Stolen Child (17 page)

‘I could never despise you, Robert,’ she replied. ‘I fully understand why you left.’

‘Do you understand enough to stay here with me?’

‘Isobel’s alive,’ said Carla. ‘I can’t stop trying to find her.’

‘She’s gone from us.’ He spoke so quietly she had to lean forward to hear him. ‘Dead or alive, it no longer matters.’

‘Yes, it matters, Robert. It matters more than anything else.’

‘More than our happiness?’ he demanded.

‘Come back to Ireland with me,’ she pleaded. ‘We can start again, have another child.’

‘Another child would live in her shadow,’ he said. ‘It could never be otherwise with you.’

‘You think I’m obsessed?’

‘I think you’re in love with a memory. There’s nothing for either of us in Ireland.’

‘Except hope,’ she replied.

‘Platitudes, Carla. I can’t live with them any more. I’ve found my own reality here. I’ll never stop loving you. But I’m prepared to settle for less.’

They made love gently then, afraid any sudden movement would break the fragile peace they had reached with each other. She had no memory of sleeping but she must have drifted in and out of oblivion, waking to touch him, or he, equally restless, reaching towards her. Three days later she returned home.

Susanne

You’ve been so excited since Joey arrived. He swaggered through the airport, his rucksack sitting lightly on his shoulders, and danced on the spot in mock-alarm when he heard your shrieks. Corrine and Jack followed with their daughters. Joey is staying at Rockrose for the duration of their holiday.

It’s strange, having a boy in the house. He’s boisterous, abrasive almost, with his clattering boots and awkward hands that seem incapable of touching anything without knocking it over. He’s tall for a fourteen-year-old, moody at times, and his hair, like David’s, needs sheep-shears to keep it under control. Perhaps he doesn’t shout, yet his voice reverberates through my head. He is constantly on the move and gets restless if we’re not going somewhere, doing something.

Miriam has taught him to blow glass, shapeless pieces, of course, but she believes he has a natural talent. He wants to visit Leamanagh Castle where the blind stallion once lashed his hooves so violently that the grooms had to barricade themselves from him. You want to see the castle too. You are his echo, his shadow, his adoring younger sister, fiercely
jealous of Leanne and Lisa. We’ll go there on Sunday and drive on to Lake Inchiquin for a picnic.

Yesterday, we brought him to Lahinch for the surfing. He rode his surfboard over the rollers, cocky and assured as he crested ashore. He showed you how to belly-ride your own small surfboard. I could hear your triumphant yells above the crash of waves.

You both turned to watch a windsurfer in a black wetsuit skim across our line of vision. He tilted the rig and worked the board so that he became part of the great curving wave carrying him onwards. When he collapsed his rig on the sand, Joey sauntered towards him. I wanted to dry you off but you followed like a puppy at his heels. Joey and the windsurfer ignored you. He has David’s habit of gesticulating when he speaks and it was obvious they were talking about the waves. You drew a circle around them in the sand and wrote your names. Joy/Joey.

A small boy toddled towards you. You shovelled sand for him, built a sandcastle, both of you collecting shells to decorate the turrets. You ran back to me and rummaged in my beach bag for your polar bear and showed it to the boy, placed it on the top of the castle. The man finished talking to Joey and scooped the child in his arms. A woman, who was lying on a rock, an open book across her face, sat up and held out her arms for the boy.

‘My friend Dylan is going to lend me his board and rig,’ Joey said. ‘He’s cool.’

‘No, he’s not,’ you chanted. ‘You’re cool, Joey. You’re very
very
cool.’

Carla

Gina, aware that her children’s birthday parties were difficult occasions for Carla, always sounded slightly apologetic when she rang her sister-in-law to invite her. Not to do so would have marked her out as a social pariah and Carla, aware of Gina’s conflicting emotions, always made a brief appearance to mark each event. Balloons were bobbing merrily from the front gate when she arrived for the twins’ party and a banner slung across the door announced that Shane and Stephen Kelly were three years old today. Much to Gina’s relief, the weather was fine and children were noisily tumbling on the bouncy castle she had hired for the occasion.

Leo, in a butcher’s apron, was busily barbecuing and swigging from a bottle of beer. A group of fathers stood around him while their wives, relaxing in deckchairs, kept an eye on their bouncing children. With her antennae honed to the reaction of others, Carla noticed the almost imperceptible silence that fell as the guests became aware of her arrival. Carla Kelly, the unyielding face of every parent’s nightmare. People began talking again. Their lips moved but she knew that, instinctively, each parent had cast a protective glance towards their shrieking children.

