2004 - Dandelion Soup (38 page)

Tres
.

Cuatro
.

She closed her eyes as she counted and silver spots began to dance on the back of her eyelids. Then came the deep dark redness and finally blackness.

Cinco
.

Seis
…

“No peeping,” Mama called out from somewhere close by, her voice a breathy excited rustle on the warm afternoon air.

Dancey listened intently. She heard the sound of Mama’s feet oh the grass somewhere behind her, the swish of her cloak in the soft breeze.

Usually, in their games of hide and seek, Dancey only had to count up to twenty. This time, though, because she was such a big girl now, Mama had said she must count to a hundred.

She counted again.

Siete
.

Ocho
.

Nueve
.

Diez
.

Somewhere close by she heard the busy fizzing of a bee. She kept quite still.

Once, a year or so ago, she had found an orange lying in the deep grass of an orchard. She had picked it up eagerly, turned it over in her hands only to discover that half of it had been eaten away, and she had stared fascinated at the maggoty sphere.

Then suddenly a wasp had flown out from the centre of the broken fruit. She had been too startled to drop the orange. The wasp had flown straight at her. She had seen its tiny fierce eyes. Closer and closer it came until there was a burning pain between her eyes. Hot shocked tears and then a lesson learned. Stinging insects got impatient and madder as the summer waned. It was best to keep very still, hardly breathing.

Veinte
.

Veintiuno
.

The noise of the bee grew fainter.

She yawned sleepily. They had been walking since the first light of morning and now her legs were aching, her toes, pinched by her boots, were burning. She dropped down on to the springy grass and lay on her back, her arms behind her head. The grass tickled the back of her knees, she could smell wild garlic growing nearby.

She imagined the blue of the sky above her, a sky as wide and tall as for ever.

She opened her eyes just a little. The sun pierced the gap and made them water.

Cuarenta
.

Cuarenta y uno
.

Not too far away she heard the sounds of a mountain stream rattling over smooth pebbles. A shepherd whistling tunelessly.

Noventa
.

High above, a hawk cried out and she pictured the shadow of its huge wings gliding across the grass. Beneath her tired body the earth hummed with warmth.

The sun was hot on her bare legs and the heat drew out the greasy animal smell of her hair and skin. Her clothes smelled of the smoke from last night’s fire and the oily fish that they’d eaten.

She listened for any tell-tale sound of Mama. She knew that she would be hiding somewhere close by, behind a thick bush or a big tree. Maybe she was already crouched down in the deep waving grass waiting to be found.

Sweat drizzled down between Dancey’s shoulder blades, the string of her drawers cut into her hot skin.

She yawned again.

Away over on the rough track the wheels of a cart turned noisily on the rough road and the hollow clop of hooves echoed mournfully.

The wheels of the cart stopped turning.

A donkey brayed, then whinnied fretfully.

Then the wagon trundled on faster; she heard the crack of a whip and a gruff voice urging the donkey to speed up.

Giddy up!

Ciento
.

Dancey opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh hot light of the noonday sun. She stood up lazily and stretched out her arms above her head.

“Mama! Coming, ready or not!”

But she hadn’t seen Mama again. Tears streamed down her face now as she remembered the terrible fear she had felt when she couldn’t find her mother…

Now, her heart felt as though it were swelling and filling up her chest so that she could barely breathe. Slowly, for the first time, the truth dawned on her. It hadn’t been an accident. Mama had played the game of hide and seek to make sure that she got away. Mama had known exactly what she was doing.

Mama who was the insect with a sting in her tail. Mama who was as treacherous as those stinging insects that got more impatient and madder as the summer waned.

On a rainy Saturday afternoon Siobhan Hanlon was reading in her cubicle in St Elizabeth’s dormitory. She had grown restless and lost concentration, she was sick of being cooped up inside St Martha’s and she started turning things over in her mind.

She hoped Mr Leary rang again soon because she had done her detective work for him and found out what he wanted to know.

Siobhan had innocently struck up a conversation with Sister Bonaventure about her mother’s time at the convent.

