She slipped up to the blue room, sitting at the dressing table to read the letter, the morning light pooling through the window. Using the teeth of a small comb, she unpicked the gummed flap. Carefully, she pulled the paper from the envelope. With age it had become dry and flimsy. There were brown crackly creases, as if it had been read and reread, folded over and carried around.
August 31, 1953
My dearest Grace,
They say there is no greater place in the world to show the love of one man for a woman than the Taj Mahal. I want to bring you there, to hold your hand and whisper my love for you in your ear. Please let me take you away. I can see the two of us in front of the great monument.
Grace, know that I love and adore you: nothing can change that. I hope in the future you will learn to accept that as a given every day.
Shah Jahan was able to commission a great edifice to show the love for the woman he adored. I can only tell you and tell you again how much I love you, and reassure you that we will be together. You, Grace, are everything to me. Please believe me when I say it. I can’t build great monuments to show you. I can only go on my knees before you and tell you I love you.
I don’t need to tell you how beautiful, how powerful the Taj Mahal is, but I can tell you how I feel, thinking of us standing in the shadow of such a dream in marble. I know our love is strong, and if wishes could be granted I would wish to sit in the shadow of that great monument, to hold your hand and just be. Stay strong, my love, and we will find a way to be together.
All my love,
Vikram
A furrow of pain barged between her eyes and tears pressed down her face. The sun was rising high in the sky, sliding into the room. Loneliness consumed her, sitting here at Grace’s dressing table: loneliness that no man had ever written to her in this way.
When Andrew Kelly called up the stairs, she rushed to wipe her eyes. Hastily, she opened Grace’s make-up and patted some decades-old powder across her face, rubbing it in with her fingers. Red lipstick she dotted on, spreading it with her middle finger.
“Sorry I was buried deep in a box,” she said as she came down the stairs.
Andrew took in the pink blotches near her eyes, the powder streaked into ridges under her neck. “It is not too late to change your mind.”
“I want to see the library empty.” She peered into the room, taking in the length of the shelves, the desk alone at the end of the room, the light seeping in to fill the entire space.
Andrew gave the keys of the truck to the last man out the door and closed it behind him. He walked into the library and picked up a blackthorn stick in the corner.
“That was not Martin’s.”
Emma stared at it. “It was Aunt Violet’s. She lived here when I was young.”
“A tough woman by all accounts. Do you want to keep it?”
Emma shivered. “I hardly want to touch it, but I know what to do with it.”
“No time like the present.”
Emma snapped up the stick. She could hear Violet’s voice. “You might think you are high and mighty, girl, but believe me, you are nothing. Just because the judge calls you his daughter, that does not mean anything these days.”
Emma marched outside to the skip and fired the stick so that it swished through the air, landing with a clatter on top of an old fridge, the door half open.
Andrew was pacing the library, his hand lightly fanning the shelves, when she returned.
“It does not feel the same without his law books. He could not bear to have them moved before he passed away.”
She did not say anything and, sensing an agitation in her, he made to leave. “Call me if you need me, Emma,” he said as he went out the front door, pulling it hard behind him.
Taking Vikram’s letter from her pocket, Emma walked down the library, her steps echoing, the room no longer insulated by his books. The empty shelves stood sentry on a life lived and now gone. Marooned at the end of the room, his desk no longer dominated. Now the suitcase sat on top, Grace’s presence prevailed.
She sat at the desk and opened up the letter again. The house was still around her, the sounds of the city far off. Grace should have run, run, run to Vikram, that is what Emma knew, but there was nothing to show she had.
She read slowly each line again, her shoulders shaking, the tears rolling down her cheeks, some dropping onto the paper, and she wondered would anyone ever come to love her so.
14
Our Lady’s Asylum, Knockavanagh, April 1954
Teresa was crying, but nobody bothered. She snooked loudly, complaining so bitterly that Grace moved away from her to sit by the window. A clump of yellow primroses bloomed bright, wedged between the cracked concrete at the top of a window on the floor below. Sometimes a bird came and swiped at the flowers or a bee flitted between the petals, making the stems spring forward. Grace picked up a white linen handkerchief from the pile beside her chair, folding it over as if making pleats. Sybil Connolly got such perfect tight pleats in her linen dresses, enduring even after being balled into a suitcase.
“That won’t be worth sending out to the tourist shop in town if you don’t quit squeezing the bejaysus out of it,” an attendant called over. Grace released the handkerchief, letting the pleats fall away, puncturing the fabric with her needle.
She had hemmed four handkerchiefs when she saw the judge’s car come through the gates. He stopped the car long enough to talk to the gateman, rolling down his window and handing something to the old man, who beamed with gratitude. The Morris Oxford pulled in front of reception and the judge got out, stopping to flick some fluff from his trousers before striding to reception.
She shut her eyes, letting the sunshine dance on her eyelids, feeling the swell of Vikram’s kisses, the sea breeze chilly and red on their cheeks, making their eyes shine with water. They should have hopped on a ferry that very day, or any one of the days after that. The word dead pounded in her head. Dead: four letters carrying an eternity of heartbreak.
