Irish Secrets

by Paula Martin

  "My father, never, but my mam once asked, and when I told her she'd died, she said it was the best thing that could have happened."

  Kara winced. "It's hard to believe anyone would be so heartless as to say that."

  "Getting pregnant out of wedlock was the worst sin you could commit."

  "Do you still think that?"

  Sister Gabriel hesitated. "I think today we don't heap all the blame on the girl, which was what happened at that time. If a girl was raped, it was said she asked for it, by wearing her skirt too short or her blouse too low. And if she chose to have sex with a boy before they were married, she was a hussy, leading him on. But, in truth, many girls didn't know how babies were made. Today's teenagers are so much more knowledgeable than we were in the fifties and, of course, living together before marriage seems to be the norm now."

  Aware that she hadn't answered her question about sin, Kara ventured another. "Why did you decide to become a nun?"

  Sister Gabriel chuckled. "It's a long story, my dear, but after I'd run away from the home half a dozen times and been brought back by the Gardai, I started to think God must have a purpose in putting me there. I'd experienced what the girls in the home were going through, and I'd suffered at the hands of the harsh nuns. Except for one. Sister Monica. She was so kind and loving. Bought toys for the children in the nursery, and consoled the girls when their children were taken away. Then she got cancer and died. She was only thirty-two. So unfair, but when she died, I decided I wanted to be the kind of nun she had been, and help some of the girls in our care."

  "I'm sure they appreciated it."

  "I hope so, but anyhow, all this isn't helping you to find your mother, is it?"

  Kara sighed. "I don't know where to go from here. I mean, why would my mother's birth date be shown as April 2nd, 1959, if that was when your baby was born?"

  "I've been thinking about that, and I may have an answer. Did you know there was a law forbidding illegitimate children from being taken overseas until they were at least one year old?"

  "Yes, and my mother's adoption certificate is dated April 21st, 1960, so I assumed she was born before that date in 1959."

  "Not necessarily. Would an American couple be able to tell the difference between a twelve-month-old baby and one who was one or two months younger?"

  Kara stared at her. "You mean she might have been born in May or June, but they put April 2nd as her date of birth so she could be sent for adoption before she was one?" Her jaw dropped as she understood the implication of what Sister Gabriel had said. "The nuns deliberately broke the law?"

  "There may have been genuine errors, of course, but not always. I'm sorry, Kara, I know I should defend my Order, but as time goes on, I've realised the iniquities that were perpetrated in the past, and I wish I could put them all right."

  "Is that why you called me?"

  "You introduced me to Alice Vernon, and I can't begin to tell you how much that meant to me."

  Kara smiled. "She was delighted to meet you, and called me the next day to thank me."

  "She rang me, too, and invited me to visit her at her home."

  "How wonderful. She's such a kind person."

  "And so were you, which is why I felt I must repay you in some way. Especially when you told me what you thought was your mother's birthdate."

  "Which you've now shown me is the wrong date."

  "That's true, but I'm trying to remember some of the babies who were born around the same time as my Mary."

  "We found two others in the same quarter of 1959." Kara struggled to recall the names. "One was Patricia Madden, and—"

  The nun's face cleared. "Ye're right. Little Patsy. Her mother, Theresa, was one of my friends. They called her Concepta in the home. We weren't supposed to know each other's real names or where we came from but, of course, we did. Her baby was born about a month after my Mary."

  "Do you know what happened to her or the baby?"

  "Oh yes, I remember it clearly. A couple of weeks before Patsy's first birthday, they gave Theresa a new dress and coat for her, and told her Patsy would be leaving in an hour's time. Sister Bertha took her away but wouldn't answer any questions, and that was the last Theresa saw of her daughter."

  Kara shuddered. "She must have been distraught."

  "She was, and she and I ran away from the home about a week later. We got as far as Galway bus station, intending to catch the Dublin bus, but we were picked up by the Gardai. At least, I was, but Theresa was quicker and braver than me, because she ran off and jumped on a bus that was leaving the station. I found out later it was the Limerick bus."

  "Was Theresa brought back from there?"

  "No, I never saw her again, but she wrote to me after about three months. She went from Limerick to Dublin, and got a job as a cleaner in an office. She asked me to find out what had happened to her baby, and I tried, but they told me it was none of my business."

  "Do you think her baby might be my mother? Patricia – Patsy – is the nearest in age to the birthdate shown on my mom's adoption certificate. Could they have used your daughter's birthdate, so she appeared to be over one year old when she was adopted?"

  Sister Gabriel nodded "It's quite possible."

  Kara struggled to breathe normally. "Sister, do you have any idea where Theresa is now?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't. We exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years but, in the last one I received from her, she said she was engaged to Frank and was getting married the following June. The next Christmas, I didn't receive a card from her, and the card I sent was returned, marked Not known at this address. I haven't heard anything from her since then, so I'm guessing she didn't want her new husband asking questions about why she was receiving a Christmas card from a nun in Ballykane."

