Stolen Child (28 page)

Kitten claws scratch her heart. That’s the only way Joy can describe the sensation. Dylan would probably call it ‘delayed grief’. He believes her decision to accompany her father to Arizona arrested the normal grief pattern she would have established if she had stayed at home. He’s right, of course. Arizona was the Big Escape and Dylan can no longer help her. She’s out of his league. Grief, it appears, is more difficult for him to handle than drugs and drink and violence and mood disorders. He suggested another counsellor who is skilled at dealing with bereavement. She keeps meaning to make an appointment but she does not want to talk to strangers about her mother. That outburst in Dylan’s office was the last time Joy mentioned her name.

Her grandmother has offered her a summer job showing visitors around the studio. Joy has already done two trial runs under Miriam’s supervision and, hopefully, has learned all the answers to any questions she will be asked. She starts work tomorrow.

‘Better grab the last of your freedom hours,’ her father warned before he went off to clear the grass in Dowling’s Meadow. No more skulking with cans of cider in the long grass.
He uses a scythe to cut the meadow. When the hostel is built he will turn the meadow into a wildlife habitat. Soon he will bring heavy clearing machinery down the lane and the real work will begin.

The day is hot and the gang are sunbathing around Danny’s swimming pool. That’s where they gather every afternoon, but today Joy keeps changing her mind about joining them. Outside the air is still. Even the birds are too lazy to sing through the afternoon heat. She will cycle to the graveyard and head on from there to Danny’s house. The flowers she placed on the grave last week will have wilted by now. She picks a bunch of stock and places them in the pannier of her bike. Splotch ambles over and licks her hand but does not follow her down the lane. Since his accident, he never ventures far beyond the house.

Her father has made short work of the grass. He is stripped to his waist and a fine layer of sweat gleams on his back. She leans over the gate and watches him at work. The smell of fresh-cut grass is so sweet Joy wants to breathe into it forever.

‘Are you going to the cemetery?’ He strolls over to her, noticing the bundle of stock.

‘Yes.’ Even now, sixteen months later, she can’t believe her mother lies under the clay.
The worms crawl in…the worms crawl out…
She hates that song yet it keeps circling her mind…
They crawl in thin…and they crawl out stout…

‘You’re too imaginative for your own good,’ her mother used to tell Joy. ‘Why can’t you be happy in your own skin?’

‘Where are you going afterwards?’ her father asks. Why doesn’t he just clap a ball and chain around her ankle?

‘I’m meeting Lucinda.’ It’s not strictly a lie. Lucinda will be among the gang hanging out at Danny’s pool. But Danny is out of bounds. Too many strikes against him as far as her
father is concerned. She still shudders with mortification remembering how he shouted over the phone at Victor Breen and ordered him to control his ‘moronic waster of a son’.

‘I’ll come with you.’ He lowers the scythe and wipes his forehead. ‘Give me ten minutes to shower and we’ll be on our way. I’ve been meaning to clear the overgrowth in the cemetery and get rid of that horsetail. It’s spreading at a ferocious rate.’

‘I’ll go on ahead,’ she says. ‘I fancy a cycle.’

‘See you there, then,’ he shouts back at her.

Her father is a member of the Maoltrán Ramblers. Apart from hill walking, which they do every weekend, they keep the cemetery clear of weeds. When someone from Maoltrán dies they come together and dig the grave. Her father says it’s an old tradition going way back. The Ramblers dug her mother’s grave and formed a guard of honour when her coffin was carried into the church. Joy was vaguely aware of them standing on either side of her as she followed the coffin. What she remembers most was the tight clasp of her father’s hand.

He’s been doing some work on the overgrowth surrounding the cottage. She drops her bike and stands in the empty doorway. She remembers the time she found her mother uprooting the primroses. The loose clay is baked and crumbling under her feet. Another memory stirs. Her mother praying in that same place. The earth was dead then, brown stalks everywhere and mulching leaves. Tears dripped from her chin when she promised not to enter Joy’s name in the Judgement Book.

Today there are bluebells at Joy’s feet, a carpet of them nodding in the breeze, and the bees are droning above the clover. But there is no flash of blue among the leaves, no familiar voice warning her to stay away…stay far away from danger.

