As Rosie finished her last phone call, she once again reminded herself how blessed she had been to marry a man like JT. Never once had she known him to lose his temper, which could not be said for some of the men of rural Ireland. On countless farms, husbands and fathers ruled by the fist.
She set off into the snow once again, this time with her Gladstone bag full of dressings, sutures and useful things she might need for Kitty, as well as a little extra knowledge, which she had artfully gleaned from Besmina as she cleared away the tea tray.
When Rosie turned in through the Abbey gates at three o’clock, the light was already fading fast. At the best of times she thought the Abbey looked like the coldest and most miserable of institutions, but today in the frozen mist it appeared even more forbidding than usual as it loomed up, like a white effigy, against the dull grey sky.
To the right of the main building was a long glass corridor, which led to the laundry; on the opposite side lay the chapel and convent. Rosie knew the girls’ dormitories were up in the roof.
She wiped the misty windscreen with her leather glove. From the window on the top floor shone the single, dim yellow light of the labour room, which was where Kitty would be lying, probably alone.
‘Merciful God, the poor child,’ she said out loud as she pulled up in front of the convent.
As Rosie turned off the engine, she saw a huddled procession of girls shuffling in a straight line down the steps, from the Abbey nursery to the laundry. Rosie wondered if this was the end of the one hour per day they were allowed to spend with their babies and children, and were being herded back to commence another five hours of hard work. Two girls looked directly at Rosie and then began talking to each other. One smiled at her nervously, as though trying to attract her attention, before being sharply prodded in the back by the nun walking alongside.
Rosie had been told by Besmina that whenever a child was adopted, the mother was made to carry it down the long corridor to the door at the far end. There, she would have to hand the baby over to the person who would oversee the handover to the new parents, at Shannon airport.
‘’Tis the walk of shame,’ Besmina had said, ‘and the nuns, they all line up in a row on either side, praying for forgiveness, which, if you ask me, never seems to come. If the mother breaks down, or becomes upset, Jesus, she is punished so bad.’
‘How, Besmina, how?’
Rosie had asked this question before but it was not until today that Besmina had answered her, with uncharacteristic bitterness.
‘They are taken into the Reverend Mother’s office, where they have their heads shaved and painted with gentian violet. Then they are beaten with a cane, tied to a chair and left in a room, alone, for hours. The nuns can be witches, so they can.’
Rosie assumed purple gentian violet would be a physical warning to the other girls, should they dare to shed tears as they handed over their babies.
Besmina, who was a good girl, had told Rosie very little but what she did say had shocked her. Rosie was a good Catholic, but sometimes even she worried at the corruption of her religion, and wondered how there could be a justification for such places as the Abbey.
The Reverend Mother stood waiting, framed in the doorway, a vision in black. By the time Rosie had reached the top of the steps, a flustered, white-veiled novice was also hovering behind her, twittering.
‘At long last. I thought you would never arrive,’ Sister Assumpta exclaimed impatiently, as though Rosie had travelled from the local village on a dry and pleasant day. ‘I have tea ready for you in my office.’
At last, an acknowledgment of the dreadful conditions I have driven in, thought Rosie.
‘We saw the lights of your car and had it made immediately. Sister Virginia, show Mrs O’Grady to the bathroom and wait to bring her back. Then you can have your tea and cake, midwife, and Sister Virginia will escort you to the labour room, to collect the girl. Sister Celia has made you the most fabulous sandwich cake and covered the top in melted chocolate. Can you imagine that?’
Rosie followed the novice down the highly polished corridor laid with a green Persian carpet, and lined with heavy, dark wood furniture, with ruby brocade curtains hanging at the windows. Against the wall stood an overpowering statue of St Anthony that had obviously been recently carved. She wondered exactly how much money the nuns were bringing in on an annual basis from their laundry work and baby selling, in order to fill the Abbey with such finery.
The ceremonial tea and cake in the Reverend Mother’s room were consumed in minutes. Rosie was keen to see Kitty as quickly as possible, so she stood and picked up her heavy bag. She had to admit, to herself, it was the best slice of chocolate cake she had ever eaten. An unexpected sweetness.
