Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  The burnt-toast smell of the gas fire was comforting, the bedroom warm. A gas mantel in a scrolled glass globe suffused a cosy glow and threw upon the wall the bulky shadow of the typewriter that for the best part of seven months had been Anne-Marie’s lifeline to Henry Flower. She’d purchased the machine at auction and had lugged it back to the Sunnyhill by cab for the blessed thing was bigger than the Blarney Stone and weighed a ton but, for half a year, had seemed like the best investment she’d ever made and worth its weight in gold.

  Planted on a stout knee-high table the machine took up a great deal of space. The only way Anne-Marie could operate its keys was to kneel before it and, in that prayerful position, woo her hesitant correspondent, Henry Flower, with ever more racy promises. In letter after letter she had exposed her longings without inhibition or fear that Henry would think ill of her or, when they finally came face to face, that he would necessarily hold her to the more outré aspects of their paper relationship.

  After half a dozen letters had been exchanged, c/o the Post Office in Westland Row, Anne-Marie had come to regard ‘Henry’ as more of a father confessor for sins not yet committed than a potential husband. In any case, he’d made it plain from the first that he was married – no deception there – and that what he wanted from ‘his Martha’ were all the things his staid and ailing wife would not countenance, which admission, naturally, set Anne-Marie’s mind racing and fired her imagination.

  She had first encountered Mr Flower via an advertisement in the Irish Times in which he’d called for a smart young lady typist to aid him in his literary work. She, though she knew it not, had been but one of forty-four women to respond – three from the Sunnyhill alone – and had been flattered, nay, ecstatic, when Mr Flower had personally answered her pseudonymous application. Literary work had gone by the board, never mentioned, and Mr Flower had soon become her guardian angel and bashful lover and, when the mood was upon her, shivering in her shift, a swarthy, unscrupulous brigand who would stop at nothing to have his wicked way.

  Secure behind her nom-de-plume, Martha Clifford, she’d sent him pressed flowers, then motto cards with hearts stencilled on the back and at length, at his request, a small lock of hair snipped, she broadly hinted, not from her head but from elsewhere on her person. The hair, it seemed, had done the trick though whether, by then, she really wanted the trick done was another matter altogether. ‘Meet me,’ he’d written, ‘at the north corner of Merrion Square at half past twelve o’clock on Wednesday. If this time is not suitable to you, my darling, tell me one that is, and where.’

  Running then like mad along Nassau Street past the College Park and the Gallery in her half hour dinner break, jumping up to see if he – who? – was there and finding no one, no man loitering expectantly. Throughout the afternoon, pecking at her typewriter in the bank managers’ office, she’d blamed herself for arriving five minutes after the half hour, and that night in the Sunnyhill she’d knelt on the rug and rattled off page after page of apology begging Henry’s forgiveness for her tardiness.

  Seven long days she’d waited for a reply. Convinced that Henry had gone forever and she would never hear from him again she’d taken her friend, Maureen Dunne, into her confidence, seeking not so much reassurance as sympathy.

  And then: ‘Do not berate yourself, my sweet girl. It was my fault or should I say the fault of my employer who sent me out of town on an errand at the last minute. I am sure you will understand. I could think of no means of letting you know. How hurtful it must have been for you to find me wanting in my promise. It is I who must beg your forgiveness. Shall we say Sunday at one o’clock at the Poolbeg Street entrance to the Theatre Royal, off Hawkins Street? I will be wearing a grey suit and will carry a flower to show you who I am.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ Maureen Dunne had advised.

  ‘Oh, but I must. I must.’

  It had rained that Sunday, as it often did in Dublin in October.

  Although she’d found shelter under the theatre’s glass awning, she’d been soaked by that time. She’d waited an hour then stalked angrily off towards the rain-lashed quays and then, spinning round, had returned to the rendezvous and had waited another twenty minutes before, bladder aching and nose running, she’d trailed back to her room in the Sunnyhill where she’d thrown herself on the bed and wept until Maureen had brought her tea and fruit cake and, without once saying ‘I told you so,’ had helped her change into dry togs and take stock.

