2004 - Dandelion Soup

by Babs Horton

  I digress. This chap was damned sure it was him; he saw him a second time by the Seine but then lost him.

  111 keep my ears pinned back for any more news. Give my love to Gerty, she’s a funny old stick but as honest and true as the day is long. Stay safe…

  Sister Veronica put down the letter on top of the others and stared in front of her for a long while.

  Slowly and with an increasingly shaking hand she reread the letters, and as she read she felt the blood pounding inside her head, her eyes smouldering with fury.

  Sister Veronica closed her eyes and imagined herself back in the gardens of Kilgerry House, walking alongside the walled kitchen garden, then on down the path that led towards the lake. God, how she had loved that house. If things had worked out she could have been mistress of Kilgerry…She could still remember the heady scent of the yellow roses, the sound of drowsy bees buzzing round the sweet peas. The lazy plop of a fish in the lake.

  She remembered standing, hidden in the shade of the mulberry tree; round her feet mulberries were squashed into the grass and wasps burrowed deep into their red and sticky flesh. She feels nauseous, retches, has to steady herself against the tree.

  On the jetty by the boathouse a man is poised, ready to dive into the glistening lake. A splash, then circles growing ever wider across the lake. Then the excited shout of a young child jumping into the lake and surfacing moments later in the man’s arms, shrieking and laughing, droplets of water reflecting rainbows of light round both their heads.

  A pretty, lively child who would have been about ten then. Another picture of the child sprang to mind. Laura wearing a cream dress, her dark hair braided with tiny yellow flowers, standing in the porch of the church, the smell of fresh flowers cloyingly sweet in the cool air, outside the porch the rain falling incessantly. She remembered the sound of hurrying footsteps and fervent whispers, the girl crying inconsolably into her bouquet. Someone close by screaming hysterically.

  Sister Veronica opened her eyes and stared down at the photograph. Her heart beat quickly and her hands quivered with emotion. Dear God! She knew who Padraig O’Mally was now. A mystery never solved until now and now was too many years too late.

  Now she was probably the only person alive who knew the truth. That stupid clot of a girl had got herself pregnant by some irresponsible eejit who had gone off to fight a war that was no concern of his. She threw the photograph down on to her desk and closed her eyes.

  Padraig O’Mally, well I never. Dear God. No wonder Padraig was such a slippery little fellow with these two as parents. He was as devious a little swine as his good-for-nothing mother.

  She picked up the photograph again and stared at it for a long time.

  Oh, they’d been clever all right in covering up their tracks, too clever by half.

  A slow triumphant smile spread across Sister Veronica’s thin lips. How her brother must have grieved for his little sister! They’d been very close those two. He would have lavished care and affection on Padraig if he’d known of his existence. How she hated that man! He was the only man who could have saved her but instead he had ruined her life! Well, the contents of this scruffy old shoebox were the only proof that Padraig O’Mally was someone else entirely. And nobody would ever find out the secret about Padraig O’Mally as long as she had breath in her body.

  She yanked the photograph out of the frame, then tore it from side to side, from top to bottom, ripped it into many small pieces, stood up and threw the pieces on to the fire and watched them curl and melt and finally disappear.

  As the final pieces of the photograph disintegrated there was a knock on the door, and hastily Sister Veronica tore the letters in half and tossed them into the unused cupboard. Later she’d rip them to smithereens and then she’d burn the whole damn lot so that not a trace of the truth would be left.

  Nora, the Hanlons’ maid, was dusting the hallway halfheartedly and earwigging at the same time. There were raised voices coming from the drawing room and she hovered close to the door but far enough away to make her escape into the kitchen if it was suddenly opened.

  “Well, James, do you have any idea where Siobhan is at this very moment?” Hetty Hanlon asked her husband.

  “No, my dear, I am afraid I do not.”