Violet had used the word so easily. Grace heard again now the cries echoing down the corridor. Never allowed to touch, to whisper in an ear, to reassure before life ebbed away. She was never even allowed a glimpse. It tormented her thoughts now, the only memories left of pain and loss. When Aunt Violet had come to her, she pleaded for a moment to say goodbye.
“Out of the question. There will be no handling of the dead.”
“Just to say goodbye.”
“Have some respect for the dead and the job the women here have to do, preparing the innocent for burial.”
“I did not get a chance to give a name. Something for the headstone.”
“Names don’t matter at this stage.”
Fear clamped across her. She had tried to get out of the bed, calling at the top of her voice, but Violet pushed her back in, telling her to quieten down.
“Don’t wake the whole street. You are not the first woman to be in this situation and you won’t be the last.”
A finger jabbed into Grace’s back.
“He is a saint of a man to come to see you, that judge is, but he has. Look lively. Get some shoes on and tidy up your clothes, you can’t meet a judge looking like that.”
Grace slipped on her shoes and closed up her cardigan so the stain from last night’s stew at the front of her dress did not show.
The judge, standing by the waiting room door, reached out with his gloved hand and guided her to a chair beside the empty fireplace. An attendant sat to one side.
“I am afraid after what happened the last time, the director is insisting on somebody staying with us. How are you?”
“Okay.”
“Grace, it breaks my heart to see you in here. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
“My friend Maureen McGuane, I want to know what happened her, when she is coming back to the ward.”
“I cannot interfere in hospital policy.”
“She was attacked by men down at the well. She needs help,
not to be locked up like a dog.”
The attendant coughed and looked severely at Grace.
The judge stood up. “Aunt Violet suggested I come here. We all only want what is best for you, Grace. We will be guided by the medical people.”
“Was there a burial, prayers?”
“Grace, only you can make yourself better. Violet says you are being too stubborn. That is not going to help anything.”
“Where is the grave?”
“Let the past go: you concentrate on getting better.”
“I am not ill.”
The judge gave a sympathetic look to the attendant and smiled. “I know that, darling, you just rest.”
He made to walk from the room, raising his hand in a signal so the attendant sidled over. Thanking the small, wiry woman for her patience, he slipped a crisp note into her overalls pocket.
Grace ignored his leaving. There was a cold grave and he was not going to tell her where. Was there even a wooden cross? Neither was there anybody to visit and place flowers. Primroses: the grave needed primroses, sweet and delicate and fleeting.
The attendant beckoned to her and gave her a gentle push as she trudged up the steel stairs to the landing, where a long window held up one end. Her eyes lingered on the boggy fields, spreading away from the well to the farmhouse in the distance. She took in the grey sky, the crows flying low, the sound of a tractor in the field beyond the well, before she was ordered to move on. This landscape was her whole world. An ache of loneliness flushed through her, passive acceptance strangling her. Martin was content to let her stay here, she knew that, and Aunt Violet would make sure of it.
*
Three days later, Mandy was escorted onto the ward and told to take up her usual bed.
Nobody spoke as she paced like a ghost down the narrow corridor between the steel beds, her head down, darting quick glances at some of the women she knew.
Teresa danced up the row, singing, “Mandy fell down the well.” Grace made to hush her but her voice only got louder.
Mandy crawled into bed. The attendant stopped and looked at her, a tight bundle on a small bed, before leaning over and whispering in Grace’s ear. “You got what you wanted, her back beside you, but you will regret it. That one is damaged goods.”
Grace sat on the edge of her friend’s bed. Mandy, her head under the grey blanket, did not say anything, but the cover twitched, agitated by the storm of sobbing underneath.
Laying a gentle hand on her, she hummed the only tune she could remember: “Rock-a-Bye Baby”. Slowly, the crying stopped and Grace thought Mandy must be asleep, so she pulled her chair to the window and picked up her sewing.
Outside, children walking home from school dared each other to climb the asylum wall. One boy, his face pulsing with exertion, his spots bulging, got to the top, but the caretaker saw him and shouted.
*
Mandy ignored everybody for a week, barely eating and hiding under her blanket. Some of the other women walked up and stood at the end of the bed, staring at the mound that was once her. Some whispered to each other in huddles. Others did not even notice the unspoken tension on the ward.
Grace talked to Mandy almost nonstop, any words, so that this shrivelled young woman knew somebody cared enough to be around her. Sometimes she reached out to touch the blanket, making her friend shudder.
“Mandy fell down the well,” Teresa sang and Grace knew better than to try and stop her. At first the attendants laughed, but they too soon tired of the one-line ditty. “It is old news, sweetheart, pick another event to crow about,” one of them sniggered.
Grace did not think Mandy much noticed her loitering at her bedside, until one morning she fiercely pushed her hand away. “For fuck’s sake, why can’t you leave me alone?”
“I only want to help. I know what happened.”
Mandy jumped up. “Do you? Do you know what it is like to be raped by one man while the others stand around smoking cigarettes, talking football and waiting their turn? Do you?” Grabbing Grace by the wrist, she squeezed hard. “What the fuck would you know about a bunch of men, fat and balding, young and smelly, pushing into you like you would stuff a turkey? Don’t tell me you want to help.” As quick as she had grabbed Grace, she let go, making her stagger backwards.