‘I’m over here, darling.’ Janet, sitting in a secluded area of the terrace, beckoned her across. The gesture was imperious and could not be ignored. Her mother gave the empty chair beside her an authoritative pat. ‘How are you, darling?’ She tilted her cheek for a kiss. ‘I rang you three times yesterday. Didn’t you get my messages?’

Carla sank into the chair and accepted a glass of wine from Gina.

‘I’ve been so busy,’ Carla lied effortlessly. ‘How you’ve been?’

‘In good health, thank you.’ A touch of asperity entered Janet’s voice. ‘Were you too busy to ring your parents?’

‘I’m sorry. I’d other things on my mind.’

‘Like breaking up your marriage, you mean?’

‘I’m not…Look, Mother, this
really
is none of your business.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Carla. Of course it’s my business. You’re offering your husband like a sacrificial lamb to that woman…what’s her name…Karen…’

‘Sharon. And she’s Robert’s friend, nothing else.’

‘Carla, my dear child, I’ve been too long on this earth to believe there is such a thing as platonic friendship between a man and a woman. You might as well ask a tom cat to stay home at night.’

‘Sharon is getting married in a few months’ time to a wonderful man.’

‘If I was a betting woman, I wouldn’t be putting odds on that. Honestly, Carla, you’re being very foolish. Robert is offering you a second chance. He stood by you when other men would have walked away. That dreadful programme…’ She shuddered and dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief. ‘He wants to make a fresh start and the least you can do is meet him halfway. If you don’t, it will break your father’s heart—’

‘I don’t want to break anyone’s heart,’ Carla replied. ‘But I’ve made my decision and Robert has accepted it.’

‘But it’s hopeless…how long are we expected…?’ Unable to contain her distress, Janet slammed her fists against the arms of the chair. ‘If Isobel had died at birth you’d have moved on by now…had another child.’

‘It’s not the same. Can’t you try to understand? It’s the not knowing that makes it impossible to accept.’

‘Even though Robert and the rest of us believe she’s dead?’

‘That’s what you’ve chosen to believe.’

‘But even if we’re wrong…even if, by some miracle, you did succeed in ever finding her, she’s someone else’s five-year-old girl. How can you possibly expect to form a relationship with her? I’m sorry if I sound harsh, Carla, but people deal with tragedy all the time. They don’t allow it to define them for the rest of their lives.’ Janet’s lipstick, too red for her thinning lips, had blurred into the lines above her mouth. ‘It’s destroying us all. Gina worries—’

‘Worries about what?’ snapped Carla. ‘Is she afraid I’ll spoil the party atmosphere?’

‘Stop being so dramatic, Carla. That’s not what I meant.’

‘Then why don’t you say it straight out, instead of using Dad and Gina as a shield? You’d prefer I wasn’t here to remind everyone that awful things happen. But, unfortunately, they do and I can’t magic them right again by disappearing from sight. So stop telling me my child is dead. I’m the one who’ll make that decision and I’ll only make it when I believe it to be true.’

Janet, flushed and agitated, fanned her face with her hand. ‘You are always
such
a drama queen, Carla. I never wished…’ She turned her head and looked over at her husband who was talking to Gina’s father. As if attuned to Janet’s distress, he stood up and walked towards them. Carla had always
been fascinated by the invisible signals her parents relayed to each other. Perhaps that was the enduring legacy of their long marriage, the ability to communicate without words.

‘I’d like to go home now, Gerard,’ said Janet. ‘The sun is giving me a headache.’

Gerard glanced from his wife to his daughter then bent to pick up Janet’s cardigan from the back of her chair.

‘She worries so much about you,’ he said when Janet was saying goodbye to Leo and Gina.

‘You all do. I’m sorry…I wish…’ Unable to continue, she hugged her father.

‘You’ve done what you believe is right, Carla,’ he said. ‘That’s all any of us can ever do.’ He patted her awkwardly on her back, a diffident man who never had a way with words. He was the listener in the family, preferring to absorb their problems rather than advise.

In a sudden gesture of sympathy, she hugged her mother. ‘I’m sorry for being so snappy,’ she said. ‘I didn’t let Robert go lightly. I still love him but I need to be here. He needs to be there. There’s no middle ground.’

‘I want you to be happy again.’ Janet’s taut expression softened. ‘That’s all I want. And it won’t happen as long as you continue chasing a dead dream.’

Leo lifted burgers and sausages from the grill and called to the children. They all looked identical to Carla as they jumped from the castle and ran towards the table. One of the children fell and his mother darted towards him. Like penguins in a snowstorm, each to its own.

She wandered away from the party and strolled along the garden path. This was an old garden, long and winding, and the trees still carried the luminous green of early summer.