Sister Bonaventure had taken Siobhan up to the top corridor where the classrooms of the older pupils were and they had studied several photographs taken of the whole school together.

“Here,” she said. “Take a look at this one. See if you can find your mother there.”

Siobhan had looked along the rows of girls until at last she pointed at a much younger-looking version of her mother.

“There, you see, she would have been about fifteen in that photograph.”

“She had a friend, a Spanish girl, when she was here, is she in the photograph too?”

Sister Bonaventure looked at the photograph again.

“Yes, there she is, next to your mother on her right.”

Siobhan looked at a dark-skinned girl, a girl with a broad grin and two thick plaits tied with ribbons.

“What was her name?”

“Oh, let me think, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Something Martinez. The first name escapes me. You could look it up, though. There are yearbooks in the library which all the girls sign before they leave.”

“Thanks, Sister Bonaventure.”

In the library Siobhan had lifted down the heavy red leather-backed books from the shelves. The year was written in gold lettering on the spines. There it was: 1922! She had taken the book over to a table close to the window, where she turned the pages carefully, running her finger down the listed names.

Each page was drawn up into three columns. One for the name of the pupil, their home address in the second and in the third the place they had gone on to study.

There was her mammy. Henrietta Mary Connolly. Address: Killigrew House, McNulty Lane, near Cork. Written in the next column was the Convent de la Croix, Rue Martin, Paris. That was the finishing school her mammy was always going on about.

Further down the page she saw another name. Piadora T. Martinez. The address was Villa Castelo, Benita and next to that the Convent de la Croix, Rue Martin, Paris.

Lying back on her bed in the gloomy cubicle she wondered when Mr Leary would telephone again and also how he was getting on in Spain. It was then that she remembered the ripped-up letters she’d found in the cupboard in St Joseph’s and stuffed into her pocket.

She fished out the pile of letters from inside the lining of her trunk and sat cross-legged on her bed piecing the bits of paper together. It took her some time before she was able to read them.

At first she blushed at all the talk of kissing on the lips in the sea, but as she read on she realized that whoever these people were they weren’t even married but they were going to have a baby. How could you have a baby if you weren’t married? Siobhan didn’t think it was possible. And what the frig was a pile of smutty letters doing in Sister Veronica’s cupboard?

As she read the last letter she frowned with concentration.

My darling, darling girl. Thank God that you are well and the child has been delivered safely. I can’t believe that I have a son. I am the happiest man alive. I cannot wait to hold you both in my arms and never let you go. I think that Padraig George is the perfect name. God bless you both, my angels.

Siobhan felt the tears running down over her cheeks. She thought of Padraig now and her heart ached for him. She knew that he’d never seen these letters, because he’d told her that every orphan had a box of belongings that they weren’t allowed to see until the day they left St Joseph’s. Why had someone tried to destroy Padraig’s belongings?

The convent of Santa Anna lay in the very heart of the labyrinthine town of Murteda. The roads that led to the convent were so narrow that it was only possible to take a mule in one direction; there was no way of turning round unless the mule was backed inside a house and then pointed in the opposite direction.

Hidden away though it was at the end of a particularly narrow alley, the traveller approaching the small door set into the ancient walls was immediately aware of the multitude of glorious smells that emanated from the convent.

Soap bubbles drifted out from the windows of the laundry and blew away across the rooftops, leaving a hint of lilac lingering on their wake. The scent of strong soap and starch mingled with the whiff of freshly ironed linen.

From the kitchen came the aroma of beef cooking in hot oil and the mouth-watering smells of freshly made marzipan and newly baked bread.

Standing at the window in her study, Sister Perpetua watched the priest and the small boy make their way up the alley towards the convent. These must be the pilgrims from Santa Eulalia, and a right handsome pair they were too.

She heard the bell ring out and the sound of heavy footsteps crossing the flagged stone floors as one of the postulants went to open the door.

Sister Maria pulled across the grille in the door and took a sly peek at the new arrivals. Then she lowered her eyes and opened the door.

