The Godforsaken Daughter Page 13

  “But be warned: I burned it deep in the woods, so there’ll be lots of briars and nettles to get through.” Her confidence growing now, she added, just for good measure: “So maybe . . . maybe you should put your boots on.”

  Martha looked out the window, down the field toward Beldam. Ruby knew what she was thinking: mist clouds hanging low spoke of a damp trudge through the forest . . . a chill in the air at this early hour, even though it was a June morning . . . scratches and stings from those nettles and briars . . . the danger of falling on the slippery earth.

  No, she wouldn’t risk it.

  “Do you want to go into town later?” Ruby, in her mind’s eye, slipping another slide into the projector machine. A brighter image, a more tantalizing prospect. “You wanted to buy walking shoes . . . and you have that bill to pay in Harvey’s.”

  Martha looked back at her. “You’re . . . you’re not yourself,” she said.

  “YOU MEAN I’M NOT THE PERSON YOU WANT ME TO BE. ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”

  “You mean I’m not the person you want me to be. Isn’t that right?”

  “Oh my God, there it is! The way you’re talking. That’s not you. That picture is a sign. Edna Clare . . . your grandmother. She started to talk like that. Before . . . before . . .”

  A shiver ran through Ruby. She set her fork down.

  “Before? Before what?”

  The mother made no reply. She went to where the picture lay and picked it up. “I’ll get the glass replaced in this.”

  “Before what?” Ruby persisted.

  Martha studied the picture but said nothing.

  “See? You can’t tell me, ’cos nothing happened. Edna died of a broken heart ’cos you didn’t want her in this house when you married Daddy. And that picture fell ’cos I took it down to have a look at it, and the nail fell out.”

  Martha reached out and touched the nail. It was still firmly embedded in the wall. Hammered in there all those decades ago by Vinny, at her request. Oh, the wars that picture had caused between Edna and herself! And poor Vinny caught in the cross fire.

  She placed it gently on the table. Turned back to Ruby.

  “Harvey’s, you say? Yes . . . yes, we’ll go into town. I’ll . . . I’ll get dressed. A cup of tea . . . that’s all I want, Ruby.”

  Each hour that passed was drawing Ruby closer to that great event: the enactment of the Goddess ritual at the summer solstice. There was much to prepare. In Harvey’s, Purveyors of Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s Fashions, there was an important item she had to buy: a robe. She took the opportunity to have a look in the lingerie department while her mother was engaged with Mr. Harvey.

  “You mean a nightdress?” said Mildred Crink, the shop assistant, flipping through a rail of night attire. Like her sister at the post office, Mildred had been serving behind the ladies’ counter in Harvey’s for the best part of thirty years. Such a position had bestowed upon her an encyclopedic knowledge of the vital statistics of every woman in the locality, and so provided some interesting gossip with Doris of an evening, if a purchase had been made that did not chime with a body’s needs.

  “God, d’you know, Doris, that young one of Peggy Noone’s has put on a whole lotta weight in just six months. Belly on her like a Cooney porker. Buyin’ size sixteen knickers and a D-cup front-fastener, and her not long outta school. She wouldn’t be pregnant, would she?”

  “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me, Mildred. Didn’t her mother have to get married and her not long outta school uniform, either?”

  Ruby hesitated. She was taking a risk with her mother at such close quarters. So the transaction needed to be done as covertly and quickly as possible. She stole a glance up the shop. Mr. Harvey and Martha were still engrossed.

  “No, not a nightdress, Mildred. More a . . . more a thing that goes over a nightdress.”

  Miss Crink ceased her flipping and looked over her spectacles. “You mean a bed jacket?”

  “Aye, but . . . a bit longer than that. The thing that goes over it and ties at the front.”

  “A dressing gown, then? Well, we don’t sell many of them.” Mildred’s brow creased with concern. She removed her glasses. “My goodness, you’re not going into hospital, Ruby, are you? ’Cos that’s usually the reason women in these parts buy the like of them. I hope you’re not poorly, ’cos I thought you’d lost a bit.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that, Mildred. I just want it for—”

  “Goin’ away for a wee break. It’s always nice to get away. Me and Doris always go to the Ocean Spray in Portaluce. Have you ever been?”

  Ruby threw a fearful look in her mother’s direction. “No, but I’ve heard it’s a nice place. Would you have one in green?”

  She’d settled on green, it being the color of the Goddess. Also, since she’d be attuning to Dana in her natural environment by immersing in Beldam Lake, it seemed the most appropriate choice.