‘Er, before you take the girl, I am afraid we have a small problem.’ Sister Assumpta’s voice, behind her, had now dropped an octave to sound almost menacing.
As Rosie turned back to face her, Sister Assumpta averted her gaze and shuffled pieces of paper across her desk.
‘And that would be what, Reverend Mother?’ enquired Rosie.
The atmosphere in the room had taken a decidedly frosty turn.
‘Do you have the money with you? There is a further eighty pounds outstanding, before the girl can leave.’
Rosie felt her blood boil. She had had a very long day and the last thing on her mind when she had received the Reverend Mother’s call was driving to Bangornevin to collect what amounted to bail money. There had been only one idea in her head as she had replaced the receiver and that was to make haste to Kitty’s bedside as soon as God and the weather would allow.
Rosie looked the Reverend Mother straight in the eye and spoke with more authority than she actually felt, especially as a painting of the Holy Mother seemed to be staring down at her with a touch of disappointment in the eyes that she had not noticed until now.
‘No, I do not, as it happens, because you have given me no time to organize the payment. You appeared very keen indeed to have Kitty removed from the Abbey when you called me this morning, and so I am afraid you will have to wait until I can send someone over. You will have to take my word, unless you would like to hold me for a ransom?’
Both women laughed. A dry slightly shrill laugh, although not one even remotely funny word had been spoken.
Turning on her heel, Rosie crossed the acreage of plush carpet to the office door and almost had to edge the novice aside, to place her hand on the brass doorknob.
‘I know my own way, thank you very much,’ Rosie hissed as she opened the door with a flourish, almost flattening the simpering novice.
She could feel Sister Assumpta’s eyes burning into her back as she made her way down the corridor to the main staircase. Rosie, who held a powerful position and moved in elevated medical and religious circles, knew that, in a direct challenge of authority, Sister Assumpta would not want to cross her. Rosie felt sure that the Reverend Mother would avoid at all costs any situation that encouraged more questions about the running of the mother and baby business.
Rosie’s heart began to beat slightly faster, as she waited for a voice to ring out behind her and order her to stop. There was nothing but silence. She let out a deep breath. She had won.
Not for the first time, she detected something malevolent and sinister, cowering in dark corners. Now, it followed her, down the long corridor. Rosie gave an involuntary shiver as she approached the stairs, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and goose pimples break out on her arms.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she whispered to herself as she hurried up the stairs. ‘They can’t hold us prisoner.’
Rosie opened the door to the labour room, and was immediately assailed by the smell of stale blood.
‘Holy Mary,’ she gasped, covering her mouth against the stench.
Across the other side of the room, Kitty lay on her back on the hard delivery bed, looking small and frail. One arm flopped down over the side, almost reaching the floor, like the broken wing
of a bird. It was quickly apparent to Rosie that Kitty was in a great deal of pain.
As Kitty’s head turned towards Rosie, instant tears of relief ran down her cheeks. She reached out and grabbed Rosie’s hand.
‘Oh God, it hurts so much,’ she cried. ‘I feel so sick, the pain is so bad.’
Rosie dropped her bag on the floor and dragged over to the bed a white enamel trolley that stood against the wall. Hurriedly she retrieved equipment and dressings from her bag, placing them on the top of the trolley.
‘What hurts, Kitty, where? Is it down below?’ Rosie said as she prepared her trolley.
Kitty nodded and put both hands on her abdomen. ‘God, it is so bad, and here,’ she cried, placing a hand on her chest. Rosie could see that someone had attempted to bind Kitty’s breasts, one of the other girls, she supposed, but had not made a very good job of it.
‘I need to examine you, Kitty, but when I am done sorting you out, I am putting you in the car and taking you home. Your time here is over.’
Rosie had thought she would drive Kitty straight to Ballymara, to Maeve Deane and her husband Liam, Kathleen’s middle son and Jerry’s younger brother.
