A Keeper

by Graham Norton

  Elizabeth pushed her laptop away. Was this woman trying to make jokes? She had only avoided being accused of statutory rape by a few months! A slight tremor had taken hold of her right hand. She couldn’t remember when she had ever been this angry. She wanted to commit violent acts, cause bodily harm, scream at somebody. Elizabeth read on.

  You will not be surprised that my life has not turned out the way I had planned. I have a failed marriage—

  Elizabeth let out an involuntary grunt of disapproval.

  —and a failed business. Please don’t think I am trying to make excuses but Zach was the first person to make me feel good about myself in a very long time.

  A scarf. Elizabeth wanted to get a long scarf, wrap it around Michelle’s neck and pull really hard.

  When I found out about the baby, I was shocked (I promise you, we had been careful), but then I began to realise that all of this had happened for a reason. I hope you can understand and forgive me. You have a child—

  Yes, I do, thought Elizabeth, and you have robbed him of what’s left of his childhood. The nerve of this woman!

  —so you know what it means. I want to reassure you that this is my journey. Zach can’t be a father right now and I don’t want to ask that of him. He must continue on his own path. I am so sorry to have brought pain to your family, but please know that you have given me a gift for which I will be forever grateful.

  Was this woman mentally stable enough to look after a baby? And as much as Elizabeth longed for this creature to vanish, surely her son should have some sort of say in what happened next. There was also a tiny part of her heart that rebelled at the notion of her grandchild being spirited away. She glanced back at the final paragraph.

  I hope to see you in New York with Zach. Please don’t judge me too harshly. I have made terrible mistakes but I finally feel that I have got something right.

  Yours in motherhood,

  Michelle.

  Hope. Understand. Forgive. All Elizabeth wanted to do was throw her laptop out of the car window into a ditch.

  THEN

  Patricia began to ring the bell and didn’t stop till she heard the key in the lock. Mrs Foley stepped into the room. She didn’t seem at all surprised to find Patricia standing on the bed, backed against the wall, pointing at the basket on the floor.

  ‘A baby? Why have you …? I don’t understand. A baby. Why is a baby in that basket?’ Her voice was little more than a breathy rasp.

  Mrs Foley stood very still and replied calmly. ‘That’s little Elizabeth. She’ll be needing fed soon. I’ll bring up a bottle.’ And before Patricia could say anything else the door had been closed and locked. She jumped from the bed and began to hammer at the door with her fists.

  ‘Edward! Edward! Where are you?’ He must know the answer to this mystery. Where had the mad old crone found a baby? Patricia imagined some poor mother out in the world somewhere frantic with fear, wondering where her child had disappeared to. Behind her a small cry came from the basket. She banged on the door some more but then the crying got louder. Patricia bent down to the basket and for the first time looked at the baby’s face. It was crinkled up in mid-cry but stopped as Patricia’s face loomed into view and cast a shadow. The large blue eyes stared up at her and the infant’s arms began to conduct a tiny orchestra. Patricia felt the urge to pick up the small human and hold her close but she stopped herself. This baby had to go back to where it belonged, and that meant she mustn’t fall into Mrs Foley’s trap. If she came back to find Patricia nursing the child then it would be so much harder to make her return the baby to its rightful mother. She got up and went back to the door.

  ‘Edward! I need help!’ The door bounced against her fist as Mrs Foley opened it and entered. She held up a baby’s bottle full of milk.

  ‘There you go. And don’t forget to get her wind up after.’

  Patricia kept her hands by her sides, refusing to take the milk.

  Mrs Foley stared at her for a moment and then placed the bottle on the bedside table. ‘It’s there when you’re ready. Oh, and Edward is off working so you can forget your wailing.’ The old woman turned as if to leave but instead retrieved a padded bag covered in small pink roses from the landing. ‘There’s more nappies in there and lotion and talc.’ She placed it on the floor under the chair. Patricia glanced down and as she looked up the door closed, followed by the familiar click of the key.

