, if she were to walk in and find herself and William Fitzgerald seated together once again.
After a few minutes silence, William leaned forward. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve done, Tara.” He looked down into his steaming brandy glass. “It’s been the worst night of my life,” he said in a choked
voice. “I feel like a monster, committing my own daughter into a locked ward in a mental hospital.”
“It was the only thing you could do,” Tara said weakly. Then another little silence fell between them. Tara felt she should say something more to comfort him – but what could she say? Her mind was almost numb from going over the situation, wondering if she could have done more than she had to prevent Madeleine being sedated and taken into that place. It was the most awful thing she had ever witnessed. She had often heard stories in the village about lunatic asylums, and the terrifying things that went on in them – but never once had she ever imagined herself being inside one. And never, when she was growing up in awe of her wealthy friend, could she have ever imagined taking Madeleine Fitzgerald into an asylum.
Since she could think of nothing of any comfort to say to her boss, she swallowed another sip of the hot golden liquid, holding the glass tightly in cupped hands. It tasted nice in a bitter-sweet way, and it was certainly warming her. She closed her eyes, imagining the golden heat travelling through her body.
“You must be very tired,” William said with concern.
“No . . . no.” Tara sat up straight in the armchair. “I was just thinking about Madeleine – wondering how she is.”
“I should imagine she’s sleeping by now. At least – I hope the poor child is sleeping.” He looked deep into the fire. “What kind of torment must her mind be in . . . to come out with all those things?”
Tara could not summon up a helpful answer, so she took another mouthful of the brandy. It tasted even nicer this time.
William put his glass on the tall mantelpiece and then took his coat off, before sitting back down again. “I know her mother has suffered with nervous trouble . . . but nothing of this nature. She certainly never had any of this religious mania.”
Tara Flynn Page 27