‘Aunty Carla!’ The voice came from within the branches
of a shrub. Bending down, Carla saw her niece’s face peering between the leaves.

‘Come into my den,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s my secret place.’

The branches arched above them, creating a dome-like space carpeted with dusty soil and pine needles. Carla crouched beside her niece. The smell of earth and dead leaves reminded her of her childhood, of the seclusion children seek in hidden dens from an adult world.

‘This is a wonderful hidey-hole,’ she said. ‘Is it your special secret?’

‘Yes.’ Jessica’s black curls bobbed vigorously. ‘Only Isobel knows. She comes here with me.’

For an instant Carla thought she had misheard.

‘Isobel?’

‘My cousin,’ said Jessica. ‘But she’s my best friend too.’

Carla wrapped her arms around her knees and swayed forward. ‘Is she here now with you?’

‘Yes.’ Jessica patted the earth beside her. ‘She has her party dress on. It’s beautiful.’

‘Is she with you all the time?’

‘When we’re here, she is. But she never talks to anyone. Only me.’

‘Have you told Mammy and Daddy about Isobel?’

Jessica shook her head.

‘Then how do you know her?’

‘A girl in my school told me.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘That she was stolen by a witch.’ Jessica’s eyes were anxious, cornflower blue question marks. ‘Isn’t that right, Aunty Carla?’

‘Not a witch, Jessica. We don’t know who stole her.’ Carla leaned forward and lifted leaves from her niece’s hair, kissed the black corkscrew curls. The delicate scent of lilac drifted
from a nearby tree. ‘Will you tell her that I love her very much and that I’m going to bring her home some day?’

Jessica held her hand to the side of her mouth and whispered into the leaves. They rustled and sighed, and, somewhere above the green foliage, a bee droned.

‘She loves you too, Aunty Carla. Next to me, you’re her best friend. Do you want to bounce on the castle with us?’

‘Yes. I’d like that very much, Jessica.’

Carla held hands with her niece. As the noise thundered around them, they sprang together on the bouncy castle, their laughter lost among the clamour of childish voices. Between them, they held hands with an imaginary child who leaped higher and laughed louder than any of them.

Susanne

Why does reality never measure up to imagination? We should have had a wonderful day by the lake but it turned into a disaster, almost a tragedy. It started going wrong at the castle. I don’t know what you expected. Buckingham Palace, if the tantrum you threw was anything to go by.

Leamanagh Castle is on a crossroads. It’s a ruin, four storeys of a ruin with rows of windows staring blindly across the surrounding fields. The tower attached to the main building is the only aspect of the castle that matched your imagination but it too has that same bleak façade. It’s not a place to linger but you wanted to climb over the gate and look inside.

You shrieked when I tried to lift you down, flailed in my arms until David, joking that you were worse than any blind stallion, carried you to the car. You created such an atmosphere. How you sulked. Your arms folded and your heels kicking the back of my chair, just the occasional kick to remind me that you were behind me and still brooding.

When we reached Lake Inchiquin, I laid out the picnic. Marinated chicken breasts, cheeses, crispy bread rolls, homemade scones, relishes and salads. I wanted this to be a special
day that you would carry from your childhood. Joey wolfed the chicken, tore open a packet of crisps. You peered at him through your fingers then stretched out your hand for a crisp. He laughed and pulled the packet out of reach, teasing you out of your mood.

Three swans swam across the lake and in the distance we could see the ruins of another castle. Miriam told you a story about a mysterious swan maiden who arose from the lake and went to live in the castle with the chieftain, Connor O’Quin. Your eyes filled with tears when you heard she returned to the water three years later and disappeared forever. David lifted you onto his shoulders and walked with Joey to the shore. The three of you were silhouetted against the sun. Miriam took a photograph with the castle in the background then lay back down on the rug.

‘Give Joy a break,’ she advised me. ‘She’s just pushing the boundaries a bit. Why do you persist in keeping her so isolated? This home-schooling may work for other children but Joy needs company. Why are you so afraid for her?’ Her glance was sharp, as if she was on the edge of some discovery.

David lowered you to the ground and you ran along the cement wharf, Joey in pursuit. Watching him following you with exaggerated slowness, I remembered the first time I came to Rockrose. A day like today, powder-blue sky and the future shimmering.

‘Academically, Joy will be on a par, if not ahead of children in the same age group,’ I told Miriam.

‘It’s nothing to do with academic results,’ she said. ‘It’s to do with company, interaction with children her own age. The local school was good enough for David. Why is it not good enough for his daughter? Look at her now. I’ve never seen her so happy.’