She led the way quickly across the hallway to the visiting parlour where Sister Perpetua had told her earlier to seat the visitors.

Sister Maria indicated that they take a seat and then turned to leave, tripping over her trailing shoelaces as she did so. She cursed under her breath, Padraig giggled and Father Daley nudged him. Red faced with embarrassment, Sister Maria scuttled out of the door just as Sister Perpetua appeared in the hallway.

“Decorum, Sister, remember decorum at all times. Perhaps if you tie your laces more securely you will prevent another fall from grace,” she said kindly, smiling at the flustered postulant.

“And, Sister Maria, ask Sister Matilde to make up another bed on the second floor. We have an unexpected pilgrim arriving presently.”

“Yes, Sister Perpetua,” Sister Maria stammered.

“She won’t be eating with everyone else, but will have all her meals in her room as she prefers to be alone.”

“Yes, Sister,” said Sister Maria and made a dash for the safety of the kitchen.

Sister Perpetua shook her head and sighed. Sister Maria was such a clumsy article; there was a lot of work to be done with that one before she made a half-decent nun.

She shivered then as a chilly draught caught at her shoulders. Glancing out of the window, she saw that the sky above the rooftops of the town was black with foreboding clouds. They were in for one hell of a storm by the look of it.

The rain was torrential and Donahue could barely see through the windscreen of the car; the wipers had packed up some time ago. The previous night they had contemplated going up to Santa Eulalia but Leary had made contact with Siobhan again and she’d told them the last known address for Piadora Martinez. They’d made the decision to go to the Villa Castelo in Benita and see what the Martinez family could tell them about Dancey Amati.

They had reached the crossroads where Señora Hipola had told them to take a right turn but the road was blocked by a fallen tree. Donahue stopped the car and had to shout to be heard above the noise of the rain pounding incessantly on to the roof.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“I’m going to get out and take a look,” Leary said.

He was gone only seconds before he returned to the car soaked to the skin, his glasses streaming with rainwater, his hair plastered to his head.

“Well not be going down towards Benita, there’s other trees been brought down further along the road.”

“Is there anywhere else we could stay?” Solly enquired.

“We’re not too far from Santa Eulalia,” Leary said.

“Is there any chance of us maybe spending the night there?”

“Not unless we could find a donkey with water wings,” Leary said. “I think our best bet is to keep to this road, head on to the first town and put up for the night wherever we can. We’ll have to try and get to the Villa Castelo tomorrow. Surely to God the rain’s bound to let up by the morning. It can’t keep on at this rate.”

“Is it usually this bad at this time of the year?” Donahue asked.

“No. If you ask me there’s a nubeiro and his tricks behind this storm.”

“A what?” said Donahue.

“A nubeiro, a maker of storms, there’s a few of them round these parts.”

Donahue raised his eyebrows.

“For an educated man, Leary, you don’t half talk some shite!”

The Old Pilgrim took shelter in a broken-down barn on the outskirts of a small village, and from the doorway he marvelled at the sheer force of the storm. Lightning flared above the mountain peaks, springs erupted from the ground and hurtled away in search of a river. Thunder rolled and clattered and the rotten eaves above his head groaned under the onslaught of the storm.

He made his way across the barn to a pile of hay and settled himself down. He felt quite feverish and his head was aching badly. He’d try and get a bit of sleep and then, as soon as the storm let up a bit, he’d set off again and try and find some lodgings for the night. He’d spent too many nights on the road of late and now he yearned for a hot dinner, a soft bed with clean sheets and a long uninterrupted sleep.

Padraig stood at the narrow window of the bedroom in the Convent of Santa Anna and looked out across the dripping rooftops of the town.

It was almost dusk now and the shutters were drawn on most of the windows of the houses. There would be few people venturing out on a night like this.

A sudden flash of lightning lit up the lane and illuminated the figure of someone hurrying along towards the convent. Padraig could hear the squelch of water through their shoes as they splashed along, a muttered curse as they stepped on a loose cobble and black mud squelched up over their feet.