  “I thought not, because most of the time she’s gadding about across the countryside like a perishing tinker child.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Hetty, she’s just a normal child, a very curious and imaginative child. There is nothing wrong with her, she gets on well with people from all walks of life, that’s all.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “That unlike you, Hetty, she has put no barriers up against the world. If she likes someone it doesn’t matter to her which side of the tracks they are from.”

  “Well, while you may be happy with her hobnobbing with all and sundry, I am not. All I want is for her to move in the right circles.”

  “Well, soon she’ll be in the convent learning how to be a bloody lady. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?”

  “Will you mind your tongue. At least she’ll learn manners and deportment, how to conduct herself.”

  “Yes, Sister, no, Sister, three bags full, Sister. She’ll wear her knees out with praying. Walking with a book on her head and curtseying to the Sister Superior.”

  “Shell have a good education.”

  “No, Hetty, she’ll have a mediocre bloody education. And, Hetty, I am sick of minding my tongue. I am sick of walking on damned eggshells in this house.”

  “Are you now? Well, are you aware of what she’s gone and done now?”

  “I am not but I dare say you are about to tell me.”

  “She’s been telling that dopey child Sinead Cullinane that the Black Jew has a child locked up in his house against her will. James, Siobhan is a born liar and now Mrs Cullinane has told Miss Drew and they’ve both gone marching off up to St Joseph’s parading Sinead as a paragon of virtue for confessing all she knew.”

  “And your point is?”

  “That she makes things up to make life more lively and sometimes I’m not sure that she’s quite right in the head.”

  “For God’s sake, that’s our child you’re talking about.”

  “Well, sometimes I feel that I hardly had a part in creating her.”

  “I can assure you, my dear, that you did. I was there, you remember, when she came into the world.”

  “Something I’d rather forget.”

  “Well, as it happens Siobhan is not lying. He does have a child in the house.”

  “What?”

  “He does have a child in his house.”

  “You mean it’s true and you knew all along?”

  “I did.”

  “How, may I ask?”

  “Because he swore me to secrecy when he called me up there to take a look at her.”

  “And you never thought to mention it to the authorities?”

  “He didn’t want me to.”

  “He didn’t want you to! And I’ve sent Miss Drew and Mrs Cullinane away with a flea in their ears, telling them that they must be mistaken, that Sinead is a compulsive liar! And you, you’re a doctor, for God’s sake, and he probably has the child held there against her will.”

  “Poppycock! The child was in very good health. He’s taking good care of her.”

  “Good care of her! A single man on his own with a child! It’s not right, not right at all.”

  “Well, God forbid! If you were to be taken off tomorrow I’d have to take care of Siobhan, wouldn’t I?”

  “And you’d manage?”

  “Of course I’d manage. Men are not completely brainless when it comes to looking after children.”

  Hetty Hanlon gave a high-pitched laugh.

  “Now that I’d like to see! Without my discipline she’d be running amok!”

  “Well, according to you she is already!”

  “And where in God’s holy name did this child come from?”
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  Dr Hanlon swallowed hard.

  “That I don’t know and neither does he. It’s a mystery. Someone sent her to him with a label round her neck.”

  “You’ll be telling me next that the stork dropped her out of the sky, or maybe the leprechauns fetched her. God almighty, were you born yesterday?”

  “Anyway, it’s none of our business.”

  “Ah well, I dare say Sister Veronica will think differently.”

  “She, the old bitch, can think what she likes.”

  “Don’t speak of her like that. She’s a good woman. Maybe she’s a bit harsh but those children need discipline.”

  “They need love! They need to be allowed to speak and make sense of what’s happened to them. Knocking the fear of God into them does nothing to help, Hetty. It just makes them hard and bitter.”

  “In my book Sister Veronica is a saint.”

  “Sister Veronica is a sad and twisted individual. Her only vocation is to display cruelty and disdain to those who can’t fight back!”