  She sat on the bed, unsure what to do next. Part of her wanted to feed the little bundle in the basket but she knew that she shouldn’t. This was not her baby. Somebody else had been caring for this child, loving her. She wasn’t a newborn. Patricia guessed the baby was at least three or four months old, maybe more. She hoped that Edward would come back for his lunch. Maybe he could talk sense into his mother. This was serious. The police might get involved. The thought of a Garda car pulling up outside the house suddenly filled her with hope. If they came to rescue the baby, they could save her too. Her thoughts were interrupted by the baby crying. A few tentative yelps followed by a full-throated bawling. Patricia sat still. If she let the infant cry for long enough eventually Mrs Foley would have to come and investigate.

  Minutes passed. This waiting game was going to be harder than she had imagined. It was torture listening to the distress of the little mite. She put her hands over her ears but it was no use. Maybe the baby would just give up and stop crying, though, if she was being honest, that didn’t sound like it was going to happen any time soon. The whole room seemed to be filled with the desperate cries of this tiny creature. The little hands were flailing above the edge of the basket. Where was Mrs Foley? How could she listen to this? Patricia realised that this was a test to see which of them cracked first. She resolved that it would not be her. She sat on her hands just in case they decided to act independently and grab the bottle of milk.

  More minutes slipped away and still the baby cried. Patricia leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the small face. It broke her heart. A tiny mouth, the howling centre of a beetroot-red set of features. She couldn’t bear it. Cursing Mrs Foley, Patricia grabbed the baby’s bottle and leaned down beside the basket. She tried to put the rubber teat into the mouth but the child seemed beyond consoling at this point. Crying seemed to take priority over eating. Patricia tried shaking the bottle to get a few drops of milk into the mouth to remind the infant what all this crying was actually about. The baby twisted her head left and right. She seemed to have no interest in the bottle whatsoever. Patricia began to worry that perhaps the real mother had been breastfeeding. What was she supposed to do then? Would Mrs Foley let the infant starve to death before she called a doctor out? A sense of panic began to simmer. She reached into the basket and lifted up the baby, resting her in the crook of her arm. The crying didn’t stop but the level of distress seemed to reduce. Patricia tried the bottle once more. After a couple of false starts the tiny mouth decided that the time was right. She gripped onto the teat and began to suck hungrily. Patricia’s sense of relief was palpable. She stared down at the little human in her arms. The colour of its face was almost back to normal and the sense of contentment that her noisy sucking exuded was infectious.

  ‘Is that nice, Elizabeth? Is it? Are you enjoying that? You are, aren’t you?’

  Patricia was sitting on the bed now, holding the warm bundle. Two beings trapped in this room against their will. Hopefully more people were worried about little Elizabeth. A mother would never stop looking and surely that meant one day both of them might be rescued. She looked at the tiny face unaware of anything other than the bottle she was clamped to. Could this baby be the answer to her prayers?

  The infant had nearly drunk all the milk before she took her mouth from the teat and lay back in Patricia’s arms. She had heard mothers talking about getting wind up after a feed, so draped the baby over her shoulder and began to rub her knuckles gently on its back, the way that she had seen others doing it. Soon a few small burps bubbled to the surface. Was that enough? She wasn�
�t sure but decided it was best to keep patting the baby. She felt the curve of its stomach shift against her shoulder, followed by a milky belch that splashed onto the floor. Patricia lifted the baby up and looked at her face. She seemed very pleased with herself. Patricia couldn’t help but laugh and kissed the baby on the forehead. She remembered all the tea soaking into the carpet in her old room and stepped over the milky stain at her feet.

  Soon Elizabeth was asleep in Patricia’s arms. When she tried to put the baby back in her basket, a flicker of distress crossed the little face and she gave a warning yelp. Patricia cradled her to her breast and went to sit by the window. Clouds were scudding across the sky and pools of sunlight picked out patches of the sea in a silvery blue. A lone seagull seemed suspended in the sky as it battled against the wind, but then, as if changing its mind, turned and allowed itself to be blown inland. Patricia remembered how beautiful she had found this view when she first arrived. Now it was a constant reminder of how isolated and alone she was. She tightened her hold around the baby.

