The Judge's Wife

by Ann O'Loughlin

  “I won’t be long. Get in the car, it is open,” Andrew said, splashing water on the outside steps in his hurry. “Have you got your house keys?”

  Emma nodded and he pulled the front door shut behind him.

  Andrew chatted on for a while, but, sensing her reticence to talk, he quietened quickly, leaving her to her own thoughts.

  It was a still Sunday morning in the city. Had Grace gone to the asylum on a Sunday? She had no idea. Had the judge accompanied her? Surely he had. Why hadn’t he told her when she reached adulthood? Was he still so full of shame that he couldn’t?

  A trickle of tears burst under her lids and she looked out the passenger window so Andrew would not notice. If he observed her discomfort, he did not let on, but he switched the radio a little higher as they pulled out on the road to County Wicklow.

  “Less than an hour to Knockavanagh from here,” Andrew said, but he was not sure if Emma heard.

  “If there is a grave, I should have flowers.”

  For a moment, until Andrew answered, Emma had not realised she had said it aloud.

  “I suppose it would do no harm. Or you could wait until we know for sure.”

  “Primroses are out this time of year, aren’t they?”

  “We can pick them ourselves: there is a nice spot after we turn off for Knockavanagh.”

  “How do you know where to find primroses?”

  “Andrew Kelly is a mine of useless information like that, you should know that by now.”

  Emma did not answer.

  “You know, they don’t last very long unless you plant them out,” Andrew said gently.

  “I just think it would be nice. That’s all.”

  She had no idea why she was so set on primroses. Creamy yellow, delicate-looking yet surviving in the damp crag. The judge had never let her pick a bloom. Once she had asked to pick just one in St Stephen’s Green, but the judge rushed her along, chastising her that it was a selfish thing to pick a flower for oneself and not leave it for others to enjoy. “Learn from an early age, young lady, there are more people in the world than just you.”

  They turned onto a narrow windy road, Andrew sounding the car horn at the bends in the road.

  “There is a wood up a bit further. You will get bunches of primroses there,” Andrew said.

  “You will stop for me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? What is it going to add to the journey?”

  “You don’t think we should leave the flowers for others to enjoy?”

  “Like hell. In Ballycolla Woods only the mountain walkers on the Wicklow Way bother to pass. Sure, they would only grind them into the mud.” Andrew pulled into a small gateway. “It is dry enough today, so we should be all right.”

  They got out of the car and he led the way down the narrow path into the thick of the trees, the sunlight piercing through in small blocks.

  “It opens up lovely further on. There is a nice shady patch, usually smothered in primroses.” Primroses peeked from splits in the tree roots as the track broadened into a wider glade. “I told you, pick as many as you like.”

  Andrew bent down, yanking them out in clumps, and she wanted him to stop. Slowly, she bent down and snapped a stem, letting the sap wet her fingers.

  “Why primroses?” he asked, holding a wide bunch.

  “Beautiful, fragile, like Grace must have been.”

  They carried on until between them they had three generous bunches.

  “We should have brought a basket. I think I have something in the car,” Andrew said as they traipsed quietly out of the woods.

  He rummaged in the boot until he found an old box. They resumed their journey, the fresh, woody smell from the flowers seeping around them.

  “This is Knockavanagh,” he said after a while.

  The main street was quiet except for a few cars parked outside the newsagent’s. The grey asylum was boarded up, the roof caved in at the centre. Some walls were black, as if there had once been the intensity of fire. Election posters and graffiti on the wall of wood around the site discoloured and dirty.

  Andrew turned in to the church, stopping near the big house beside it. The air was damp. Shivering, Emma turned up the collar of her jacket. Crows cawed loudly, unnerving her, as she could not see the birds in the tall cypress trees. The path to the church was gravelled and clean, but those around the graveyard were more like trails, some more worn than others. Sinking her hands deep into her pockets, she trudged behind Andrew.

  Father Charlie O’Brien, standing at the notice board, waved at them, pieces of paper in his hand, two thumb tacks in his mouth.

  “I will be with you in a minute. A fine church for a wedding, isn’t it?” he said, pulling the drawing pins down past his lips. Before they could answer, he disappeared around the corner to collect two rolled-up posters. “Just let me get these pinned up before we sit and discuss the wedding.”

  Emma giggled and Andrew looked out over his glasses and said stiffly, “We are not here about a wedding.”

  “Oh my good Lord, you are not here for the rehearsal of the Whelan/McInerney wedding, are you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Father O’Brien stuck out his hand to Emma. “I have made a silly blunder. Forgive me. How can I help you folks?”

  “My name is Emma Moran. We are looking to find out about my mother.”

  “Your mother?” Father O’Brien looked momentarily taken aback, scratching his head in a loose attempt to hide his confusion.

  “Grace Moran. We think she was a patient in the asylum.”

  “The asylum has been gone from these parts since it burned down ten years ago. After that, the patients were scattered to institutions all over the place.”

  “We don’t know if Grace Moran died and was buried here. Could we check that while we are here?” Andrew asked.