The road shimmered like a mirage as Carla passed through the limestone body of the Burren. From the brow of a hill, she glimpsed the Atlantic rollers crashing against the rocks. She reached Maoltrán in the late afternoon and parked outside the Catholic church. The church doors were open. She hesitated for an instant then entered and genuflected before an altar where two women were arranging flowers. Their murmuring voices reached her as she sat down on a pew and folded her hands on her lap. She had no inclination to pray, had not prayed since her tempestuous, desperate prayers had remained unanswered.

Her mind was in turmoil after her meeting with Dylan, darting feverishly from one scenario to the next. She had resisted her first inclination to go directly to the police, knowing, just as Dylan had known, that once she spoke out she would create an unstoppable momentum. She imagined the media moving towards her like a swarm of locusts, her daughter bleached to the bone in their passing. The protective urge she had experienced when she had stood over Isobel’s cot and watched her tiny chest rising and falling came back to her with bitter-sweet force. On two occasions she rang
Robert’s number but hung up before the call connected. She decided to confide in Leo and Frank, then changed her mind, knowing their advice and caution would weigh her down.

Joy Dowling – she must think of her by that name until such time as she and Robert could lawfully claim her – had lost the woman who had reared her. Soon she would lose the man she believed to be her father. Softly, softly, Carla warned herself as she tossed sleeplessly each night. She felt powerless to act in her own interests, yet the urge to go to Maoltrán and breathe the same air as her child drove her forward.

‘I’m taking a break.’ She had kept her tone casual when she told Frank she was renting a cottage for a month in Clare.

‘What on earth for?’ he had asked. ‘We’ll be going away to France for three weeks in September.’

‘I know. But, right now, I want some time on my own.’

‘Is it because I’ve asked you to marry me?’ He glanced keenly at her. ‘I’d no idea my proposal was going to have that effect on you.’

‘This has nothing to do with your proposal. I feel stressed—’

‘Then it has to do with me. I’ve destabilised you—’

‘For goodness’ sake, Frank, my life is not governed by your behaviour or your decisions,’ she snapped. ‘This has to do with me and my daughter. I’m thinking about writing my story.’

‘You’ve always refused to even consider that possibility when I’ve suggested that to you.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. She’ll soon be sixteen. This could be another opportunity to bring her name to the fore.’

‘And what about you? How will you handle the publicity?’

‘I’ve a lot to consider, Frank. That’s why I need some time alone.’ The lie grew easily. She had provided him with a reason he could understand.

One of the women turned to stare curiously at Carla before resuming her flower arranging. She stabbed high tall lilies into an oasis. The scent reminded Carla of Edward Carter. She had read his death notice in the
Irish Times.
Two of the tabloids had re-run the scandal of their ill-fated attempts to find Isobel, and Janet had rung to inform Carla that her father’s heart was broken once again.

A priest came from the vestry and spoke to the women. They laughed at something he said. Their laughter followed Carla from the church. A graveyard adjoined the grounds. She opened a low gate and walked along an avenue of yew trees. This was an old graveyard, filled with lichen-covered tombstones, the engravings barely visible. Further on she came to the more recent burial plots. These headstones, brash in their white marble or polished limestone, had clearly distinguishable names carved in black lettering. She walked up and down the narrow paths seeking only one name and finally found it on the border beside the old graves.

Susanne Dowling’s family had gone for a simple block of limestone. Wilted flowers drooped from a vase and miniature rose bushes had been planted along the length of the grave. A perpetual flame fluttered inside a lantern. Two inscriptions were carved into the limestone but it was the second name that froze her to the spot. She forced herself to read the inscription.

In Loving Memory

Susanne Dowling

1957–2007

Beloved wife, mother and daughter

May she rest peacefully

How could such a woman rest peacefully? Carla longed for faith, the fundamental, fist-thumping creed that consigned those who sinned against others to everlasting flames. She wanted the smell of burning flesh in her nostrils, the hiss and spit of muscle and sinew, the crack of bone. She sank to her knees and covered her face. No hell or earthly retribution could give her back all she had lost. This woman was beyond her fury, beyond every worldly sorrow.

