Authors: Julie Parsons
‘Yes, Daddy, we’ve all been out with the lady. Mummy’s sick. She’s got a bad headache. She’s in bed. Are you coming home soon? Good. Bye.’
‘What did he say?’ She felt her heart begin to beat faster.
‘He’s on his way. He’ll be here in an hour.’
She put the keys back on the ring by the kitchen door. She looked around once more. Everything was as it had been. She made the children sandwiches and brought them glasses of milk.
‘I’m going now. I’ll see you again.’
They lifted their heads and looked at her. Laura stood up. She walked over to her and put her arms up. Rachel bent down and kissed her.
‘Bye-bye, my little girl. See you soon.’
She walked quickly across the lawn towards the clifftop. It would be easier to leave this way. She didn’t want to risk meeting his car on the road. She felt the keys jingle in her pocket
as she moved. And she thought of all she had left behind. Fingerprints on every imaginable surface. Hairs on the pillows and the mattress of the bed where Daniel and Ursula slept and a pair of bead
earrings hidden in the dust beneath it. Fibres from her clothes left on the furniture and a button from her jacket underneath the cushions on the sofa. Everything was in place. Everything was
ready. And soon she would be too.
N
OW THERE WAS
another map pinned up beside the first one above her bed. Rachel had drawn it herself, when she got back from the house on the cliff. The
house named Spindrift. The spray that blows along the surface of the sea. Whipped up by the wind, twisting and turning, a layer of white that obscures the tops of the waves, making it impossible to
see their height. But now she could see everything in her mind’s eye. She had sat down with a large sheet of paper, a pencil and a ruler, and she had drawn it all out. The plan of the house,
floor by floor. Put in all the rooms, the windows, the doors. Marked out the boundary to the garden and coloured it with different pens. The vegetable patch, the herbaceous border, the lawn, the
trees. Then put in the family. Drew the figures, stick-like, but recognizable. Daniel with his dark hair and beard. Ursula with her long fair plait. And the children. Finished it off and sat back
to admire it. Then stuck it up beside the other one. It was good. It was done.
And now there was something else she must do. She must meet her daughter once more. This time she had gone through the proper channels. She had asked Andrew Bowen to arrange it. He had spoken to
Amy’s social worker. They had agreed between themselves. Rachel and Amy would meet in what they called a neutral venue, as they had so many times in the past, when she was still in prison.
She would have liked it if, just once, they could have met in the open air. Perhaps at the end of the west pier, where the huge blocks of granite, which kept the sea at bay, were warmed by the sun.
Or even in the one of the city’s parks. St Stephen’s Green where Rachel used to take her when she was small to feed the clamouring mallards. Or Merrion Square to sit on the grass
between the formal beds, bright with fleshy begonias. Or best of all in the Iveagh Gardens, hidden behind the long grey buildings of the Concert Hall and the National University, overgrown and
wild, its statuary half broken, fallen down among the shrubbery. A place she used to visit, when she was a student, to lie in the sun and dream.
But it was not to be. Andrew Bowen had told her. She was to go to the headquarters of the Probation and Welfare Service.
‘They’re in Smithfield, where the old cattle market used to be. But you wouldn’t recognize the place now, it has so many fancy new buildings. Do you remember how to get there?
Would you like me to come with you, or would you prefer to go on your own?’
She had chosen to go by herself. To walk up the Quays, passing with sudden dread the Four Courts, feeling the heavy bulk of the pillared building, with its green copper dome, leaning over
towards her, threatening to topple into her path. She remembered those two weeks, twelve years ago, walking in from the street every morning, pushing through the crowds of reporters and
photographers, who squawked at her. ‘Look here, Rachel. Give us a smile, Rachel. How’s it going, Rachel? What do you have to say, Rachel?’
With her father by her side, his face tightening, despair cutting deep grooves in the flesh of his forehead, in the space between his eyebrows and on either side of his mouth. And making his
eyes hooded and blank. And on the last day, Amy in her arms as she tried to find a way to bring her into the Round Hall, looking for the entrance at the side of the building, through the swing
doors where the barristers passed, hearing the sudden shout as one of the photographers saw her and called out to his friends: ‘Here, look, she’s here, with the kid.’