  “I can have a quick look now if you have a date, but it may entail a more forensic examination of the books later,” the priest said.

  The crows cawed rowdily, quarrelling in the trees. A child passing waved at the priest and he waved back. Emma shuddered as a breeze skirted past them, to pummel and disturb the plastic flowers on the grave before her.

  “You can come with me, we have the records all in the one place.” He led the way around the back of the church to a small door in a grey stone building with a deep roof. Unlocking the door, he held it open and they stepped in. There was a bare stone floor, rows and rows of shelves all around the stone walls, and long, wide books with dates printed on the spine stacked on each shelf.

  “The asylum ran at full capacity until the early ’60s. There is a lot to go through if you don’t have a specific date.” Father O’Brien swept his hand to indicate the extent of the work ahead. “I am not sure you will get your answer today.” He took down one book and blew the dust from the cover before setting it down on a small table. “This might be a job for a local historian, but you are welcome to have a look through.” He tipped back the cover and ran his finger down the first list of entries, for 1955. “If you were only sure of a date, it would make it easier,” he said, waving his hand towards four different shelves.

  “Sounds like more than half an afternoon’s work.”

  Father O’Brien rubbed his hands together, as if anticipating the challenge. “I will leave you here, while I meet the wedding couple. You have to start somewhere. I am afraid the housekeeper has a few days off, but if you don’t mind waiting an hour or so, I will make a pot of tea when I am finished.”

  Emma ran her finger down along the first page of the book. “Such a lot of names on just one page.”

  “I suppose nobody here remembers a person who was in the asylum,” Andrew said.

  “You are out of luck. Father Grennan was the chaplain here for years. He died two months ago.” The priest looked uncomfortable and coughed to clear his throat. “There were a few fatalities in the fire. Those people are buried in a special part of the cemetery. Let me know if you want to check there.”


  Emma turned slightly away, so the priest would not see her upset. Tears blinded her eyes and the cawing of the crows intensified in her head. She wanted to run away, out of this cold, stone room with damp, wet walls, past the old blotched headstones to the car. She stepped out onto the gravel path, gulping in the cold air, which made her cough.

  Andrew, who had quietly followed her outside, put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Could it really be the case that she ended up in the asylum and died in a fire here? That is so hard to comprehend.”

  “We don’t know anything yet, Emma. We will deal with each thing as it comes along.”

  “I should not have picked the primroses.”

  “We can place them at some lonely grave if we can’t find one for Grace.”

  Emma took a deep breath and, steeling herself against the cold, stepped back into the icy room where the records of the asylum were stacked.

  Andrew pulled at the heavy spine of one of the books. “We will take a book each and see how we go. We can cut down on the work by following the gender code,” he said.

  The cold seeped up through their shoes, their fingers were like blocks of ice, a band of chill crept up their backs and lodged there. Each entry was in the same swirling script, each person described as a lunatic.

  The first few, Emma read every detail, but after a while she only picked out the female entries. After nearly an hour, pain flaring through her from the cold, the bones in her fingers grinding, she snapped her book shut, a puff of dust pushing into the air around her. “What is the point of all this? What is it going to be: only confirmation she was a lunatic who ended her days here and was buried in a lonely grave?”

  “Maybe it is time for a break,” Andrew said.

  Emma moved out into the cold sunshine, shivering as she strode up the gravel path to the car. Andrew, unsure, loitered in the doorway, stamping his feet on the ground to keep warm.

  Father O’Brien, seeing off the wedding couple, gestured to them. “I will make that tea. You must be frozen stiff.”

  “No, thank you. Maybe if we could come back later in the week, we can be better prepared.”

  “Why don’t we move the books you are interested in to the house?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “It will make it more comfortable for you. It is a hard enough task you are taking on without the cold biting into your brains. My housekeeper comes back on Thursday, so the prospect of a cuppa will be a much more welcoming proposition.” He laughed at his own joke and marched into the stone records office and grabbed three of the ledgers. “I will come back for the others. Before you go, why not check the section where the ten poor souls from the asylum fire are buried?”

  Father O’Brien led the way to the back door of the house.

  “Come on Thursday and use the front sitting room. Don’t worry, we will have the heat on from early. You never know, I might be able to persuade Miss McGuane to light a fire.”

  “We don’t want you to go to too much bother.”

  Father O’Brien dropped the books onto the couch. “I only hope you find what you are looking for.”

  They walked down a narrow path to the far end of the graveyard, the long, uncut grass verges whipping against their ankles, old ferns washing water over their shoes, wet cobwebs sticking to their legs. At the end of a steep decline lay an area marked out by a small fence. A gravel path led to a tall cross with a plaque underneath.

  Emma walked up the path, the length of five wide graves either side, to read the plaque and the names inscribed underneath. Her head was pounding, almost more than her heart.

  To the Men and Women who lost their lives in a fire at Our Lady’s Hospital, Knockavanagh,April 18, 1964. May they Rest in Peace.

  Quickly, she scanned the names. Grace Moran: number five on the right.

