Whatever Happenened to Molly Bloom?

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Did you really keep all my letters?’ Anne-Marie asked.

  ‘I did. I did, indeed,’ Bloom answered. ‘Every last one.’

  ‘If, by some miracle, you escape the gallows,’ Maureen Dunne said, ‘the day you step out of that court you’ll be hearing from us with a writ for breach of promise.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘My word on it, Leopold. You won’t hear from either of us again.’

  ‘It’s more than I deserve,’ said Bloom humbly.

  ‘Too bloody true, it is,’ said dumpy Miss Dunne.

  Anne-Marie Blaney said, ‘It was my fault as much as yours. You didn’t treat me very well but I was wrong to open my heart to you, a stranger. I’m glad we met, though. A lifetime of wondering would have done me no good at all. It’s best for both of us if we let Henry and Martha rest in peace.’

  Bloom stifled a whoop of relief. He rose with as much dignity as he could muster and bowed. ‘Thank you, Miss Blaney. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.’ He hesitated, then, going the whole hog, took her hand in his and bussed her knuckles. ‘Goodbye, Martha, my dearest. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, dearest Henry.’ She paused. ‘Forever.’

  Bloom turned discreetly away to hide his emotions while McGonagall showed the ladies out into the yard and pointed them in the direction of the tram stop on the O’Connell Road.

  The jailer lingered for a moment at the door to watch the older woman link arms with the younger and wondered what they could possibly be saying and why, when they reached the pavement, the tall one in the feather boa and blue toque gave a merry little skip.

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Blaney, ‘that was a lucky escape, I must say.’

  ‘What?’ said Miss Dunne. ‘Why?’

  ‘Now I’ve met him,’ said Anne-Marie Blaney, ‘I don’t fancy him at all,’ then, to the bewilderment of jailer McGonagall, gave another little skip just as the tram arrived to carry them away.

  One of the perils of being the junior partner in Tolland, Roper and Sullivan was that you were expected to juggle a dozen clients at once and, for the sake of the fees, let alone your own reputation, keep them happy while their cases bogged down in legal limbo.

  It was not, therefore, all fun and games and coroner’s courts for young Neville who, immediately on his return from Glasnevin, had to deal with a delegation from a Dutch shipbuilder whose contract to build a suction dredger for the Dublin Dockyard Company had been blocked by an upstart geologist from the Port Authority who was concerned about rising silt levels which, as Neville and several irate Dutchmen tried to point out, was exactly the problem the dredger was designed to solve.

  The geologist became more recalcitrant and the Dutchmen more irascible as morning gave way to afternoon and the large scale tidal maps that Mr Oram, Neville’s clerk, had spread about the office were in danger of being ripped to shreds.

  It was into this melee that Miss Sarah Tolland – with some egging on from Mr Oram – intruded.

  If there was one thing Poppy Tolland’s daughter was good at it was pouring oil on troubled waters; Lord knows, she’d had enough experience arbitrating between her father and her mother over the years. Good manners dictated that she apologise and retreat but common sense prompted her to hold her ground and, it being past lunch time, swords were sheathed, a truce declared and, with Neville’s promise to convene another meeting soon, both parties repaired to the Parador to continue the argument over beef steaks, apple charlotte and a bottle or two of burgundy.

  Closing the door of the office with his heel, Neville kissed his intended’s ear, her neck and finally her lips with a fervour that owed more to gratitude than passion.

  ‘Thank God, darling,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d never get rid of them. Billing’s one thing but bull-headedness is quite another.’

  ‘Is there no resolution in sight?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  ‘Can it be taken to arbitration?’

  ‘Civil court? It may come to that. If not I may just have to …’

  ‘Resign?’ Miss Tolland said.

  ‘Elope,’ said Mr Sullivan.

  When Miss Sarah Tolland smiled the effect was nothing short of dazzling. ‘I’m not averse to that,’ she said, ‘but I would prefer to have lunch first, if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Sound idea,’ Neville said. ‘A little fizz to wash away the taste of silt and graveyards would go down a treat. I have’ – he consulted his pocket watch – ‘one hour and twenty-two minutes before my meeting with a market gardener who feels he’s been diddled over a load of horse manure.’