  ‘It’s all very well,’ Anne-Marie had said, tearfully, ‘being given the heave-ho by a man to whom you’ve almost surrendered your all but to be jilted by a man you’ve never clapped eyes on is the ultimate slap in the face.’

  ‘I think,’ Miss Dunne had said, ‘you’re well out of it.’

  ‘I do believe I am,’ Anne-Marie had said. ‘To hell with him.’

  Then another letter from Henry had arrived in her post box.

  ‘What can I do, my darling girl, but throw myself at your feet and abase myself. I deserve a whipping for what I have done to you. I deserve every sort of punishment you can mete out on me. It is not for worlds I would hurt you so and leave you standing. My wife was taken sudden ill and a doctor had to be called to attend her …’ etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

  ‘He’s playing you fast and loose, Anne-Marie,’ Maureen Dunne had said. ‘The man’s a cad. Ignore him.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do,’ Miss Blaney had agreed. But after the ladies of the Sunnyhill were all asleep, the muffled chatter of a typewriter had echoed in the corridor as ‘Martha Clifford’ had hammered out one last desperate plea for ‘Henry’ to grant her an opportunity to find ecstasy in his arms.

  The third and final time had been the worst of all; Christmas not far off, the streets of the city bustling, a few flakes of snow falling, the lights of the shops bright lit in the gloom. We’ll meet outside Webb’s, the Tailor and Outfitter, along in the Corn Market, Henry had written, his choice of location unexplained.

  She’d purchased a new scarf and had trudged out tingling with excitement and had waited again an hour, pretending to study the display of mackintoshes in the window. An unseen band nearby had played seasonal melodies, cornets ringing in the melancholy air, but the stink of pubs and brewery warehouses had eventually overwhelmed her and, more depressed than she’d ever been in her life, she’d given up and had crossed the bridge to Rossiter’s Tearooms and ordered a pot of tea and an almond finger and had eaten it alone at a window table looking out at the gentlemen passing, wondering, still wondering, if one of them was he.

  A final letter, brief and bleeding, tapped out on the machine at midnight: ‘Henry, what do you want from me?’ But the question was never answered and not another word did she hear from her lover, Henry Flower, whose identity remained a mystery.

  ‘I know who he is,’ said Maureen, closing the door behind her.

  Combing her hair at the dressing table, Anne-Marie swung round. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Mr Flower.’

  Indifference is not easy to feign. ‘Oh! Really?’

  Maureen placed a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sure – almost sure – it’s Bloom.’

  ‘Bloom?’

  ‘Leopold Bloom, the murderer.’

  ‘Maureen, that’s not funny.’

  Miss Dunne retreated as far as the bed and seated herself upon it, hands folded in her lap. ‘Mr Boylan has your Martha letters. I saw them, two of them, on his desk. He says he bought them in a pub but he’s a fibber. He’s been at the court all day and he’s got Mr Bloom’s daughter staying in his house and that’s all just too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you sure my Henry isn’t your Mr Boylan?’

  ‘Boylan doesn’t need to write letters to find women. I mean, he’d never have let me see them if he had.’

  Anne-Marie put down the comb and studied her pallid face in the mirror. ‘What,’ she said at length, ‘does he look like?’


  ‘Bloom? I’ve only seen him once or twice. He’s …’ Maureen paused judiciously. ‘He’s personable enough,’ she said, then added, viciously, ‘for a man who slaughtered his wife.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same Bloom?’

  ‘Anne-Marie, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Where is he? Where have they taken him?’

  ‘Kilmainham I think Mr Boylan said.’

  ‘To hang?’ said Anne-Marie.

  ‘No, the trial’s not over. Anyhow, it isn’t a proper trial. It’s the coroner’s thing and they’re only holding him on suspicion.’

  ‘He’s innocent. I know he’s innocent,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘And if he isn’t innocent, perhaps he did it for me.’

  ‘Did what for you?’ said Maureen.

  ‘Got rid of his wife. Got rid of her to have me.’

  ‘Anne-Marie! Anne-Marie! He stove her head in with a teapot.’