  Emma shoved her head into her hands. Andrew rushed to her side. They stood, the silence of the graveyard all around them. Emma, her shoulders hunched, let the tears flow into the silk scarf. That her quest had come to an end was both a shock and a sorrow.

  After a few minutes, Andrew lightly pulled her at the elbow. “Do you want to find the grave?”

  Emma nodded and they trudged between the graves, reading the headstones until Andrew called out at the far end near the wood.

  Grace Moran.

  Born August 21, 1935.

  Wife of Judge Martin Moran.

  Mother to Emma Moran.

  Let the light shine on Grace, who died tragically on

  April 18. 1964.

  Emma wanted to scream, but instead she spoke in a calm, measured manner. “It has come to this: a cold headstone beside a craggy wood on a grey day.”

  Andrew, his hands clenched in prayer, head bowed, stood beside her and did not move.

  Emma wiped a few leaves from the grave with her hand. She did not notice Andrew disappear back up the path to the car to collect the primroses. When he came back, Father O’Brien was with him, carrying three jars of water.

  “These flowers will last longer if you dip them in water,” he said, before they pulled back a respectful distance to allow Emma to arrange the primroses at the top of the grave. “I should have recognised the name. It is one of the most visited graves in the plot. My housekeeper keeps the lot nice and tidy. There is never a day in the summer it is without flowers.

  Emma didn’t say it, but she appreciated his soft manner.

  “I am sorry you should find out like this.”

  “You said it was a malicious fire?”

  Father O’Brien sighed loudly. “A man in the village had some grudge against the place. Years before, there had been some incident, when a number of local men attacked one of the female patients.” He stuttered in his telling. “There was a rape down by the well, but the Gardaí were never called. The director and a few of his buddies got together and warned the men involved to get out of town. When one particular young man returned a few years later, the director warned him again, but unfortunately this time the father took the matter into his own hands. He said afterwards he only wanted to give the director a fright, but when he set a rubbish bin ablaze, he had no idea the door to the basement would go up and the fire would enter the building. It was a windy night and sparks went all over the place.”

  Andrew kicked at the loose stones on the path. “I bet the bastard apologised to try and get a lighter sentence.”

  “He apologised all right, but it did nothing to ease his conscience. He took his own life in prison. He is buried at the far side of the cemetery.” Father O’Brien waved his hand to the new section of the graveyard. “There are a lot of tragic stories here, but I am sorry you had to find your mother is one of them. Come up to the house for tea.”

  Andrew answered for them. “We are all right, Father, we had better get along.”

  He guided Emma away from the grave, out through the gate and up the hill towards the car.

  “Do you think that is why he never brought me to the grave? Because he did not want me to know about the fire?”

  “It would certainly have been a valid reason when you were a youngster.”

  “Do you think we could stop at the asylum?”

  “You are a glutton for punishment, you are.”

  Father O’Brien waved them off. Emma closed her eyes for a moment, until Andrew pulled the car to a halt.

  “I don’t think we can get in.”

  “I am not sure that I want to. Maybe I could stand at the gate. I won’t be long.”

  Emma stepped over the sodden rubbish on the ground at the old gates. The timber placed there to block out the outside, decades ago, had fallen away, exposing the brown, rough, rusted bars. The overgrown driveway could have been the entrance to a big house. The lawns that must have once been manicured were now sodden and mossy. A monkey puzzle tree stood tall and proud.

  She pressed her face against the bars of the gate. The doorways of the old grey building were boarded up; every pane of window glass was
smashed, as if there had been a grand stoning of the building. The walls that were still standing were scorched black. A chaffinch landed on a hedge at the side of the avenue and twitched its head, watching her. In the distance she saw a low grey building, the parking clearly marked out. From one window on the top floor, an old flag lay forlornly, as if somebody at one time had put it there in a burst of enthusiasm and completely forgot about it, through too many heavy winters.

  A sweep of loneliness threatened to overtake her, so she turned away quickly and jumped into the car.

  Andrew did not need to ask how she was. He could see the scowl of worry on her forehead, her mouth set stiff as she tried not to cry.

  They were about a mile out of the village when she spoke. “Why did she ever have to come to a place like this?”

  “We don’t have the facts, Emma. There is no point trying to rationalise it until we do,” Andrew replied.

  “I think even if we do come across the facts, it is not going to make sense.”

  25

  Bangalore, India, May 1984

  Rosa, he thought, looked a little different: more confident maybe, her mouth set at a harder angle. “Anil, is he behaving himself?” he asked.

  “A coward always does what he is told.” She sat down and looked at Vikram. “Uncle, I want to hear the whole story.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. “I will tell, but if you get bored, please stop me.”

  She shook her head, smiling. “It is a break for me, Uncle, from what has been going on these last few days.”

  *

  “Grace was pregnant. It was such news, I wanted to take her away immediately and come to India, but she was afraid. She had to get out of her sham marriage with her husband. She waited until she was gone three months to tell him.”

  Vikram stopped as a stab of pain shot through him. He was not sure if it was a new pain, because of the stress of talking out these past events, or the old one visiting in a different way.