The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall

by Ann O'Loughlin

  That her name would be linked with this unsavoury episode in the order’s history wrenched her heart and made her intensely angry. Crowds of people, press and various onlookers, had descended on the convent since it had first been made public a week ago that the Little Angels graveyard was to be dug up.

  No longer could she risk walking and praying along the garden paths, lest she meet someone who wanted answers she could not give.

  The plot, down the far corner of the gardens and behind a bank of cypress trees, was cordoned off, a massive tent over the patch of ground, as if an archaeological dig was taking place. She did not dare think of all the lives not lived, or those lived but begun under a cloud. It was unbearable to think of what had happened and what would become of all of them.

  She had done her best. Once informed the investigation was widening, with the potential for a criminal element, she had gathered the sisters together. It was, she thought, probably one of her hardest and saddest moments since becoming a nun.

  ‘It will appear as if we are under siege; in a way, we are, for the possible sins of the past. I want each of you to be as cooperative as possible to the police and state officers charged with this most gruesome task. However, I urge each one of you to be on your guard; loose talk at this time could be very damaging indeed.’

  The sisters did not ask any questions, sensing the anger bubbling at the edge of her voice, but she knew they would have plenty to say behind her back. That Consuelo had been sent away was also, she knew, a major worry to the other sisters, but she chose not to address that thorny subject.

  Just hours before, Consuelo had been informed that she should get ready for a return to Moyasta.

  ‘Mother, I only ever had the intention of finding good homes for those children; God knows that.’

  ‘It is not for me to decide, Consuelo, the rights and wrongs; my job now is to try to salvage as much of our reputation as possible.’

  ‘And you blame me for this.’

  ‘I don’t blame anybody, but I do say that taking babies without the permission of the mothers and forging signatures on permission forms is wrong. What does it matter who came up with the idea?’

  ‘Mother, they were different times; without me, those children would have had no life at all.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that, Consuelo, what makes you so sure?’

  Consuelo huffed loudly. ‘That Deborah Kading has a lot to answer for. Before she came on the scene, everybody was happy.’

  ‘You mean nobody knew.’

  Consuelo shifted uncomfortably on her seat. ‘And wasn’t that the best way to have it.’

  Assumpta dropped her pen and slapped her desk hard. ‘You can’t honestly believe that, Consuelo, even now.’

  ‘I know I am being judged by the norms of today. What unmarried mother could keep her child then? Tell me that.’

  ‘That is not the point, Consuelo, and well you know it.’

  Consuelo leapt from her chair.

  ‘But it is the point. What family wanted that great shame brought down on top of them? The ones I sent to America were the goddamned lucky ones. God knows how many were born in the corners of fields in the dark of the night and buried straight away.’

  Assumpta felt tears of anger well up inside her. ‘You don’t see you did wrong.’

  ‘You don’t see the good I did every day of the week.’

  ‘There is far higher than me making decisions now, Consuelo. I am just following orders.’ Assumpta tried to keep her voice firm, but she could not help the shake welling up from her throat.

  ‘What is to become of this little band of women, Mother?’

  Assumpta snorted loudly, as she tried to hold back the tears. ‘I am afraid I do not know.’

  ‘Tell me, Mother. I need to know what I have done.’

  ‘This order, by its work and uncaring attitude in the past and its refusal to recognise it now, has done it to itself.’

  Mother Assumpta shook her head fiercely to shake away the harsh memories of a shameful time she had not lived through but which would forever follow her on life’s path. She turned away from the window, tears flowing down her face.

  Thirty-Three

  Roscarbury Hall,

  Rathsorney,

  Co. Wicklow,

  Ireland.

  May 9, 2008

  My dearest James,

  I am not sure what I should say in this letter, only that I am overwhelmed with joy to think you are alive, and overwhelmed with sadness to think I lost you for so long. I know from everything I have been told you are a fine man and were lucky to have Mr and Mrs Spring as your parents. Please tell them I bear them no ill will and, instead, I thank them for raising you and giving you the childhood you deserved.

  The investigator told me you were brought up in a lovely apartment in Manhattan, and I thank God that even though you were taken from me it did not mean a dilution of love in your early years. You must know your mother and father had no reason to suspect they were being told anything but the truth when they were told I had died in childbirth.

  That you had a mother to love you is a source of huge comfort to me and that you had a father too is a great joy. I understand you do not have brothers and sisters, so there was no competition for the love of your parents.

  James, what is to become of you and me? I gave birth to you. They told me you died. I had so many plans for us. But these plans must be left in the past and we must find a way forward that allows us to become friends.

  Do you think you would like to visit? You could stay here or there is a fancy hotel a few miles away. James is such a strong name; I get the impression that your mother, Mrs Spring, was a strong and loving woman: firm, too, I imagine. You are a very lucky man.

  I know all of this has caused upset and upheaval in your life, not least the angst and pain it has caused your parents. I would dearly love to meet you, but in your own time. I understand if you need time to think things over; I pray and pray that you will want to meet me as much as I long to meet you.

  All my love,

  Ella O’Callaghan.

