by Shane Dunphy
‘You can’t choose your family, Shane. She’s my mother. I’m going to try to be there for her.’
I finished my coffee and grinned at him. ‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’
He smiled his wistful, sad smile at me. ‘I know you will,’ he said.
Clive Plummer, scarred and hollow-eyed, the old anorak even looser fitting on him now, walked slowly and with tentative purpose along the little pathway behind St Vitus’s. Roberta was beside him, and I followed a few steps behind them both.
‘I don’t remember any of that,’ Clive said. The sedatives they were pumping into him had been reduced, but he was still a bit groggy. ‘All I can see when I try is the monsters. It’s dark, and they’re all around me, hurting me. Mum isn’t there.’
‘I think your mind created those nightmares, as strange as it might seem, to protect you,’ Roberta said. ‘What happened was really, really awful. I suppose being attacked by demons seemed better than … than what really did occur.’
We walked on in silence. Every now and then, Clive would stop, to identify a particular piece of birdsong. ‘She thought it would make her get better, didn’t she?’ he said. ‘That by doing those things, the cancer would go away.’
‘Cynthia had a form of vascular cancer that affects less than one per cent of all cancer sufferers. There is no known cure for it, and it almost always results in death,’ Roberta said. ‘She was grasping at straws, trying everything she could think of to beat it. I think her mind was affected by the cancer itself, and by the drugs. If she’d been well, she would never have agreed to involving you.’
‘I wish she was here,’ Clive said.
‘I know,’ Roberta said, putting her arm around her brother. ‘She owes you answers, and an apology. She owes us both that.’
‘No,’ Clive said. ‘I wish she was here so I could tell her I understand. That I forgive her.’
And we walked on, a blackbird celebrating the new day in a nearby tree.
18
I could hear Ben talking on the telephone all the way from my own office.
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Got quite aggressive, did she? Accused you of entrapment? Well, I suppose all her reading mustn’t have quite prepared her for the therapeutic process, eh? She admitted to that? Really? And would you give testimony to that effect? Of course I understand client confidentiality, but I believe child-protection concerns outweigh that as an ethical consideration. Oh, she says she’s leaving? Immediately? Okay, thanks for the call. Talk to you soon.’
I heard him hang up, and footsteps as he made his way down the hallway to my room. ‘That was Vera Byrne’s therapist.’
‘Oh.’
‘She has discontinued her course of treatment. Became quite irate, as a matter of fact. She accused him of trying to steer her into incriminating herself, physically assaulted him and left, but not before virtually admitting to her role in the abuse. She seemed almost proud of it, according to the shrink.’
‘He’ll write that up?’
‘Well, there’s the usual confidentiality bunkum, but he says he’s certainly prepared to make the recommendation that the kids not be entrusted to her in the foreseeable future.’
‘That is fucking brilliant.’
‘There’s more. She’s leaving town.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘S’pose not.’
She wasn’t at the town house, so I drove to the gothic edifice in Oldtown. A taxi was idling out front, and the huge oak door was ajar. I went on in.
I could hear cursing and clattering from the kitchen, and followed the sounds down the long wooden hallway to the filthy, cobweb-strewn room. The Byrnes’ original home was a bizarre, almost surreal collection of knick-knacks and oddments, piled here and there with no forethought. Every item clashed with the one beside it, almost as if that had been the point in the first place. It made the place deeply unsettling to be in.
Vera was packing random pieces of crockery, pictures and ornaments into a huge suitcase. Her hair was awry, and her clothes stained with dirt and grease. She looked much more like the Vera I had met months before than the assured, powerful woman who had attended the case review.
‘What are you doing, Vera?’ I asked her.
She whipped around and sneered at me. ‘I’m taking what’s mine and I’m going. You do-gooder bastards won’t give me a moment’s peace. Everywhere I go there’re prying eyes. I’m going away for a while. But I’m not leaving without my stuff.’
‘And that doesn’t include Larry and Francey?’
She stopped in her frenzied packing. ‘And why do you ask that?’
‘Because I’ve called Rivendell to let them know you might be on your way over there, and suggested they take the twins out for the rest of the day. Just in case.’
She laughed – a horrible, mean cackle – and closed the lid of her bag. ‘Don’t think you’ve beaten me. I’ll be back, when none of ye expect it. And when I do, I’ll claim everything that’s owing to me.’
‘You need help, Vera,’ I said. ‘You’re a sick woman. Do you know, if you’d even once said you were sorry for what you did to the twins, if you’d expressed a second’s remorse, I’d’ve tried to help you? But you just don’t see it. You have no idea what you did to them. Even poor, simple Malachi understands it but not you.’
‘You’re the one that doesn’t understand,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll return, and then I’ll make you all see.’
She stomped past me, dragging the heavy case. I followed her to the door and watched as the taxi driver helped her load her luggage into the boot. It was only when the car disappeared over the brow of a hill that I realized I was soaked in sweat. I heaved a sigh of relief. At last, the twins were safe.
Johnny Curran’s funeral took place on Christmas Eve. As tends to be the case with traveller funerals, it was a huge affair, with members of the extended families on both sides coming, some for hundreds of miles, to be there. Gerry, who would have been permitted to attend, did not arrive, out of fear that some of the mourners might see the death as being partly his fault. It was not an unreasonable assumption.