And then when the jury had delivered their verdict, she had been so sorry that she had brought her. It had been selfish and foolish. Not the sort of thing that a decent, proper mother does, to
expose her child in that manner. How could she have done it? The desire to see her child before she was sent away, that was understandable, wasn’t it? Any mother would have felt like that,
wouldn’t she?
She had begun to doubt herself immediately. And now she had no sense of her own rightness. Had she ever had any real maternal instinct? Was there such a thing, she wondered as she turned away
from the river, towards the large cobbled square, and stopped to look at the row of modern office buildings where once had been an uneven, irregular skyline of houses, shops and pubs. And why was
she choosing now of all times to test it? Why had she asked to see Amy, when Amy had made it so plain that she did not want her back in her life? She walked across the open space and leaned against
the railings. She closed her eyes and turned her face up towards the sun, calming for a moment the sense of panic that was beginning to take hold of her body. All she wanted, she thought, was to be
in the same room with her. No, she corrected herself, that wasn’t strictly true. She wanted more. She wanted to stand close, put her arms around her, fold her young supple body into her own.
Lean her cheek against the soft skin of her daughter’s cheek. Breathe in her warm scent. Soap and newly washed hair and that indescribable smell of child. Feel the weight of her
daughter’s head as she let it droop on to her shoulder. Whisper in her ear that she, Rachel, was in spite of everything still her mother. That she, Amy, was after all that had happened, still
her daughter. That they were bound together by the nine months that Amy had spent inside her mother’s body. By the five years of nurturing and loving that they had spent together. And as she
stood with her face to the sun, her eyes closed, she could feel her lips part in a sudden involuntary smile.
She opened her eyes and looked around, blinking rapidly, dazzled for a moment by the brightness that flooded in and saw the car that had stopped outside the largest of the buildings. The one
with the long plate-glass windows at street level and the lettering across its glass doors. Department of Justice. Probation and Welfare Service. She stood up. A man and woman were seated in the
front. The girl was in the back. She watched as the woman got out of the passenger seat and held open the door behind her. She saw her daughter, close-cropped black hair, row of earrings in her
right lobe, tight jeans, short top which revealed a tanned stomach, runners with thick wedge soles and a cigarette dangling between the fingers of one hand. She watched as the woman put an arm
around her shoulders for a moment, squeezed her tightly and kissed her quickly on her cheek. Saw the expression on her daughter’s face. The resentment that twisted her features so she looked
sulky, angry, unattractive. She flung the cigarette down on the footpath and ground it with her toe, before dragging open the heavy glass doors and slamming them behind her. The woman turned back
to the car, shrugging her shoulders, an expression of hurt resignation on her face. She saw Rachel, stared at her for a moment, a grimace of distaste tightening her mouth into a narrow line, then
opened the car door and got inside. As they moved slowly away, the tyres reverberating over the cobbles, their two faces peered out at her. And then they were gone.
It was a bright room, the one into which she was shown. Its large windows faced west, and the rays of the afternoon sun lit up the specks of dust that floated above the long polished table.
Rachel stood by herself just inside the door and waited. Amy was seated in a chair in the corner. A small blonde woman was standing beside her. Her hand was on Amy’s shoulder. She smiled at
Rachel and began to speak. She introduced herself. Her name, she said, was Alison White. She was Amy’s social worker. Perhaps Rachel remembered her? They had met once or twice before, some
years ago.
Rachel nodded, then said softly, ‘It was twice, we met twice.’
The woman smiled and looked down at the notebook in her hand. Then she continued. This was, she said, a difficult occasion. As they all knew, Amy had been very reluctant to meet with her mother
since she was released from prison. And of course Rachel hadn’t made things any better by attempting to see Amy in what could best be described as an ad-hoc manner. Amy had been very upset by
this and had felt threatened by Rachel’s behaviour, which was, the woman said, unacceptable. However, Rachel had obviously learned from her mistake, and this time she had put her request
through the proper channels.