  She did not sign it for a whole day, wondering if her full name was a little too formal. Ella did not want either to appear too friendly or to be frostily formal, which could put off the son she did not know.

  Her arms were open wide; it was up to him to take a step towards her. She phoned Gerry O’Hare and he drove her into Gorey to post the letter.

  ‘Muriel is a lovely woman, but the less she knows about my affairs the better,’ Ella said to Gerry.

  He nodded and continued to watch the road, lest Ella O’Callaghan think he was too interested in her business.

  ‘How long does a letter take to get to the States these days?’ she asked him, because she was so excited she could not stop thinking about James, and as a result she could not stop initiating conversations that would let her luxuriate in the fact that her son was a successful man in New York.

  ‘These days? I don’t know. Who posts letters any more? Why don’t you send an email?’

  Ella laughed out loud. ‘What I had to say ran from the heart to the pen. There isn’t a computer I know of that can loop the J in James, to show the flourish of love I feel for the child and the man.’

  ‘Right so,’ said Gerry, and he lit up a cigarette, blowing a cloud onto the windscreen. So caught up in her own thoughts, Ella forgot to give out or cough extravagantly to show her disapproval.

  *

  It was several weeks before Ella got a reply. From the day she posted the letter, she had taken to loitering at the front café tables when the postman was due.

  Roberta noticed the expectation in her sister’s gait and sat at the library window each morning, watching Ella clean down the tables, fix the chairs and rearrange the candle holders and flower centrepieces.

  Once, when a young woman came down the stairs and asked to be served upstairs, Ella sighed loudly and abandoned her post reluctantly. If an upstairs table was free, she
sat waiting to see the post van before it pulled into the drive.

  Roberta watched the spectacle each day. Sometimes, in her agitation, she poured out a sherry but forgot to sip it, letting it go dry in the glass. Once, she left a note on the kitchen table for her sister.

  I have a right to know when you get word. He is my nephew. He needs to know about his father. R.

  Ella ignored it, screwing it into a tight ball and batting it into a wastepaper basket. She left her reply in its place.

  His father left me and him high and dry. This is none of your business. E.

  When the letter came, it was in a business envelope: his name, James Spring, and an address on Manhattan bounded by flowers. She was afraid to open it and stuffed it into her pocket as she saw Muriel pushing up the avenue.

  ‘Ella did you get the post?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what, Muriel?’

  Never deterred by a sharp voice, Muriel persisted. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘Who?’ Ella pretended she wasn’t interested.

  Muriel sat down. ‘Ella, we have been friends for years. I want this for you: for you to be happy.’

  Ella shrugged and wiped her forehead, as she felt queasy.

  ‘I have not opened it, Muriel. It is not that I am not telling you. I am afraid to open it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It has taken him so long to reply; there surely can only be one answer.’

  ‘Open it, Ella. Open it.’

  ‘I am sorry, Muriel, I need to be on my own. It will have to wait until I can close the café; Fergus is in Dublin on business, on today of all days.’

  ‘Ella, I can serve the teas and coffees and cut a few slices of cake. You do what you have to do.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Ella, how difficult can it be? Go. The post office is covered, so take your time.’

  Ella dithered, her hand over her skirt patch pocket, as if she was afraid she would lose the envelope.

  ‘Go,’ Muriel said, and gave her a slight shove.

  ‘I will get my coat,’ Ella said, making for the back hall, where she pulled on her raincoat.

  Muriel was already on the stairs when Ella came back through the hall.

  ‘I don’t how long I will be. I will just find a quiet spot on the land.’

  Muriel pooh-poohed out loud and continued up the stairs to the café. She hung her coat and hat on the coat stand inside the door and slipped in behind the counter. Far better than the post office, she thought, beginning to rearrange the plates of cake. The coffee machine was in the wrong place too, but she could live with it. Standing, her two hands spanning the counter, she viewed the long room. Ella could have spent more money and covered the floorboards and put proper drapes on the windows. If Muriel Hearty were running this establishment, it would be warm and cosy. She jumped when she heard a slight cough at the door.

  Roberta, using a walking stick because her rheumatoid arthritis had flared up, was staring at Muriel.

  ‘Don’t tell me she has roped you in to help. It is not as if she is overloaded with customers.’

  ‘Come in, Roberta; have a coffee.’

  ‘No, Muriel, I prefer the blend they serve at Molloy’s. Thank you.’

  Muriel got out from behind the counter and walked over to Roberta. ‘Come on, it is only the two of us and we have a good ten minutes before anyone will darken the door. I will be able to sit and chat with you.’

  ‘I don’t think Ella would like me to frequent her café,’ Roberta said as she made to move away.

  ‘Ella is not here. I am in charge and I am inviting you,’ Muriel said, sitting down and patting the chair beside her. ‘Don’t you want to hear the big news about your sister?’

  Roberta dithered, but only for a moment. ‘I might do,’ she said.

  ‘Will you have a tea? I am half afraid to use that coffee machine.’ Muriel pulled down a teapot and threw some teabags in. ‘I know Ella likes her Darjeeling and jasmine teas, but there is noting like a good plain teabag. Don’t tell her I never go anywhere without my teabags.’