The ceremony was beautiful, and afterwards the throng retired to a nearby pub for drink and music that would last long into the night.
I went along for a while but felt uncomfortable and irritable. I was about to make my excuses when I noticed Tilly slipping out the door. Putting down my pint glass, I followed her. Once outside, she ran across the road, to the river bank. She smiled when I caught up with her and, crying softly, took my arm. We walked slowly, neither saying anything, each lost in our private thoughts. I knew that, somehow, Johnny’s brief life, and the small part I had played in his final weeks among us, had altered me completely. I couldn’t explain it, but things would never be the same again.
As we walked, a light snow began to fall, soft flakes settling on the black surface of the water before melting, becoming part of the Torc as it raced towards the sea.
‘Happy Christmas, Shane,’ Tilly said.
‘Merry Christmas, Tilly.’
And the first star of the evening came out above us, a single pinpoint of light in the gathering darkness.
Afterword
Hush, Little Baby is a book about parents, and the responsibilities being the mother or father of a child brings. Of all my books, I found it the most difficult to write. The process reminded me of the countless families I have encountered, and the ways in which I affected the dynamic of each one. Some of them had me forced into their lives and tolerated me with grim resentment. Others welcomed me with open arms. Through revisiting the cases in this volume, I realized that I did not always leave the homes I entered any better for my involvement. I always tried, but all too often the damage that had been done – by traumas or abuses that occurred long before I came on the scene – was too great for my meagre skills.
Hush, Little Baby also caused me
to think about my own parents, and my relationship with them. I am blessed to have come from a home where my mother and father loved one another completely, and where I knew that I was loved. Yet any examination of the complex emotional interactions between children and their primary carers gives one pause, and I spent many long evenings pondering where I came from, and how it contributed to who I am today.
And, of course, I am a parent now. I have two children who make me proud and whom I love and worry about and miss when they’re not around. Somehow, when I think of Katie or Patrick or Clive, I see the faces of my own children. Maybe I always did.
The story of Tilly and Johnny Curran is based on a case I was involved in very early in my career. The travelling community has, as I discuss in the text, been a feature of my life for as long as I can remember. I wanted to show them as I see them – a culture of much beauty and with many wonderful aspects, yet a dying one, for all that. There just doesn’t seem to be a place in post-modern Ireland for their way of life, which is, I believe, a great tragedy.
Clive Plummer was taken off all medication shortly after his father finally faced the truth, and was allowed to go home shortly after Christmas. Roberta took a career break, to help her brother cope with the reality he had been forced to accept, and she and Clive are, to the best of my knowledge, still in therapy. Jensen Plummer died a year later.
The Roman Catholic Church has left a legacy that will continue to reverberate through Irish society for many decades to come. It is a shameful thing that they continue to duck and dive, and to harbour individuals they know are a danger to children. The man I based Edward Downey on was eventually prosecuted, on a lesser charge. He served ten months, and is once again at large.
Children and teenagers continue to be put in adult psychiatric facilities. The need for child and adolescent beds has been highlighted many times, to no effect.
Patrick Bassett/Keany remained in the foster home he was placed in after leaving my care, until he moved out to go to college. He is still in contact with Gertrude and Freda, and he still likes Eric Clapton. Freda remains a challenge for everyone who is involved with her, but, as Patrick told me once, love isn’t supposed to be easy. He never found his father.
Katie did not move back in with Alphonso, but they continued to see one another on a weekly basis until his death, at the grand old age of ninety-seven. Katie remained in care for the rest of her teens. Shortly after her reunion with her uncle, she returned to mainstream school, and not long after that made the transition into a group home, with other children.
Vera Byrne was never heard from again. Malachi served out the rest of his time in prison and, on release, moved into the little town house he and Vera had been given, where he continues to live. He needs help with the day-to-day stuff of living, and a family-support worker sees him for several hours a week.
Larry and Francey, who hardly appear in this book, but who had a major part to play in Crying in the Dark, were understandably upset when their mother vanished without so much as a goodbye, but they see their father often, and are slowly rebuilding a relationship with him. The Byrne homestead in Oldtown is now derelict, radiating a sense of other-worldliness and menace. A friend once told me she felt it was waiting for its mistress to return. I hope she is wrong.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people, whose support, friendship and advice made the writing of this book possible.
My wife, Deirdre, and my children, Richard and Marnie. As always, thanks for putting up with me, and for being there.
My agent, Jonathan Williams, whose guidance has been invaluable over the past few years.
All the staff at Gill & Macmillan, for their good humour, enthusiasm and unerring love for what they do.
All the folks at Penguin, for their confidence in these books and their faith in what I do.
I wish particularly to thank everyone who has stopped me in the street, or emailed, or written, to let me know how much my books have meant, or to share with me a story of triumph over often dire circumstances. It makes it worth while to know the work is making a difference.
Each child and each family I have worked with over the years has given me untold gifts. Every time I ponder this strange career of mine, I learn something new.
Finally, to my own parents, Noël and Harry – I wrote Hush, Little Baby for you. This book is, as much as anything else, a celebration of our family.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN IRELAND
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by Penguin Ireland 2008
Copyright © Shane Dunphy, 2008
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ISBN: 978-0-141-91739-9