  ‘To be with me, yes.’ Anne-Marie rose from the stool at her dressing table and cried, ‘Yes. Yes, to be with me forever.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Anne-Marie, please,’ said Maureen Dunne coolly. ‘There’s no guarantee that your … that Bloom committed the crime. Tell me, did you keep any of his letters?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In a shoebox under the bed. Perhaps I should destroy them.’

  ‘No,’ Miss Dunne said quickly. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘They may come in handy one of these days.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Half past seven was a ridiculously early hour to be considering retirement but candles were rationed. Besides, his eyes ached from reading the tiny print in the battered Bible that was the only book he was permitted to have in his cell. He was on the point of blowing out the candle and undressing for bed when the door opened and the priest popped in.

  ‘Mr Bloom.’ The priest offered his hand and, given the slightest encouragement, Bloom thought, might have offered him a cuddle too.

  ‘Mr Bloom, or may I address you as Leopold? It is Leopold, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Bloom said. ‘What can I do for you, Father?’

  He expected a platitudinous answer but the priest surprised him. Still gripping Bloom’s hand, he said, ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on you, by any chance?’

  In fact, Bloom had seven Player’s Weights in a packet tucked into his vest pocket, a gift from Sullivan. The packet had been ignored by the jailers, tobacco being one luxury prisoners were allowed. He was by disposition respectful of the clergy, even priests, and his hesitation was fleeting.

  ‘Only tiddlers, I’m afraid.’ Tugging the packet from his pocket, he tapped out one of the small cigarettes. ‘Help yourself.’

  The priest plucked the cigarette from the packet, stuck it in his mouth, jogged the tip in the candle flame and gratefully inhaled. He let smoke trickle down into his lungs and then, with a cock of the head and a click of the tongue, said, ‘Thanks be to God for that. Most kind, Mr Bloom, most kind. The blessed jailers wouldn’t cough out for a Catholic even in his hour of need.’ He inhaled again. ‘You’re in for murder, aren’t you?’

  ‘Suspicion thereof.’

  ‘How long did they give you?’

  ‘Seven days.’

  ‘Only seven days? You must have murdered an Englishman.’

  ‘I’m accused of murdering my wife. I didn’t, of course.’

  ‘Think yourself lucky. The kiddie four cells down got three weeks for swearing at a policeman. He pleaded guilty, of course.’

  ‘If you’ve been sent to persuade me to plead—’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. I’m an arm of the church not the Lord Lieutenant’s toady.’ He watched Bloom slip the packet of precious cigarettes into his pocket then, pinching with finger and thumb, he removed the Player’s from his lips and held it out.

  ‘Your turn, I believe.’

  Bloom peered at the moistened paper. ‘Sanctified, is it?’

  ‘Holy spit, the very best kind.’

  Bloom laughed and the priest laughed with him and, saying not a word, they finished the smoke between them down to the last shred.

  ‘I see you’ve been reading your Bible?’ the priest said. ‘How far have you got along?’

  ‘Leviticus.’

  ‘Ah, the third book of the Torah.’

  ‘I’m not a Jew, you know, not now.’

  ‘Once a Jew always a Jew, as it is with us Catholics.’

  Bloom seated himself on the cot. In the flickering light of the candle the priest seemed incredibly young, hardly more, Bloom thought, than a stripling. He rested his shoulders against the corner wall, stretched his legs at forty-five degrees and crossed his ankles.

  ‘Are you really a priest?’ Bloom asked.

  ‘What else would I be? I’m Father Joseph O’Grady. Rosie they called me at the seminary, before I was appointed a parish.’

  ‘Which parish?’

  ‘St. Mary, Donnybrook.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Bloom.

  ‘I see you know it.’

  ‘Not,’ Bloom said, ‘intimately.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re more familiar with Sandymount?’

  ‘I do enjoy a stroll by the sea from time to time,’ Bloom admitted. ‘Isn’t there a priests’ house beside the church? Is that where you put up?’

  ‘It is. With Father Conroy and the Canon. I was born and raised in Irishtown so it’s uncomfortably close to home.’

  ‘I didn’t think that was allowed. I mean, being allocated a parish so close to home.’