  ‘I’m sure Poppy would have something to say about that,’ Sarah said. ‘Speaking of which, I didn’t drop by just to scrounge lunch. Father asked me to give you this?’

  Neville took the envelope and turned it over suspiciously, as if he expected it to explode in his hand. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Poppy’s not going to confide in a mere blood relative, especially a female. Perhaps if you open it …’

  ‘Um, yes, of course,’ said Neville and, with his thumbnail, slit the seal of the envelope and tipped out a printed card – Mercury Life Assurance Society, Established 1888, Unusually Low Premiums on Family Life Policies and Endowments. Dublin Office, 18 Smile Street. Secretary for Ireland, J.F. Leonard – across which in heavy pencil Mr Tolland had scribbled, ‘Bloom.’

  ‘How on earth did he track it down?’ said Neville.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sarah, tapping not her own nose but Neville’s. ‘Poppy, like God, moves in mysterious ways. Is it of use to you?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Neville answered. ‘Smile Street? Is there such a street in Dublin or is it made up?’

  ‘I’ve never been entirely sure that Dublin itself isn’t made up,’ Sarah said, ‘but, yes, I know where Smile Street is. It’s a tiny street off the bottom of Amiens Street, not far from the courthouse.’

  ‘Hardly the Equitable Life then?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Are you going there now?’

  ‘No, I’m accompanying a beautiful woman to lunch,’ said Neville gallantly. ‘Tomorrow will do. I assume the Mercury does business on Saturday.’

  ‘If it does any business at all,’ said Sarah and, adjusting his necktie and handing him his hat, steered him away from the office before he could change his mind.

  TWENTY

  Miss Gerty MacDowell was hastening home from Irishtown down the length of Tritonville Road. Dusk now, or almost so. A stiff easterly layered the sky above the Bay with turbulent clouds, within which the beams of the lighthouse flickered in sullen flashes.

  The lamps along the road were being lighted and the lamps in the houses too. Walking as fast as her legs would carry her, Gerty passed gardens and hedges shawled in shadow. In spite of traffic on the road, kiddies playing on the pavement and the familiar tea-time troupe of men and women returning from work, she felt exposed. The foot was dragging and the straps of her shoe would be scuffed if she didn’t slow down. She was all too aware of the man behind her, a big man in a belted mackintosh and brown fedora who had picked her up somewhere shy of London Bridge Road and had dogged her footsteps every since.

  It wasn’t the first time in the past week she’d felt as if she was being followed. She’d told Cissy and Cissy had tried to laugh it off but hadn’t quite managed. Cissy too had lost her – what was the word Poldy used? – her insouciance and took everything, or nearly everything, seriously these days.

  She knew it couldn’t be Father O’Grady. He’d dropped in mid-morning when she’d been out in the back hanging sheets in the hope it wouldn’t rain. He’d come out to her – her mother watching from the window – and had told her he’d seen Mr Bloom and had given him her note and Poldy had said, ‘I understand,’ which was all the reply she’d needed and had made her feel much better.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The man was still there, matching his step to hers, slowing when she slowed and starting up again when she did. She wasn’t far from home. Sh
e could see the privet hedge that her father never cut hanging over the pavement, leaves rustling in the wind in the lamppost light. She was cramping, her calf cramping. She had to stop, just had to and, hand braced against the wall in front of the house painter’s house, she did.

  The man padded up behind her and then around her so she couldn’t escape. Tipping back his hat and stooping, he looked into her face and said, ‘Miss MacDowell, is it? Miss Gerty MacDowell? Inspector Kinsella.’ He politely took off his hat so she could see his face. ‘Dublin Metropolitan. May I have a word with you?’

  She felt blood rush to her cheeks, swayed a little and rested her bottom on the wall, not caring if her skirt got soiled. She had her breath back but her heart had gone to the races and she needed the wall for support.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you. I thought it best to catch you before you reached home. If you wish we can go to your house and have a chat there.’