Kitty sobbed loudly, almost screaming and thanking God that she was no longer alone. It was difficult to distinguish her cries of pain from those of relief. Before Kitty had entered the Abbey, she had spent time at Maeve’s farmhouse, becoming very close to her and Liam. Now, as Rosie looked down at her chalk-white face, she wasn’t so sure Kitty was well enough to travel even that far.
Kitty’s cries were heart-wrenching, rising in a crescendo and bringing Rosie, an experienced midwife to the verge of tears herself.
‘It hurts, the pain, oh God, the pain,’ Kitty yelled again.
Rosie began to palpate Kitty’s abdomen and did not like what she felt. It was rigid and hard, resistant to her touch. She pressed her fingers flat against Kitty’s uterus and as she did so, Kitty let out a terrifying scream. It was as much as Rosie needed to know. She lifted up Kitty’s knees to examine her, but it took every ounce of her willpower not to allow the disgust to register on her face.
In her twenty-five years as a midwife, she had never seen lacerations so bad. What was worse, they looked seriously infected. However, Rosie knew that the external appearance of an infection was only part of the story. She quickly took Kitty’s temperature. It was 104. Rosie was very used to dealing with girls from the tenements, who arrived at the hospital in a similar state, but in Dublin she worked in a controlled environment, with professional colleagues, doctors and midwives. She had never seen a girl in such a post-delivery state, even one who had been brought into the hospital from the country.
‘Mother of God, who has been looking after you?’ she asked as her own eyes now began to fill with tears. Wasn’t this girl going through enough, after all that had happened to her?
‘Aideen and Agnes,’ Kitty sobbed, holding tightly onto Rosie’s hand, as though terrified to let go, lest Rosie disappeared.
And then, as if by magic, as if summoned by angels, the two girls who had delivered Kitty’s baby, and done their best to help her, slipped in quietly through the door. Rosie recognized them as the girls she had seen trying to attract her attention when she arrived.
‘Thank God you are here,’ said Aideen to Rosie, without the ceremony of introduction. ‘I’m Aideen, I delivered baby John. The fucking midwife went away on Christmas Eve and she hasn’t returned yet. She said Kitty was nothing to do with her and she wasn’t coming back just to see to her. There’s no baby anywhere near due for another month so we haven’t had sight nor sound of her since.’
Rosie was no stranger to bad language. She had heard some of the finest ladies in Dublin use exactly the same words, and worse, when in the middle of a contraction.
‘Aideen, can you help me,’ she said, with an edge of desperation to her voice. ‘Kitty is in a very bad way and I must stitch her before I can move her. Can you fetch me a bowl of hot soapy water from the sink, please?’
Agnes looked alarmed. ‘It’s not allowed,’ she hissed, almost in a whisper. ‘The Reverend Mother will go crazy mad, so she will, if you stitch her. She says the rips are put there by God to teach us what we have done wrong and no woman should try to rectify God’s own handiwork.’
Rosie felt as if it was now her turn to swear. However, with a great deal of effort, she retained her cool, taking the Spencer Wells forceps and catgut out of the autoclaved pack she had brought from the hospital.
‘She is held together by blood clots, Agnes. I cannot move her in this state. Here, can you help and get this tablet down her, and maybe some water to follow? I’m going to give her an injection, to help with the pain, but it may make her feel sick and we can do without that, on a car journey.’
Rosie could tell Agnes was the more nervous and gentle of the two. Life had been harder on Aideen, that much was obvious.
Rosie quickly drew up a vial of pethidine and within seconds had injected a large dose into Kitty’s thigh. Rosie noted that Kitty was in so much pain she didn’t even flinch.
‘We aren’t allowed to have painkillers either,’ whispered Agnes, who was now in awe of this strong and defiant midwife.
‘This is not God’s doing, Agnes, but it is the work of the devil himself to leave a poor girl in this state. I will be no part of that,’ Rosie replied.
Pouring her antiseptic wash into the bowl of warm water, which Aideen had set on the trolley, she began to swab Kitty.
