The Magdalen Martyrs (25 page)

Came to my mother’s place, took a deep breath, knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform. She asked,

“Yes?”

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

It took her a moment to process the information, then,

“The son?”

“Yes.”

She seemed amazed. I said,

“Can I come in?”

“Oh . . . of course. I’m surprised.”

As she stood aside to let me in, I asked,

“Why?”

“Fr Malachy mentioned you . . . but he said it was unlikely you’d come.”

“He was wrong.”

She led me into the kitchen, said,

“I’m Mrs Ross. I’ve only returned to nursing, to private nursing.”

She’d just made tea, and a box of Jaffa cakes was open on the table. The radio was playing. Sinead O’Connor had begun “Chiquitita”.

We didn’t speak till the song had finished. She said,

“I love Abba. I didn’t think anyone else could do that song.”

I wanted to say,

“You’ve tea, cakes and the radio. Where does the fucking nursing get a look in?”

But it was a little late to pull the concerned son gig. I asked,

“How is she?

The nurse threw a glance at the table, then folded her arms, said,

“I won’t pretend it wasn’t quite serious. However, she’s made remarkable progress. The right side of her body and her face are paralysed and she hasn’t recovered her speech. She is alert and getting stronger all the time.”

I nodded, and she continued,

“Your mother is a saint. All the good work she’s done in the parish. I’ve always admired her.”

She stopped. This was my cue to row in with my part of the eulogy. I asked,

“Can I see her?”

I’d have been delighted if she refused, but she said,

“Of course. She’s upstairs. I’ll come with you.”

“No need, you have your tea.”

She didn’t insist. I went up, paused a minute, knocked. Then realised she couldn’t answer. I went in. If you had to put lines to my feeling then, you’d capture it with,

Mary, mother of celibate clerics who have turned their back on human love, would have presented Augustine with the perfect heavenly projection of his own domineering mother.

How the Irish Saved Civilization
by Thomas Cahill.

I’d braced myself for her to look different. Hadn’t braced enough. She was an old woman. The one characteristic she’d always had was energy. Sure, it was the dark kind, didn’t spring from a source of goodness. Based more on a sense of grievance and a deep bitterness. Whatever else, it fuelled her so she’d always seemed in motion.

Seated in a chair, her whole body had diminished, as if she’d collapsed in on herself. The right arm was lying useless in her lap, her face was contorted, and a trace of spittle leaked from her lips. The hair, once a lustrous black, was completely white.

Worst of all, I didn’t know how to address her. I stood near, said,

“Mother.”

It sounded as stilted and awkward as that. I didn’t so much sit on the bed as near collapse. I thought my mother had lost
the ability to have such an effect on me. Her eyes had a dull sheen, seeing nothing. She didn’t register my presence.

The silence was bewildering.

I’d never experienced her without the running mouth, usually littered with recriminations, vague threats, but definitely alive. I said,

“It’s Jack.”

And felt a tightness in my chest, added,

“Your son.”

I’d tried to recall a time when I’d been close to her. Not a single incident surfaced. What I did remember was the constant belittlement of my father. He bore it without retaliation. As my passion for books grew, he had encouraged me. Built a large bookcase of which my mother was scornful.

“Books! You think they’ll pay the rent.”

I’d also discovered hurling. The two, books and sport, occupied every moment. My first day in Templemore, my mother had sold the books and burnt the bookcase. My father said,

“Your mother had a hard life.”

Perhaps it was my first adult awareness. I’d answered,

“And she wants to make ours harder.”

Now it was her turn. I moved to the sink, got a towel, brought it back. Carefully wiped the spit from her mouth, thought,

“What would it cost me to hug her?”

Couldn’t do it.

When I’d been slung out of the guards, she said,

“I knew you’d come to nothing.”

The worse I behaved, the better it suited her martyrdom. As I stared at her helplessness, I said,

“You’d think this would be the time for reconciliation, but what it is . . . is sad.”

I moved to the door, was about to glance back, but she was
already burned into my soul. I walked down the stairs and the nurse appeared, asked,

“Did it go well?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure it was of great benefit to her.”

I couldn’t resist, asked,

“What makes you so sure?”

Flustered, she hesitated, then,

“I mean, knowing her son is here.”

“She doesn’t know shit.”

The ferocity stunned us. I hadn’t intended laying it off, but she was there. I looked at my right hand, so tight on the banister it seemed transparent. The nurse began to move towards the kitchen. I said,

“Call me if there’s any change.”

I’d gotten to the door when she said,

“I understand it’s upsetting for you.”

I wanted to turn, lash her understanding against the stairs, but settled for,

“Upsetting? Right, that’s what it is.”

I hope I didn’t slam the door.

I walked down College Road, a sense of blackness dogging my footsteps. If I turned, I felt it would envelop me. The temptation to embrace the dark was compelling. The refrain from Death Row, “Dead Man Walking”, played over and over in my ears. Alcoholics live on a daily basis with a sense of impending doom.