  ‘I am hardly likely to be chatting to my sister anytime soon,’ Roberta said, and Muriel laughed nervously.

  ‘Do you mind? I couldn’t keep up something like that myself.’

  Roberta spilled some sugar into her tea. ‘Of course I mind, but I did not start this; she told me not to speak to her again and started all these stupid notes.’

  ‘What notes?’ Muriel said, leaning closer to Roberta, even though there was nobody else in the café to hear.

  ‘We have to have some way of communicating, Muriel; let’s leave it at that.’

  Muriel detected a shake in Roberta’s voice and covered her hand with hers. ‘If only the child had not drowned.’

  ‘Muriel, don’t go there.’

  ‘At least there is good news on the horizon,’ Muriel said.

  Roberta pulled from Muriel’s grip. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  Muriel look flustered. ‘Only that the boy has written to her.’

  Muriel rushed to the counter when two women came in, keeping busy getting their orders out. Roberta followed her.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘I only know what you know. Seemingly, he was brought up by a rich couple in Manhattan.’

  ‘Is he coming here?’

  ‘Ella has gone to read the letter. God, I hope he does; that woman has put up with enough.’

  Roberta nodded and slowly made for the door. Muriel barely noticed; she was so caught up with four of her friends who had congregated around the counter, and she had such a story to tell them.

  Roberta pushed past the women coming up the stairs and they stood back.

  ‘Roberta, is everything all right?’ one woman asked, but Roberta did not answer.

  She wanted to follow Ella, read the letter, and discuss the young man they both should have brought up. That this enmity had gone on so long was a huge sadness she tried not to address. Sometimes she sat out in the garden and pretended that Roscarbury was a happy house again, but she was frozen in her heart. Even when Iris came up on her, it was easier to put out the hard word. A weariness seeped through her. A group of women were laughing at the far outside table, but they quietened down as she skirted around them.

  She felt in her bag for her hip flask but resisted the urge to take a slug from it. She saw Ella walk across the park and followed her. Her progress was slow, as the walking stick sank into the damp ground, but she persisted. Ella, she knew, would be down by the lake, sitting on the bench Michael Hannigan had put in place one weekend after they married. Roberta sat there too, when she was sure nobody was about. In a quiet corner blocked from view by a hedge of fuchsia, the sitter could view the lake and the mountains beyond without interruption. Once, he had pulled her in there and kissed her, putting his hands up her jumper. She pushed him away, afraid of being found out. He laughed, grabbed her again, pushing his hand between her legs.

  ‘Why do you think I worked so hard getting a long wide seat? It certainly was not for the view,’ he said, pushing her roughly back on the bench.

  The ground was soft and slippery in parts, so she grabbed at the thick old ferns to steady herself. Overhead, the clouds bustled about and a wind whipped the trees, as if announcing her presence. A small mouse hurried across her path; the ducks were kicking up a racket on the water. She pushed into the fuchsia, the water from the leaves soaking into her light jacket and drowning her skirt.

  Ella, sitting holding the letter, did not hear her sister ap-proach from behind. When Roberta put a hand on her shoulder, she jumped.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you frightened the life out of me,’ she said, quickly turning back towards the lake, to discourage her sister from attempting to make conversation.

  The wind whipped across the water and Ella shivered because she was only wearing a light coat. Carefully, she folded the letter and put it back in her pocket. Fixing her hair, she stood up to leave, but
Roberta blocked the way. With a heavy sigh, Ella plopped down on the bench and began to idly fiddle with an old teasel plant, which was brown and tough.

  ‘Is he coming here?’ Roberta spoke so softly she did not know if Ella had heard, but she saw a shiver in her shoulders. ‘Ella, I want to talk to you, please.’

  Ella shifted in the seat, reaching out to pull at some long grass.

  ‘Ella,’ Roberta called out louder, moving to sit on the seat.

  Ella rose up. ‘Why after all these years do you call on me now? Why now, Roberta?’ Ella shouted, making to move past her sister.

  Roberta pushed out her walking stick to stop her. ‘Please, Ella, please.’

  Ella yanked the stick. ‘Let me pass.’

  ‘Can’t we talk?’

  Ella guffawed out loud. ‘“Can’t we talk?” Pardon me if I ask why. Why now?’

  Roberta shifted on her feet.

  ‘Why? Have you run out of drink money?

  With a fierce push, Ella knocked the walking stick out of the way, forcing Roberta to grip the bench in case she fell.

  ‘I have a café to run,’ she said as she stormed through the fuchsia. Roberta sat down watching the clouds pressing in on the lake, making it turn grey.

  Ella was halfway across the parkland when she felt the tinge of regret that she had not allowed her sister to speak. Since Michael’s death, when Roberta made every attempt to comfort her, there had only been one time that her sister had tried to speak to her: when she came home from the hospital. Depressed and grieving, she rebutted Roberta, shouting at her, blaming her and throwing ornaments until eventually she locked herself in her room.