Footsteps approached. She glanced around and saw the black-clad priest approaching. She arose and turned to an old grave behind her, hoping he would keep on walking. As his footsteps drew nearer, she knelt down and pulled up a clump of weeds. The abrasive leaves cut into her hands but she kept pulling and flinging them to one side.

‘Good afternoon.’ He stopped at the opposite side of the grave and smiled across at her.

‘Good afternoon, Father.’ She allowed the weeds to drop from her hands and rose to her feet.

The priest nodded apologetically at the graves. ‘Horsetail, it’s such a pervasive weed. The rain this summer has helped it to grow out of control.’ He walked around the perimeter and held out his hand. ‘I’m Fr Davis, parish priest of Maoltrán.’

‘Clare Frazier.’ She rubbed her hands on her jeans and returned his handshake.

‘Why does your name sound familiar?’ he asked, stepping back to fully view her. ‘You’re not from around these parts, I presume?’

‘No. I’m from Dublin. But I’m renting a cottage in Maoltrán for a month.’

‘Really. How interesting. I hope the accommodation is to your satisfaction?’

‘Absolutely.’ She nodded, knowing his politeness was a cover for curiosity. ‘I’m hoping to write a book.’

‘Ah! A writer. No wonder your name is familiar. Let me see…let me see.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Were you associated with that very sad book…something about screaming?’

‘
Screaming in Silence.
Yes, Father. I was the ghostwriter.’

‘Indeed…
indeed.
’

She waited for his anger but, instead, he looked troubled. ‘A most disturbing book. I’m sad to say the church did not come out of it very well. These are difficult times to be a priest. But when God calls we have to answer that vocation.’

‘I’m sorry the book upset you, Father.’

‘It enraged me that such things were allowed to happen to the most innocent among us. This new book…will it be in a similar vein?’

‘No, Father.’ She moved the mound of weeds with her toe and noticed how it was beginning to root at the edges of Susanne Dowling’s grave. ‘I’m hoping to do some research.’

The priest stroked his chin and gazed thoughtfully at her. ‘I’m something of a scribe myself. Oh, nothing very ambitious, some features in our local newspaper. What would you be hoping to research, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Oh…’ At a loss for words she touched the old tombstone. ‘It’s local history. Tombs…ancient tombs.’

‘Like our famous Poulnabrone dolmen?’

She nodded. What difference did it make if one more lie was woven into the web?

‘I’m interested in the excavations that have been carried out at Poulnabrone.’

‘Most interesting excavations,’ he agreed. ‘Children and adults were buried there at the end of the Neolithic era. Without a doubt, you’ve come to the right place. You’ll find numerous examples of portal tombs right across the Burren. I’ve often thought about writing a history of the tombs myself. But time,’ he sighed and spread his hands, ‘time is the eternal
winged enemy. If I can help in any way, please don’t hesitate to contact me. My house is next door to the church.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He bent, as she had done, and plucked at the weeds. The briars caught in his sleeve and he chuckled as he freed himself. ‘Even in the midst of death there is life and very thorny it can be at times.’

‘This woman was so young to die.’ She turned back towards Susanne Dowling’s grave.

‘Indeed. Poor Susanne. So sudden. Amazing when such a vital person goes. You can’t imagine life without them but it folds over the space they occupied and on we go…on we go.’

‘You obviously knew her well.’

‘Indeed I did. She was at the centre of our little community.’

‘Her family must be heartbroken.’

‘They are to be sure. Like yourself, she was a Dublin lass. She married a local lad. A bit wild in his day but she settled him down soon enough. However, I’ve dallied long enough.’ Fr Davis prepared to leave. ‘Don’t forget to call. My door is always open.’

She watched him walk along the path and stop to talk briefly to a man carrying a scythe. The man nodded and lowered the scythe. He was dressed in khaki knee-length shorts, a floppy T-shirt, a sweatband tied around his forehead. Fleetingly, he reminded her of Robert, most tall, dark-haired men did, but he had a narrower build, and when he parted from the priest he walked with a loose, easy stride towards the grave. A girl ran and caught up with him. She carried white flowers in her arms and her hair was a golden banner, waving.