  ‘I doubt if I’ll be there long,’ said Father O’Grady. ‘I’ve indicated to Father Conroy that I’m interested in mission work. Africa would suit, or India. It isn’t what suits me, however. It’s what suits the Church.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bloom, waiting.

  ‘My cousin’s a doctor.’

  ‘In Africa?’

  ‘In Dublin. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: Willy Wyatt.’

  Bloom shook his head. ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Truth is, he isn’t quite a doctor yet, but he soon will be. Calls himself Will, now, not Willy. He rides for Trinity in the bike races.’

  ‘No,’ Bloom said. ‘The name means nothing to me.’

  ‘He lives in the terraces on Tritonville Road. There’s quite a clan of us down that way. The Wyatts are the Protestant branch of the family but we don’t hold that against them.’

  Bloom licked his upper lip. ‘I’m not sure what all this has to do with me. I’ve told you, I don’t know them.’

  ‘I spent a lot of time with my cousins when I was growing up, and with the local girls. Friends we were, good chums. Still are, I suppose, in spite of my collar.’

  Bloom shifted his weight from one buttock to the other. ‘You aren’t one of Kilmainham’s regular chaplains, are you?’

  ‘An occasional visitor, shall we say?’ the priest replied. ‘I offer comfort to prisoners from time to time. The governors are very gracious about it, very encouraging.’

  ‘How do you offer prisoners comfort?’ Bloom enquired.

  ‘I intercede with God on their behalf and ask Him to forgive them their sins in the name of Jesus Christ, our Saviour, and His Holy Mother, the Virgin of virgins.’

  ‘Do you hear confessions?’

  ‘That I do not do, unless they’re on their deathbed which they never are, not here at any rate.’ Father O’Grady continued without pause, ‘Have you anything you’d like to tell me, Leopold?’

  ‘Why don’t you explain why you’re really here,’ Bloom said, ‘then I’ll think about trading confidences.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard you were sharp.’

  ‘Who did you hear that from?’

  ‘An old chum of mine. Chum of yours, too, I believe.’

  ‘One of your parishioners?’

  ‘She is. She is, indeed.’

  Bloom lay across the width of the cot and rested the back of his head against the wa
ll. ‘This parishioner of yours, is she conscientious in her observances and devotions?’

  ‘She is.’ Father O’Grady paused, then said, ‘I assume we’re now reading from the same page? Mr Bloom – Leopold – I must ask you a direct question to which, I hope, you’ll give me a direct answer.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘Have you taken advantage of Miss MacDowell?’

  ‘Miss MacDowell?’

  ‘Oh, come now. You don’t buy a young woman soap – lemon soap, wasn’t it? – and then pretend you’ve forgotten her. Gerty MacDowell of Sandymount.’

  Bloom sighed and capitulated. ‘If you mean, as I think you do, have I taken advantage of Gerty’s trust, the answer is no, I have not.’

  ‘She’s very emotional, very impressionable. Easily swayed.’

  ‘Do you suppose I don’t torment myself with that knowledge every night in life,’ Bloom said.

  ‘Torment yourself?’ said Father O’Grady.

  ‘Is it pity, I ask myself, or is it affection.’

  ‘Or lust?’ the priest said. ‘You’re a married man, Leopold.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Yes, quite!’

  Bloom squinted up at the priest. ‘If you’re asking what there is between us in a carnal way,’ he said, ‘the answer is nothing. A kiss – more than one kiss – but that’s all. I wouldn’t do it, not to her. How much did Gerty tell you?’

  ‘She’s infatuated with you, that much is obvious,’ the priest said. ‘What’s less obvious is what you have to offer a woman so much younger than you are when you’re not free to marry.’

  ‘I am free to marry,’ Bloom reminded him. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Father O’Grady: what did Gerty tell you?’

  The priest detached himself from the wall and shook one leg and then the other to loosen his calf muscles. He said, ‘When I was very young I’d take Gerty on my back and run with her into the waves. She’d shriek with delight and cling on to me with bare legs and arms. I thought then, as you do when you know no better, that one day I would marry Gerty MacDowell and we’d live in a house on the strand and be happy ever after. That, however, was before she became a cripple and ashamed of her infirmity.’