  ‘No,’ Gerty got out. ‘Here.’

  Kinsella could readily understand why Bloom found her attractive. She was pretty in a pale, china-doll sort of way. She had blue eyes and stencilled brows that gave her face definition and what his daughter, Violet, would call feminine mystique. She had beautiful hair, short cut, dark brown and wavy, and wore just exactly the right sort of little hat to show it off. The navy skirt was stride cut, he noticed, and her blouse not just clean but spotless. He pondered her age: six or seven years older than Milly Bloom, probably thirteen or fourteen younger than Leopold: twenty-three or -four would be his guess.

  ‘Do your parents approve of your friendship with Mr Bloom?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’

  ‘No.’

  Mr O’Shea, one of her father’s boozing friends, went past, stepping wide of the policeman, and slid an inquisitive glance at her. It was all up with her now. Even if the policeman didn’t take her off to jail she’d have to answer to her father. There would be more shouting, more raging, another excuse for him to stamp out of the house to drink away money they didn’t have.

  In the window of the living-room of the painter’s house behind her a light went on. She knew, without looking round, that Mrs Gorman, the house painter’s wife, would be squinting to see who was sitting on her wall.

  The detective put on his hat and, crouching slightly, said, ‘If you’re going to lie to me, Miss MacDowell, I’ll have to escort you to the police station, and you wouldn’t want that would you? So, I’ll ask you again: your friendship with Leopold Bloom, do your parents know of it?’

  ‘Who told you about Leopold? Was it Cissy?’

  ‘No,’ Kinsella said. ‘Whoever Cissy might be, it wasn’t her.’

  ‘Leopold and I aren’t … we don’t do what married people do. Mr Bloom would never take advantage.’

  ‘He’s a gentleman, in other words?’

  ‘He is, he is.’

  There was a rhythm to questioning, a beat like the beat in music, like the tick-tock of the metronome on top of Marigold’s piano. All he had to do to get Miss MacDowell to answer his questions was find the right tempo.

  He said, ‘How long have you known Mr Bloom?’

  ‘Since August.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘At Mrs Dignam’s.’

  ‘Where does Mrs Dignam live?’

  ‘Newbridge Avenue.’

  ‘Is Mrs Dignam a friend of yours?’

  ‘She’s a widow. My mother sent me round with a fruit pudding to give the children a treat.’

  ‘Mr Bloom, what was he doing there?’

  ‘Making sure Mrs Dignam received her insurance money.’

  Darkness was settling quickly and the east wind had a keen edge. The young woman shivered. Jim Kinsella resisted an urge to cut short the informal interview and let her get off home. He was curious about the circumstances of that first meeting, though, and how the affair had progressed.

  He said, ‘Did Bloom visit your house?’

  ‘Once, just once, before Christmas. My father tried to throw him out but Poldy wouldn’t leave. He said he had nothing to be ashamed of. My father said did he think we were low life and he could do what he liked with me. Poldy flew into a temper and told my father off good and proper. After that, we met outside.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘As often as we could.’

  If I press her too hard she’ll break, Kinsella thought. He could pull her in but he didn’t want to do that just yet.

  He said, ‘Did Mr Bloom give you presents?’

  ‘Yes, soap.’

  ‘Soap?’

  ‘Lemon soap, for Christmas, in a lovely box.’

  ‘Perfume, did he give you perfume too?’

  ‘No, he said he liked the scent I wore.’

  ‘What sort of scent do you wear, Miss MacDowell?’

  ‘Halcyon Days it’s called.’

  ‘My daughter likes that one. I think she gets it from Winterbottom’s.’

  ‘That’s where I buy mine too,’ said Gerty MacDowell.

  ‘Were you ever in Mr Bloom’s house?’

  Curtly: ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Mr Bloom’s wife? I assume you knew he was married?’

  The question gave her pause. He wondered what they talked about, Bloom and she, or if Bloom saw in her a blank slate upon which he could draw his own pattern.