It took her almost an hour to rectify the damage. Kitty had torn down into her perineum and backwards deeply into her rectum. She bled profusely, as Rosie worked to ease away the huge clots and crusts of blood, which were by now over two days old. As they reliquefied, they filled the room with a sickening metallic smell. At times, both Aideen and Agnes looked pale and nauseous but, dutifully, they held Kitty’s hands and remained upright.
While Rosie worked, the girls whispered soft soothing sounds. Aideen had placed a folded rag between Kitty’s teeth, just as she did when she was in labour, in fear of her moans attracting the nuns. Like dancing moths drawn to a flame, the sisters always fluttered to the sound of pain.
As Rosie worked, Agnes prayed over Kitty, who had become quiet and drowsy. The pethidine was working at last. She had injected Kitty with one of only four doses of the emergency drug she had popped into her bag as she left the hospital. As the full effect of analgesia worked its magic, Rosie wondered, would Kitty feel safe enough to let go? To relax and sleep?
‘Will you girls land yourselves in trouble for being here?’ Rosie asked, gently stroking Kitty’s hair away from her damp and clammy brow.
Aideen replied with a hint of fear, ‘If we wasn’t with you, midwife, we would be fucking whipped for coming here, and kept without food for days, but the witches daren’t do that because we are with you. They are scared of you, I know that because I heard one of the postulants say so, I did.’
‘Yes, but I will be gone soon,’ said Rosie, her voice loaded with concern. And then she had an idea. ‘I will tell them, when I leave, that I am returning with the money and that when I bring it I have promised to look in on you both, to let you know how, er, Cissy is doing. That should buy you some safety.’
For a split second, Rosie had almost forgotten Kitty’s secret name.
Aideen and Agnes looked at each other and smiled. Then, together, they both reached down the front of their calico skirts into their knickers and handed Rosie two warm letters.
‘Would you post these for us, please, midwife?’ whispered Aideen. By far, the bolder of the two, she had made the decision that Rosie could be trusted. ‘You know, we aren’t allowed any post in or out and have no contact with the outside world. I need to know, is me mammy coming with the money to get me out of this hell-hole soon, or do I have to escape?’
‘Escape?’ said Rosie. ‘That sounds so desperate.’
‘It is fucking desperate. Poor Agnes, she was sent straight here from an orphanage, because th
e fucking authorities didn’t know what else to do with her. That’s not fucking right.’
Rosie nodded. She still wasn’t shocked. She had once overheard a politician’s wife say the word ‘fucking’ more than three times in thirty seconds when she gave birth, more noisily than at any time before or since.
As Rosie bandaged Kitty’s breasts, Agnes gently mopped Kitty’s face and washed her hands with a fresh bowl of warm water, drawn from the long shallow sink. Apart from the bed and the trolley, it was the only piece of furniture in the room.
Rosie packed her bag and stowed away the letters. Then she scribbled down her home address and the number of the hospital office on a piece of paper and handed it to Aideen.
‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Keep this somewhere safe and away from prying eyes. If it reaches the point where you have to escape, contact me and I will help.’
Aideen grabbed hold of Rosie’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, displaying the first sign of gentleness, and her eyes filled with tears.
Rosie watched as Aideen ripped away the surplus paper, leaving only the area on which Rosie had written, and then rolled it between her finger and thumb, over and over, until it was a tight cylinder. She tucked the almost needle-thin paper roll through the stiches in the hem of her baggy calico knickers.
Aideen grinned to Agnes. ‘The bitches won’t find it there, will they?’ The light of hope sprang gleefully into both girls’ eyes. ‘We do all the laundry, so they will never find it.’
Rosie felt overwhelmed with tenderness towards both girls. Aideen might be a farm girl with little education, rough around the edges, but she had heart and humanity enough to risk angering Sister Assumpta by caring for Kitty, as best she knew how.
‘If it comes to that and you do escape,’ Rosie’s whisper was barely audible so the girls leant in close to catch her words, ‘make sure you leave my address behind, for anyone else who may need it. I have a good kitchen maid at my hospital, Besmina. She has told me a great deal about what goes on here and I want to help, if I can.’
The Ballymara Road Page 5