  Hetty Hanlon stood speechless, staring at her husband and wondering whether he’d taken leave of his senses. He’d never dared to speak to her like that before. Or say such terrible things about the holy sisters. What the hell had got into him? Before she could find the words to reply, Dr Hanlon walked from the room and slammed the door, glaring at Nora, who had tripped over a broom and was lying helpless and flustered on the hallway floor. He slammed the front door with an unusual savagery and hurried down to Donahue’s.

  Siobhan was hiding in the thick bushes at the bottom of the drive that led up to St Joseph’s. Donny had gone reluctantly ahead to check that the coast was clear. Now she was all alone she didn’t feel quite so brave. Why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut?

  She was wobbly with excitement and fear. Hell’s bells, if the pair of them got caught there’d be bloody ructions.

  “Hurry up, Donny. Donny, hurry up,” she muttered under her breath.

  She listened out for any noise, the telltale squeak of a nun’s shoes. She could hear the sound of cautious footsteps approaching along the gravel drive. Shit! What if it was one of the nuns? The leaves rustled.

  “Donny, Donny, is that you?”

  Denny’s bloodless face peeped through the greenery.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Siobhan?”

  “Yep,” she lied convincingly.

  “We’ve to go in through the side door and hide in the laundry, check that no one is about, and then we’ll get in proper.”

  “What will they do if they catch us?”

  Donny pulled his finger across his throat and grimaced.

  Siobhan shivered.

  “Wait there until I whistle. Like this.”

  He whistled. It was a feeble little whistle.

  “Can’t you do it a bit louder? You sound like a sparrow with a sore throat.”

  “Just keep your ears open and your eyes skinned. When you hear the whistle, run like hell to the next bush and then wait for the next whistle. Sister Agatha is out in the garden somewhere killing snails, so be careful, for God’s sake.”

  Donny scuttled off.

  Siobhan waited. And waited. Damn and buggery buggery! She was dying to pee. Bursting. She clamped her knees close together. She tried not to think about it. That was worse. She jigged up and down on the spot. No good. Desperate now. She lifted her dress. Pulled her drawers down quick, slipped out one leg. Crouched down.

  If she was in the convent in London she’d have pissed herself by now. She’d have at least two pairs of drawers to get off.

  Sweet relief.

  She liked peeing out of doors. The feel of the cool air on your bum. She peed a trickle and then a flood. Pissed like a mountain pony.

  Donny’s feeble little whistle barely made it over the sound of her peeing.

  Bloody Nora. She shook herself off, stuck her leg back in her drawers and whipped them up quick.

  Creeping out of the bush, she kept close to the edge of the drive, ten strides and then she threw herself behind a tree. She was breathing like a train and her heart was thumping wildly.

  Another feeble whistle.

  Same thing to the next bush.

  The sound of someone singing tunelessly in the gardens, the sickening crunch of a snail shell beneath a cruel heel.

  Then Donny grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the bush.

  “Come on. Quick, get behind the shed over there. I’ll go inside and make sure there’s no one prowling around.”

  “Okay. Say, Donny, are you scared?”

  “Yep.”

  “Me too.”

  Siobhan, holding on to Denny’s sticky little hand, stepped inside St Joseph’s for the first time in her life. The smell hit her like a tidal wave. The place stank of cabbage and old custard skin, of strong soap, damp walls and rotting linoleum all mixed up with holy-smelling polish and incense.

  Donny pulled her along a dingy corridor, through a door into the laundry, and there they stood with their backs against the door for several moments, struggling to catch their breath.

  “Is this where Sister Immaculata used to work?”

  “Yep. She always had to do all the dirty jobs.”

  “God, it’s spooky in here, Donny. What if her ghost is hanging around?”

  “Pack it in, Siobhan, you’re just imagining it. There’s no one here, only us. And she wouldn’t harm a hair of your head anyway.”

  He didn’t sound too convinced to Siobhan.

  “Where do we go now?”