  Kara's heart sank as quickly as it had risen a few moments before. "So there's no way of tracing her."

  "Have you considered the possibility that she may not wish to be traced?"

  "You mean because she never told her husband about her baby?"

  "The sin and stigma were drummed into us by the nuns, and we were threatened with the fires of hell if we ever breathed a word to anyone about our guilty secret."

  Kara frowned. "But you've told me about it."

  "I believe Our Father is a loving and forgiving God, not a vindictive one. Besides, I don't have a husband or family who might be shocked by any revelation of my past life."

  "Don't you think Theresa's family might be more shocked by the way her baby was taken from her against her will?"

  Sister Gabriel smiled. "You're a modern American woman, Kara. It must be difficult for you to imagine what Ireland was like in the 1950s, when the Church ruled everyone's lives, and dictated government policy, too. Much has changed in the last twenty years or so, and many women have been brave enough to admit to their past, but there must be hundreds of others who have kept their secret close to their heart."

  "I find that very sad."

  "I agree, but it is those women we have a responsibility to protect. I don't know what Theresa's life has been like since she left Ballykane. I hope she found happiness with her husband, and perhaps she had other children. She might have grandchildren by now, and even great-grandchildren, so I implore you to think carefully before trying to trace her. They may know nothing about her past."

  Kara nodded slowly. "Yes, I understand what you're saying, Sister."

  "I'm sorry I haven't been able to help with your search, but I felt I had to tell you what I know."

  "I'm grateful for everything you've told me, and I'm so sorry about your baby."

  "Thank you, but maybe you now understand why I said I was better off than so many of the other girls. Not only those who died in childbirth, because of no proper medical assistance, but those who have spent their lives not knowing what happened to their child, or hiding the truth from their nearest and dearest." Sister Gabriel pulled out a small watch on a chain from the inside pocket of her navy jacket. "Now I mu
st return to the convent. If you need to contact me again, remember to call between seven and eight."

  She stood, and Kara did, too. Uncertain for a moment whether to shake the nun's hand, she surrendered to an instinctive impulse to hug the older woman.

  "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for sharing so much with me."

  The nun patted her back. "It was the least I could do, and I hope you'll let me know if any of this has been useful to you."

  "I will. I promise I will."

  As Sister Gabriel set off along the promenade toward the convent, Kara watched her. Eventually she sank down on the bench again and exhaled deeply as she tried to process everything the nun had told her.

  "Are you okay?"

  Ryan's voice startled her, and she looked around as he sat down beside her.

  "My mind is reeling at the moment."

  He nodded and put his arm around her shoulders. She leant against him, finding comfort in his closeness, and welcoming the fact that he said nothing. For a few minutes, she gazed out across Galway Bay, watching the small waves glinting in the evening sunshine.

  "I don't think I'll ever find her," she sighed.

  He listened as she recounted what Sister Gabriel had said, and didn't interrupt, but his blue eyes mirrored the same kind of mixed emotions as she had experienced – curiosity, shock, sympathy, anger, hope, and defeat.

  She concluded with the nun's warning about trying to trace Theresa. "It's possible that Theresa is my grandmother, but I don't know how to start searching for her, or even if I should. I think I assumed every mother would want to find her child but, from what Sister Gabriel said, many of them don't want their husbands or families to find out about their past." She shuddered. "I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like to keep such a huge secret for the rest of your life."

  Ryan nodded. "They live with the pain of not knowing what happened to their child, but always coupled with the fear of going to hell if they reveal their secret, or the dread of some stranger turning up on their doorstep saying, You're my mother." He paused for a moment. "So what do you want to do now? Do you want to find Theresa or not?"

  Kara chewed her lip. "I did want to find her, for my mom's sake, but – oh, there are so many buts. What if Theresa had been a prostitute, or raped, and didn't want the baby? I'm sure that's what my mom thinks."

  "Hold on." Ryan put his hand on hers. "I thought Sister Gabriel said she was distraught when Patsy was taken away, and wrote asking her to find out what had happened."

  "Yes, but a prostitute could still love her baby, couldn't she? I'm not sure about someone who was raped, but it's irrelevant, isn't it? There must be thousands of women called Theresa in Ireland, and Sister Gabriel said she was getting married, so she's not Theresa Madden now, and I don't know her married surname."

  Ryan pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen several times, and scrolled down.

  "What are you doing?" Kara asked.

  "Looking for her marriage. Come on, help me out, what year do you think she got married?"

  After a few moments' thought, she said, "Her baby was adopted in 1960, and Sister Gabriel said they exchanged Christmas cards for a couple of years, which means 1960 and 1961, so try June, 1962."

  She leaned over to watch as Ryan typed in the name, month, and year. He grinned when the page seemed to be taking forever to load. "Trust it to be running slow when we want the information fast. Oh." His voice fell as he looked at the screen again. "No Theresa Madden in the second quarter marriages."

  "Perhaps they exchanged more Christmas cards than Sister Gabriel remembers."