  About twenty minutes later she saw Edward walking along the top of the paddock in front of the house. She freed a hand to bang on the window. He didn’t seem to hear her so she knocked again with much more force. This time he seemed to have noticed the sound. He looked around as if trying to determine where it had come from. Patricia waved her free hand in order to catch his eye. It worked. Edward looked straight up at her window. Patricia stood and held out the baby, pointing at her. She could only imagine how shocked he was going to be by what she was holding, but instead it was Patricia who was stunned. Edward gave her a thumbs-up, smiled, and then waved before walking on. She stepped back from the window and placed her hand protectively on the baby’s head. He was as mad as his deranged mother.

  NOW

  This woman didn’t seem much older than herself.

  ‘Mrs Lynch?’ Elizabeth asked doubtfully.

  The other woman seemed dressed to go out, her broad shoulders and stocky frame draped in a navy anorak.

  ‘No. I’m her daughter. Was my mother expecting you?’ She wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but she spoke with a degree of caution.

  ‘Who is it?’ a reedy voice from within called out.

  The woman at the door shouted over her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know. Some woman looking for you.’

  ‘Who? Who is it?’ came the distant response.

  ‘Sure, I’m finding out. Hold your horses.’ And then, turning back, ‘Sorry about that. You were saying …’

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. She was still wound tight by Michelle’s email, but she knew she shouldn’t take it out on this woman. She smiled.

  ‘Oh, yes. My name is Elizabeth Keane but I’m a relation of the Foleys from Castle House.’ She was about to explain that Brian’s Auntie Eileen had told her to call, but then she realised that she didn’t know Eileen’s surname. ‘Someone told me your mother might be able to tell me a bit of the family history.’

  A warm, damp hand with several surprisingly expensive-looking rings was thrust forward.

  ‘Cathy. Cathy Crowley. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Nice to meet you too.’ The two women stood smiling at each other nodding until Elizabeth spoke. ‘Do you think your mother would be able to help me?’

  Cathy opened the door fully. ‘Well, all you can do is ask. She’s a big age now but she’s still a great one for knowing everyone’s business. Come in.’

  At the back of the cottage there was a small, dark kitchen. Seated at the table covered in a bright floral oil cloth was an old woman. She was a greyer, thinner version of Cathy. Blue-rimmed glasses were lifted and perched on her nose as the two women came into the room. A large black and white cat jumped lazily from a chair and sauntered towards the door.

  ‘Mammy. This is Elizabeth … sorry, what was your family name?’

  ‘Keane.’

  ‘Keane,’ Cathy repeated but at a louder volume.

  ‘Keane? I don’t think I know any Keanes.’ The old lady peered at her visitor through her glasses.

  ‘This is my mother, Ann Lynch. Mammy, will you have more tea?’

  ‘I will if it’s there.’

  ‘It is. I’m just after topping it up. Elizabeth? A cup for you?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, please.’

  ‘Sit down there,’ Cathy said, simultaneously placing a cup and saucer on the table. ‘There’s milk in the jug. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I have to go in to the optician in Clonteer and I’m already late. Mammy, I’ll be back to get you your lunch, so don’t be lighting the stove.’

  Old Mrs Lynch dismissed her daughter with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Nice to have met you,’ Cathy said to Elizabeth from the doorway.

  ‘You too. Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Not a bother.’ And then the sound of the front door slamming.

  ‘I’m a little deaf. You’ll have to speak up.’ Ann Lynch had the air of a woman for whom strangers calling to interview her were a regular occurrence.

  ‘I understand. Is this all right?’ Elizabeth asked, raising her voice.

  ‘Clear as a bell. No need to shout. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘You knew the Foleys from Castle House, I’m told?’

  The old woman sucked her teeth and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘I did. I did. God rest them.’

  Elizabeth paused, waiting for Mrs Lynch to begin a litany of tragedies, but instead she appeared to be waiting for another question. Elizabeth reached into her pocket and produced the wedding photograph she had found at Abbey Court. She pushed it across the table to the old lady.