Joey stretched out his arm and pushed you. You staggered
forward, your hands reaching out in a vain effort to stop your fall. I heard the crack of your skull on the cement as you crashed to the ground. You lay perfectly still and silent. I was on my feet instantly and running but David reached you first. He lifted you in his arms. I knew from the way he held you that something dreadful had happened. Your blood ran freely from the deep gash in your forehead. He tried to stem it with his handkerchief but he was unable to stop the flow.

I didn’t mean to hit Joey so hard, or to shake him. He staggered back and almost fell when I hit him again. I don’t know what I would have done to him if Miriam had not held me. I saw what happened, no matter how shrilly he claimed you tripped on a crack in the wharf.

In the car I held you in my arms. David turned his shirt into a makeshift bandage but your blood still seeped through. I believed you were going to die. In the rearview mirror I saw Joey in the back seat. He rested quietly against Miriam, his face as pale as yours. The mark of my hand was a red imprint on his cheek.

The doctor on duty in St Anne’s Clinic was worried about concussion. You had X-rays and scans, blood tests done. He assured me you’d make a full recovery. There might be a scar on your forehead but, in time, it will be hardly noticeable. I stayed overnight with you and slept in a chair beside your bed. David arrived with your polar bear. Only then did you fall asleep.

Next morning you boasted about your good blood.

‘Really
good blood,’ you said. ‘Nurse Carson said I have to give lots of it away when I’m a big girl.’ You gazed at me with your demanding eyes and said, ‘Have you got good blood too, Mammy?’

‘Yes,’ I told you. ‘We all have good blood.’

You nodded, satisfied, unaware that your words had turned my own blood to ice. This is lineage, a haemoglobin echo, corpuscles so minute yet so overwhelmingly powerful they can destroy me. You are rhesus negative. David and I are rhesus positive.

You and I do not need ancestral echoes to bind us. We belong to the moment, to that instant when a decision is made and life, as we know it, tilts in a new direction. You were the answer to my dreams yet the happiness I expected has always escaped me. There have been flashes, yes. Instances of such profound pride and joy that they’ve branded themselves into my brain and bring me comfort during the dark times. But there have been too many dark times, haunting and terrifying. They come out of the blue when I least expect them, hit me when my defences are down.

I can never be ill.
Never.

Joey was staying at his grandparents’ when I brought you home from hospital. Corrine insists he’ll never again set foot in Rockrose. If David wishes to see his son, he can make alternative arrangements. From David’s expression when he told me, I at first assumed he had been arguing with Corrine, but it soon became obvious his anger was directed towards me. He insisted, as Joey had, that you’d tripped. Nothing to do with his son. An overreaction on my part. He accused me of seeing what I wanted to see, of trying to destroy his relationship with his son. Just as I constantly try to destroy your feelings for him. Such an unjust accusation, so hurtful.

You cried silently in your bedroom. I looked at your face, the bruising and swelling, the mummy-style bandage on your forehead. I wanted to comfort you but you pulled the duvet over your face and said you hated me for sending Joey away.

The swelling had gone down, the bruising fading to a
muddy yellow by the time he returned to Canada. You insisted on accompanying David to Shannon airport to say goodbye. He ignored my protests and lifted you from your bed. You were still weak, staggering on your feet, but determined, so determined to defy me.

It’s over a fortnight since it happened but word spreads quickly in a small village. They don’t say it to my face, of course. They’re grimly polite and greet me with closed expressions when I enter their shops or fill my car with petrol at Mitch Moran’s garage. Joey O’Sullivan is one of them. I’ve lived in their midst for twelve years but I’m the outsider, always will be. I can ignore the gossip but I can’t ignore you. You are in my face, sullen, resentful, accusing, siding with them, as David has, and Miriam too, everyone united against me.

Today, Corrine’s mother Kathleen crossed to the other side of Howe Street to avoid me. As far as she’s concerned, I struck her grandchild, shook him until his teeth clashed. As president of the local Irish Countrywomen’s Association, her word carries weight and she’s responsible for the gossip and innuendo. You ran after her, darting out in front of the traffic. I screamed but my voice was drowned by the blare of a car horn. I ran after you and grabbed your arm before you reached her. You faced me, dared me to lose my temper.

Kathleen stared coldly beyond me and bent to whisper loudly in your ear, ‘I’ll tell Joey you sent him kisses.’ Still ignoring me, she kissed your cheek then swept on her way.

This ostentatious show of affection was for my benefit. I hated you for exposing me to it. The shock of this hatred ran like a current through my body. How was it possible to swing from loving you to hatred? It won’t last, of course. Your anger, my hatred, fleeting emotions, but they change the balance between us. I can no longer pierce your thoughts.