  "Good point." He tapped the screen and waited.

  Kara gripped his arm when the page loaded. "That's her, isn't it? Theresa Madden and Francis Brogan, June, 1963. Where did they marry?"

  "This only gives the civil registration district, Dublin South. We'd need to apply for a copy of the certificate to find out where, and it would show their addresses, too."

  She sighed. "Ryan, that's over fifty years ago. What are the odds of them still living at one of those addresses?"

  "Okay, forget that. If you want, I'll ask Declan. He knows far more about how to find people and information than I do."

  "And if he does find her, I'll have to think long and hard about what to do."

  They were both silent for a few minutes until Ryan squeezed her shoulder. "Ready to go back to Clifden now?"

  She smiled. "An evening drive through Connemara is exactly what I need. A beautiful landscape will be the perfect antidote to all the confusion in my mind."

  "Ever seen The Quiet Man Bridge?"

  "I've heard of it but never been there. It's one of the locations they used in the movie, isn't it?"

  "John Wayne sat on the bridge parapet and heard his mother's voice telling him about the O'Morn Cottage. It's not far from Oughterard, and only involves a short detour from the main road."

  Thirty minutes later, he stopped the car near the stone bridge with its two uneven arches. They got out and walked to the middle of the bridge. On their left, a small river bubbled gently over its stony bed; on their right, it widened into a lough, with the humped shapes of the grey mountains in the distance.

  Kara gazed across the rippling water. "This is lovely. So peaceful and unspoilt."

  "Want to sit where John Wayne sat?"

  "How do you know where he sat?

  "Trust me. I've studied the photos from the film. It was about here."

  She giggled as he lifted her onto the top stones of the bridge, and glanced backward at the water below her. "Remind me not to lean back!" she said as he crossed to the other side of the narrow road over the bridge and pulled out his phone. She smiled and waved as he took a photo of her.

  "Can you take selfies with your phone?" she asked.

  "I don't have a selfie stick."

  "Try it without one."

  He perched next to her, with his arm around her shoulders, and took a couple of shots that made them both laugh. One showed only half of Kara's face, and he was squinting on the next one.

  "You look like a cross-eyed bear," she teased.

  "Better than a cross-eyed skunk, I suppose."

  The third shot, with his cheek pressed against hers, was perfect, with both of them smiling.

  He turned to give her a gentle kiss. "Mo anam cara," he said softly.

  "What does that mean?"

  "Anam is Gaelic for soul, and cara means friend, so mo anam cara comes from the Celtic belief of souls connecting and bonding. My soul friend."

  Her breath hitched as she gazed into his blue eyes. "Mo anam cara. I like that."

  "So do I." He kissed her again, this time a long and increasingly passionate kiss that made her world stand still, until he broke away with a small laugh. "We're both in danger of leaning back and falling into the river, and as much as I'd love to connect and bond with you right now, it looks like we have company."

  Kara turned to see another car pulling up near the bridge. "John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara, is it?" she asked as he helped her down from the wall.

  He grinned. "I promise I won't throw you onto the bed like he did."

  As they walked back to his car with their arms around each other, her stomach somersaulted at the thought of him throwing her onto a bed. A second later, a new thought gripped her.

  How could she be falling in love with him when she hardly knew him?

  Chapter 13

  Ryan was sitting in the sparsely furnished taxi office on Saturday evening when his phone rang. Seeing the name on the screen, he stood up.

  "I'll go outside to take this."

  No way did he want Tom Wild or Eve, the young receptionist, to overhear this call. Hopefully, they'd assume it was his girlfriend.

  He pressed the phone to his ear as he headed out of the office, and leant against the back of his car, which was parked several yards away from the door. "Hi, Dec. What's new?"

  "I checked all the photos you sent me," Decla
n said.

  "Any ID?"

  "Not for the tall blond fellow, but you already sent me photos of him with his girlfriend in Galway, and we have nothing on him or the younger one, either. The third one, the shorter thin man, could be Michael Leary, known as Mick, but I need a full face photo to be sure."

  "Not a name I'm familiar with. Who is he?"

  "Used to live at Leary Farm near Clifden. Parents James and Bridget Leary. Several warnings for petty theft as a teenager, and a conviction three years ago, when he was twenty-one. He stole some timber from Mist Na Mara House, but his lawyer pleaded mitigating circumstances, and he got off with a year's probation."

  Ryan pursed his lips. "Interesting. Has he been clean since then?"

  "Nothing else on his record, apart from a note to say he moved to Belfast once his probation year was over."

  "And now he's back here in Connemara, and shows up at a cottage which I'm beginning to suspect is being used to store stolen goods."

  His mind worked rapidly. Enya was certain the goods were being taken over the border into Northern Ireland, and shipped or flown from Belfast to England or Scotland, so was this Mick Leary some kind of link between Connemara and Belfast? His family home at the Leary farm, near to Mist Na Mara, was significant, to say the least.

  "Thanks, Dec. I'll make some discreet inquiries about Mick Leary."