  “Inside that cupboard over there. According to what Padraig said we crawl along a bit and there’s a big hole at the back we can squeeze through to get into the cupboards inside Sister Veronica’s study.”

  “Are you sure, Donny?”

  “I’m positive. Remember, Padraig told me he used to get out through the study window in the middle of the night.”

  “Come on then, Donny, before I change my mind. It’s now or never, I’m shaking that much.”

  “You are scared then?”

  “No, I’m feckin’ terrified!”

  Donny put his finger to his lips.

  “I can hear someone. Quick.”

  The blood drained from Siobhan’s cheeks until she was the colour of chalk. Donny took hold of her hand and pulled her into the cupboard just as the laundry door opened.

  They peeped through the crack in the door. Sister Agatha had come into the room and was looking round suspiciously, sniffing as though there was cat shite about.

  Donny held his breath, squeezing Siobhan’s hand tightly. They watched as the nun turned to go, turned back and sniffed the air again. Then with relief they watched the door close with a soft click.

  “God!” said Siobhan. “She looked a right old bag. Like old Nick himself dressed up in a nun’s habit.”

  Donahue was talking to Michael Leary when Dr Hanlon stepped inside the bar.

  “Dr Hanlon,” said Donahue with surprise.

  “Hello, Marty. A Guinness please, one for yourself and whatever Michael’s having.”

  “Thanks, Doctor, a Guinness if I may.”

  “And yourself, Marty?”

  “No, thanks all the same.”

  Dr Hanlon raised his eyebrows.

  “On the wagon,” Michael Leary said. “Dear God, that’s a miracle in itself.”

  “It’s not like you to be drinking in the day, Doctor.”

  “Needs must when the devil drives…”

  “Michael was just showing me a postcard he had from Spain,” said Donahue. “Have a look at this.”

  Dear Mr Leary, having the time of my life. Stayed in some funny places. No sign of the Irish virgin but still looking. Miss Carmichael has learned to smile and Father D. drinks wine like it’s going out of fashion. Taken loads of photos, bought a sketchpad. Off to the monastery today. Best wishes, Padraig O. Give my love to Sister Immaculata and Donny. Say hello to Siobhan but no kisses!

  “God, he doesn’t know about the nu
n’s death yet. They were close those two by all accounts. Still, at least it sounds like he’s enjoying it out there; let’s hope he makes the most of it, if 11 be the last holiday he’ll have in a long time,” said Donahue.

  “Poor little bugger.”

  “What’s up with you, Leary? Look like you’ve swallowed a bloody wasp,” Dr Hanlon said.

  “Bit of bad news, that’s all, on the female front, nothing I want to talk about. I was just thinking about Padraig. He’s been offered a free place at the Abbey, you know, and that old bitch up at St Joseph’s won’t let him go. Willy Flanagan just rang me to tell me.”

  “You’re not surprised, though, are you? She’d never let him go there. Michael, that’s not the Willy Flanagan who does all those mucky paintings?”

  “One and the same, Donahue, but they are not mucky paintings. The human body is not a mucky thing.”

  “Ah, well, a grown man drawing pictures of people’s mickeys and women’s thingummyjigs is not quite right in the head in my book.”

  “Dear God, Donahue, your book would make a fascinating read!”

  “Well I’ve heard that that Flanagan is one of them momosapiens.”

  Dr Hanlon and Michael Leary spluttered into their Guinness.

  “Donahue, you are bloody priceless.”

  Donahue scratched his head and muttered, “Well, it’s not natural in my book…”

  “Well, I pray to God you write this book one day, Donahue, ifll be a bestseller!”

  “Ah, bollocks to the pair of you!” said Donahue. “Anyhow, what will you do now the school is to close? Have you applied for another job yet, Michael?”

  “I’ve applied for a couple of jobs, but I don’t really fancy them myself. I don’t know, something’ll turn up I dare say.”

  “It’s going to be a dead place round here when St Joseph’s closes,” Donahue said.