  ‘I wondered if you could tell me who these people are?’

  Mrs Lynch picked up the picture and peered at it.

  ‘God help us,’ she said with quiet affection. ‘Isn’t that Teddy’s wedding day? I was there myself. Such a happy day. Would you look at Mrs Foley beaming. And poor Mary, there in all her finery. Terrible sad.’

  Elizabeth leaned forward.

  ‘What was so sad?’

  ‘Well …’ Suddenly she stopped and took off her glasses. ‘Sorry. Who did you say you were? What are the Foleys to you?’

  Elizabeth hesitated. ‘I am … my father was, is, Edward, Teddy Foley.’

  Mrs Lynch looked puzzled and then it was as if a fog had lifted. She quickly put her glasses back on. A wide smile spread across her face and her eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘Elizabeth? Oh, my God. After all these years, just look at you! Elizabeth Foley all grown up and back in Muirinish!’

  ‘You knew me when I was a baby?’ Elizabeth found the old woman’s emotional state infectious. She too felt close to tears.

  ‘Knew you? Sure, didn’t I raise you! You bounced on my knee next door, I couldn’t fill the bottles for you fast enough. You were a lovely little thing. Elizabeth Foley. I can hardly credit it.’

  ‘You raised me?’ Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to look perplexed.

  ‘Well, for the first few months of your life. You know, after your mother died.’

  ‘I don’t understand. My mother only died last year.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Lynch picked up the faded photograph, shaking her head. ‘No, dear,’ she repeated softly and pointed to the bride. ‘Mary Foley was your mother, but she died in labour. It nearly sent old Mrs Foley over the edge. That’s why I stepped in to help. There was no way she could have coped and poor old Edward wouldn’t have known where to start. They really were blighted, that family. So, it must have been the other one raised you?’

  ‘The other one?’ Elizabeth’s mouth was dry. So many questions darting around her mind. Was this old woman right? She might just be confused.

  ‘Patricia. My mother was called Patricia.’ She spoke as clearly as she could, hoping to jog Mrs Lynch’s memory.

  ‘Patricia!’ she called out triumphantly. ‘If you had put a gun to my head I wouldn’t have been able to remember that woman’s name! And where was it she took you aft
er?’

  ‘Buncarragh. It’s just on the Laois–Kilkenny border.’ Elizabeth spoke the words calmly but she felt frantic. The possibility that what this woman was saying might be true seemed stronger every moment.

  ‘Oh yes, I remember hearing it was somewhere up the country.’

  Elizabeth wasn’t listening. Her breathing had become fast and shallow. She had remembered what Rosemary had said about the baby appearing to be older. It was as if a heavy curtain had been cast aside, allowing light to flood in. Her mother hadn’t been pregnant when she went to Cork. She had never been pregnant. Elizabeth realised with a sickening jolt that she was about to cry. She hoped she could control it but no, out it poured like a flash flood of sobs and snot. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Her face was contorted into a twisted mask of tears. She could hear her own voice making a shuddering moan.

  Mrs Lynch looked horrified. ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. It must be a shock for you. I’m sorry.’ She hauled herself to her feet and turned in small futile circles. ‘There must be a hanky here somewhere.’ Spying a roll of kitchen towel by the sink she went to get it. Elizabeth was desperately trying to control her breathing, but the hot sobs kept rolling through her body. Why had this hit her so hard? It was a shock but it was also a sharp, stabbing sense of regret. Her mother had loved her in ways she had never understood. She had taken another woman’s child and raised her as her own. Somehow that love seemed purer. She hadn’t been lumbered with a daughter, she had chosen to care for her and love her and protect her from her past. Discovering the truth now, when her mother was gone, seemed so cruel, so unfair.

  Mrs Lynch shoved a thick wad of kitchen roll into Elizabeth’s hand and slowly the howling tears subsided.

  THEN

  The room was dark and silent. The low bulb in the bedside lamp seemed to throw more shadows than light and the only sound apart from the occasional whistle of the wind around the eaves was the breathing of three bodies. A baby, a woman and a very confused man.