  ‘He told me he was married. Anyway, Mrs Dignam knew he was married. She told me he was unhappy at home and it wouldn’t be wrong to be friends with him provided I didn’t … you know. If I didn’t do it I could still go to confession and take the mass.’

  ‘And Mr Bloom’s wife?’

  ‘I never met her.’

  ‘Did Mr Bloom ever talk about her?’

  ‘Now and then. Not much. I’m sorry she’s dead. Poor woman to pass like that.’

  ‘You’re sure you never visited number 7 Eccles Street?’

  Again curtly, too curtly: ‘No, never.’

  She waited for him to ask again, to browbeat her into revealing the truth. Poldy had told her she must say nothing to anyone until his trials were over and, if a jury found him guilty, must forget she’d ever known him. Thoughts of Poldy in prison, thoughts of never seeing him again filled her with dread. The only person she’d told about that night was Cissy. She hadn’t even told Father O’Grady.

  She said, ‘Have you seen Poldy— Mr Bloom today?’

  ‘No, not since we left court.’

  ‘Didn’t he get out to go to her funeral?’

  The Inspector shook his head. ‘He didn’t request parole.’

  ‘Were you there?’ she asked. ‘At Glasnevin?’

  ‘I was,’ Kinsella answered.

  ‘Were there wreathes?’

  ‘Yes, several.’

  ‘And flowers?’

  ‘No, no flowers.’

  ‘Poldy told me she loved flowers. Did anyone sing?’

  Kinsella shook his head again.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Gerty MacDowell said. ‘Poor woman, though she had only herself to blame, I suppose.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just said it.’

  She stamped her foot, the lame one, not, he thought, petulantly but to ease a cramp. He wondered if she’d been born with the deformity or if an accident had caused it. Without that blemish she’d probably have been married by now.

  She was shivering again, white-faced.

  ‘All right, Miss MacDowell,’ he said. ‘I think that’s enough. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Have I?’ She seemed surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘Every crumb of information is useful.’

  ‘Will he … will Poldy go free?’

  ‘I believe there’s every chance of that happening.’

  ‘Oh!’ She smiled for the first time. ‘Oh, that would be the answer to all my prayers. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss MacDowell.
’

  Tipping the brim of his fedora, Jim Kinsella nodded and headed off in the direction of the tram stop, leaving Bloom’s naive little ladylove to limp off home for her tea.

  If she’d still been living in Eccles Street Milly was sure it would all have been too much and she’d have collapsed under the strain. In her year away from home, however, her outlook had changed. Dublin was no longer the hub of her universe. Even so, all the lovely things that had made her childhood a happy one should have counted for more than they did. She’d loved her mother, though not quite as much as her father. She recalled how when Mummy was being what Papli called ‘unreasonable’ he would slip away with his little Milly to ride on a tram-car or stroll round town and was never ashamed to be seen holding her hand or, when she was small, carrying her on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. But Papli too had changed. During those first weeks in Mullingar she’d wondered if she’d been sent away as a punishment or because she’d become, to use one of Mummy’s favourite expressions, ‘an inconvenience’.

  Papli had explained that he’d arranged for her to train to be a photographer so she’d have a career to fall back on and wouldn’t have to marry just any Tom, Dick or Harry. She hadn’t really believed him and her first thought on learning in court that Mummy had a baby inside her was that she’d been packed off to make way for a new Rudy or another little Milly, which, of course, was impossible; she’d been in Mullingar for fully eight months before the baby had even been conceived.

  The way her mother had met her end would have disturbed her more if the weapon had been a dagger or a pistol. That was the way heroines died in all the plays and operas she’d ever seen. Being murdered with the painted teapot of which her mother was so proud seemed more like a comic sketch than anything else. Seeing her mother laid out on the slab in the mortuary had shocked her, though. But self-control was expected and the funeral had been a brave show on her part. It had pleased her no end to see Michael Paterson from Mullingar there, her friend, not one of her father’s cronies or her mother’s admirers but someone who’d come from the country to pay his respects to her, and no one else.