As I got to the Fair Green, a City Link coach was pulling out. An overpowering wish to be on it gripped me. I sat on the wall, all out of schemes, dreams and plans.

As close to total surrender as I’ve ever been.

In one of those inexplicable moments of serendipity, a
battered wino was sitting further down. He had a half dozen plastic bags spread round his feet. From one, he selected a bottle of Buckfast, put it on his head. I was as near to him as the length of a cigarette, looking right at him. He was oblivious to me or anyone else.

He began to sing, Abba again. I couldn’t believe it.

“Fernando.”

His voice was clear with a surety of style that was astonishing. I felt tears in my eyes and berated myself for crass sentimentality. Abba! . . . I mean . . . Come on.

“I’d write and I wouldn’t lie. So when self-help writers tell one to find
the child within, I assume they don’t mean me.”

Andrea Dworkin,
Heartbreak

I got an early morning call from my solicitor. He began with,

“You paid the damages incurred to the chemist’s window.”

“I did.”

“That has helped.”

“Has it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m happy to inform you the other charges have been dropped.”

“Even the guards?”

“I play golf with Clancy. A most accommodating chap. He certainly wouldn’t want to pursue one of his own.”

“He said that?”

“Not exactly, but you were a member of the force.”

“I’m amazed.”

“That’s my job, amazing people.”

“What can I say? Thank you.”

“I’m not really the one to thank.”

And he hung up.

I rang Kirsten. Took a while for her to answer then,

“Yes?”

“Kirsten, it’s Jack.”

A moment, then,

“You’ve had good news, I believe.”

“Yes, I think you might have had some influence.”

“You think?”

“Did you?”

“I’d hate to see you go to jail . . . or anybody else.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“See that you do.”

Click.

The afternoon was bright, a suggestion of heat in the air. I walked to Newcastle. Time to face Rita Monroe. I wanted to see her reaction when I told her I knew who she was. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember Bill’s mother, but she would certainly remember the Magdalen, I’d make certain of that.

I rang her doorbell, my heart pounding. No answer. I stepped back to look up at the windows. A man came out of the adjoining house, said,

“You won’t get an answer.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead.”

“What?”

“A heart attack, right there where you’re standing. She’d been shopping; the groceries spilled all over the path.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

He examined me, said,

“You’re not a relative?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. She kept herself to herself Polite enough, but you couldn’t call her friendly. Used to be a teacher, I hear.”

I turned to go and he said,

“The house will be sold I expect.”

Then added,

“Long as it isn’t rented to students. Jeez, that would be just my luck.”

For the next few weeks, I kept a low profile, cut way back on the pills and rationed myself to a few pints in the evening. Managed to steer clear of the whiskey. It was almost clean living, or as near as I could hope to get.

And I was reading, if not as fast as I could, at least as widely as I was able. Began to pay attention to the world again.

Jeffrey Archer went to jail, and dire predictions of recession were everywhere. Not that it was Archer’s fault, but the two events coincided. Massive rioting in Genoa, and Tim Henman lost again at Wimbledon.

Mrs Bailey remarked,

“You seem to be leading a very quiet life.”

I gave her the enigmatic smile to suggest it was part of a master plan, and she added,

“For a while there, the entire universe seemed to have fallen on you.”

I was thinking a lot about evil and the various manifestations of it in my life. I didn’t know if it was something in me that attracted it or if it was just random. I looked up Scott Peck for enlightenment. He said,

It is characteristic of those who are evil to judge others as evil. Unable to acknowledge their own imperfection, they must explain away their flaws by blaming others. And if necessary, they will even destroy others in the name of righteousness.

If you want to read hard solid cases of evil, then Peck’s
People of the Lie
is hard to surpass.

Thought of the quiet life I was leading.

“I could get used to this.”

Most evenings, I’d drop into Nestor’s, shoot the breeze with Jeff. He said,

“The haunted look has left your eyes.”

“I feel the freedom.”

I even visited my mother a few times. There was no visible change in her condition, but there was a marked difference in my attitude. I didn’t dread the visits and felt the wall of resentment begin to recede. I expected to hear from Terry Boyle, but no communication. What would I have told him? I’m not pursuing Kirsten because she saved me from jail?

The Department of Justice wrote their usual letter, demanding the return of the all-weather coat. As usual, I ignored them.

I was sitting in Nestor’s, relishing the routine my Ufe was becoming. A man came in, stood before me. It took me a few minutes to drag the face from my memory. He was young, with sallow skin. I ventured,

“Geraldo?”

I’d met him at the party; he was Terry’s partner. He said,

“Yes . . . Terry said you always come here.”

Even at the party, I’d felt there was something likable about him. I said,

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Nada
. . . nothing . . .
gracias”

“Sit down.”

He did.

He seemed to be on the brink of tears. I let him compose himself, asked,

“What’s wrong?”

“Terry.”

“Yes?”

“He is in a coma.”

Pronounced it comma, continued,

“He went to see that woman.”

Paused . . . moved to spit, said,