Gingerly, Grace reached out. When Mandy felt her hand, she snatched it hard, falling into Grace, sobs coursing through her.
“They ripped off your lovely skirt and threw it down the well. I think they thought I was dead because I stopped fighting and screaming after a while.”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . . shhh.”
“The bastard caretaker found me and did not even come near me. He ran for the boss man, who would only touch me with his shoe, like I was a dead dog on the road. ‘A pity she is not dead. Not a word about this to anyone,’ he said, and ordered I be brought to isolation.”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . . shhh.”
“They told me to clean myself up, pushed me under a cold shower. Three days they left me in a tiny room by myself, handing food trays in the door. Nobody could bear to even look at me.”
“Shhh . . . shhh . . . shhh.”
Grace got up and walked to the window. Below, she saw a fox slip across the grass. At the gate, the caretaker was reading his newspaper.
Mandy stood beside her, watching the sunlight making patchwork of the front lawn.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely to run over that grass in our bare feet?”
“Run away from here altogether.”
Neither of them spoke again. The fox, sensing their eyes, quickened its pace, disappearing through the hedge.
“Maureen McGuane, you have a visitor.” The nurse beckoned to Mandy to hurry up.
“Nobody comes to see me.”
“Make yourself presentable.”
Mandy waited until the attendant was out of earshot. “The last time I did that, look what happened to me.”
“Maybe it is the Gardaí,” Grace said, handing her a brush.
“Why should I bother?”
The attendant threw a pair of shoes at her. “Hurry up.”
“They are too big for me.”
“Pardon me if you left yours at the well, young woman. Hurry up, we can’t have the visitor waiting all day.”
Grace reached over, squeezing Mandy’s hand before she left. The shoes clopped noisily as she walked.
One of the tea ladies trundled her trolley slowly down the ward, collecting cups. “If I were you, I would stay away from that one.”
Grace pretended not to hear. A basket full to the brim with linen handkerchiefs was plonked down beside her by an attendant. “The chief said to tell you they want more. The Yanks are lapping up the linen hankies.”
“Waste of good material. Why can’t they be like the rest of us and use cotton?” the tea lady snorted.
Grace pulled the basket to the chair by the window. A robin flew in, dancing sideways on the windowsill. He dipped his head, his eyes darting in every direction, until, with a shake of his fluffed feathers, he rose up, flying away into a sheet of mist shrouding the marshy land beyond the high walls.
Vikram was speaking softly to her.
“We will go to the Taj Mahal, my sweetheart. We will have to wake up extra early to see it peep through the mist. When the morning mist from the Yamuna is down, it is like the gods with giant erasers rub out the dome, the minarets and all traces. The morning haze rolls in to throw a protective cover over the big, cold monument to love.
“Another hour it will be before the sun’s rays tweak at the corners of the misty cover and playfully tug the blanket of fog to reveal, if only fleetingly, some of the magic underneath. As the sun builds up its heat, the mist is pushed around each layer and slowly pulled away, as if the cover is made of several rolls of the finest parachute silk. The dome, in all its eerie aloneness, is the first to be uncovered, sitting on top of the light fog like a water lily floating on a pond.
“Next, each of the minarets punch throu
gh, finding a weak spot in the silk layers and managing to escape. In a dash, the cover is thrown aside, the silk rolls effortlessly cast away. The monument, yet again, presides over the city. At that moment, everything appears so right with the world.”
The tea lady, who was showing a new girl the ropes, pointed at Grace. “That is a perfect example of how to ruin your life over a stupid man. She had everything: looks, clothes and a judge for a husband, and what did she do? Throw it away for a fling with a foreigner. Silly girl thought she was going to run away with him. Keep it under your hat, but that is what I heard the nurses say anyway. I will tell you, once he heard of the pregnancy he skedaddled and the poor husband was left to pick up the pieces. Let her and all these poor creatures be a lesson to you. There is no such thing as love, just a lot of silly women who think there is. Look at her by that window every day, mooning her life away, thinking that foreign chap will come for her. May the Lord bless her stupid heart.”
Grace did not show she had heard but continued to watch the front garden, where a man was talking to the director. Agitated, the man threw his hands in the air before jumping in his car and driving off, turning so fast out of the asylum his car tyres left skid marks on the road.
Mandy was back on the ward ten minutes later. She lay on the bed, curled up in a ball. Grace knew to leave her alone. After a while she sat up.
“I suppose you want to know who it was.”
“If you want to tell.”
“It was my father.”
Her voice was trembling, but she concentrated on tracing a pattern on her blanket as she spoke.
“They heard about the attack.”
“He was worried.”
“About his own good name, more likes. Asked me what I did to lead those men on.”
“I hope you told him the truth.”
Mandy stopped, her finger smarting from the coarseness of the blanket wool. “Would it matter? People like that like to believe the gossip.”
“Surely if he knew … ”
“He does know, he chooses not to know. Says if I am pregnant I am on my own. I said I was on my own anyway. He said the family did not want anything more to do with me, that I was not to expect anything from him in the future.”
The Judge's Wife Page 8