Rachel looked towards where Amy was sitting. As Amy felt her gaze fall upon her, she shifted in her seat, twisting her upper body so her head was turned completely away. An awkward position,
uncomfortable for any length of time, hard to maintain. Rachel could see the bones, the knobs of the vertebrae at the back of her neck, stand out in the space between her hairline and the stretchy
material of her lipstick-pink blouse.
‘It is my opinion,’ the woman said, ‘that it would be a good thing if Amy was to re-establish some kind of contact with her natural mother. Although Amy is extremely fond of
and close to her foster-mother, and the rest of her foster-family who have made huge efforts to care for her in every possible way, still the natural bond between birth mother and child cannot be
ignored, and in my experience there always comes a time when it reasserts itself.’
She paused.
‘And it is my experience that it is better if this can be handled properly, that guidance can be given to both mother and child to see them through this difficult period of adjustment. And
now, before I leave you two alone, shall I pour the tea?’
She pointed to the tray with a metal teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, two cups and saucers and a plate of chocolate biscuits, which was sitting in the middle of the table.
It tasted the way all institutional tea tasted. Stale and stewed, bitter and brackish. Rachel drank, forcing the liquid into her stomach. She put down her cup. She looked across the table at
Amy. The girl had disdained the drink that Alison White had offered. Instead she had pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up, despite the no-smoking signs stuck on the back of the door. But
then she obviously wasn’t the first to smoke here in this room, Rachel thought, looking at the large round ashtray that Amy had dragged from its place on the table to a position from where
she could comfortably flick her ash.
‘Well, I’ll go now. I’ll be next door if you want me.’ Alison White looked at her watch. ‘You have an hour or so before this room is needed. But if you want longer
there are other rooms down the corridor.’ She smiled, a look of apprehension flickering across her pretty face, just for a moment, then she backed away.
The door clicked loudly behind her. Rachel sat down. She leaned across and picked up the teapot. It was heavy. She could feel her wrist bending, as if at any moment it would give way. The brown
liquid gushed from the metal spout, splashing into both cup and saucer and casting drops in an arc on the table. She put the pot back on the tray and felt in her jeans pocket for a tissue, hastily
wiping up the spilt tea. She scrunched the soggy paper up into a ball and leaned over towards the ashtray.
‘Do you mind?’ she said, and dropped it in.
Amy shrugged and drew heavily on her cigarette. Rachel watched the yellow-tinged smoke as the girl funnelled it out of her mouth, her lips forming a tight ‘o’ as she blew neat little
smoke rings, which floated slowly up towards the ceiling tiles.
‘Not bad,’ Rachel said. ‘Not bad at all. Some of the women I was in prison with could blow the most amazing shapes. Circles within circles within circles. They were absolute
experts at it.’
‘So?’
‘So, nothing, nothing in particular. I could never do it, that’s all. Even when I was a heavy smoker, before I got pregnant with you, of course, when I was a student. When smoking
seemed to be the coolest thing in the world.’
There was silence. Rachel leaned across the table and picked up the plate of biscuits. She held them out.
‘Would you like one? They’re chocolate digestives. You used to love them when you were little. You couldn’t get enough of them. I used to have to pretend they were all gone,
otherwise you’d have driven me mad trying to get at them.’
All gone, all gone, Amy.
All gone, all gone, Mumma. Bikkys all gone.
Amy stared at her blankly, then took another cigarette from her packet and lit it from the butt of the first.
‘Lying to me even then, were you? Not telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God.’
‘Sorry?’ Rachel started back, feeling suddenly cold here in this warm sunny room.
‘Sorry. Are you?’ For the first time Amy looked at her. Directly. Meeting her eye, holding her gaze.
‘I am sorry, of course I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about everything that has happened between us. To you and to me. To us. And I want an opportunity to try to put things
right.’
‘Put things right. I see. And how do you propose to do that?’ Amy leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting the tips of her runners on the tabletop. She
began to push herself backwards and forwards.