  “. . . you know, you should take your mother away,” Mildred was saying. “Do you both good to get away for a bit, after what you’ve come through. Green, you say?”

  Finally, a garment was plucked from the rail and laid out on the counter. It was just what Ruby wanted: a beautiful oceanic green with velvet trim at collar and cuffs. “Now, that’s the only green we have in your size. Lovely cotton-polyester mix, so it won’t shrink in the wash. Do you want to slip behind the curtain there and give it a wee go?”

  “No . . . no. That’s lovely. Do you have one with a hood?”

  “A hood?” Mildred looked perplexed. “Oh no, they don’t come with hoods. Why would you want a hood on a nightgown? It’s hardly gonna rain in the bedroom.”

  But Ruby was thinking back to what she’d read. “A hooded robe is preferable, since it will shut off outside disturbances and control sensory input during ritual.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Ruby froze at the sound of her mother’s voice behind her.

  “Och, how are you, Martha?” Mildred said. “Ruby was just sayin’ that yins might go away for a day or two.”

  “That’s news to me, Mildred. But then, Ruby doesn’t tell me much.” Mrs. Clare stared at the nightgown spread out on the counter, then at Ruby, her look a mixture of fear and accusation. “And what’s that for?”

  Ruby’s face reddened. She struggled. It was time to invoke the Goddess. Curling the thumb and forefinger of her left hand into a representation of the crescent moon, she said, “At night, when I get up to go to the bathroom, I’m cold.”

  “How could you be cold in this weather? Anyway, who’s going to be seeing you in the middle of the night?”

  “THAT’S NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. I LIKE IT. I WANT IT, THEREFORE I AM BUYING IT. I DO NOT NEED YOUR OPINION OR APPROVAL.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. I like it. I want it, therefore I am buying it. I do not need your opinion or approval.”

  Ruby’s delivery had been firm and confident. She drew herself up to her full height and smiled at Mildred, not really caring about her mother’s reaction.

  Mildred looked from mother to daughter, antennae quivering, mouth an O of astonishment. This was not the shy, quiet Ruby she knew. What would Doris have to say about this? There was an awkward pause that needed filling. Mildred found her voice at last.

  “You’re just right, Ruby. It’s nice . . . it’s nice to treat yourself now and again. I’ll wrap it up.”

  Martha Clare stood rigid, lips clamped together, holding in the torrent of abuse that would be unleashed out of earshot of the shop assistant and Mr. Harvey. It was bad enough for her daughter to act like that at home; in public it was appalling. Being humiliated in front of Father Kelly, and now Mildred Crink, was a breach too far. It would not be happening again.

  “I’ll wait for you in the car,” she said, before turning on her heel and marching outside.

  “That’ll be ten poun
ds and fifty pence,” Mildred said, tearing off a sheet of tissue paper from a roll.

  “Oh, just put it on Mammy’s tab,” Ruby said breezily.

  “Are you sure?”

  “YES. WHY WOULD I NOT BE SURE? MY MOTHER SPENDS A LOT OF MONEY IN THIS SHOP. ARE YOU IMPLYING YOU WON’T GET PAID?”

  “Yes. Why would I not be sure? My mother spends a lot of money in this shop. Are you implying you won’t get paid?”

  Now it was Mildred’s turn to grow flustered.

  “Oh no, I-I didn’t mean that at all, Ruby . . . not for a minute.”

  Ruby signed the chit. The robe was expensive, but she didn’t care. It was going to be used for a very good cause. It didn’t have a hood, but no matter. She’d improvise, and make herself a garland of wild flowers, which would be a good alternative.

  Satisfied, she left the shop.

  Martha Clare erupted the minute her daughter had resumed the driver’s seat.

  “How dare you speak to me like that in front of people! There’s something very wrong with you. You’re not yourself. I want to see Father Kelly this minute. Take me to the parochial house.”

  “But I’ve more shopping to do.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She slapped the dashboard hard. “You’ll take me to the priest this minute or I’ll . . .”

  “Or you’ll what?”

  Ruby gunned the engine, reversed out of her parking space, and roared away.

  Father Kelly was compiling the parish bulletin when he heard the sound of tires on gravel. He peered out the window, and was surprised to see Martha Clare and her daughter pull up in the driveway. Well, he had promised to drop in one evening. All the same, it must be rather urgent for them to have made a special trip to see him.

  He went to the door. A visibly shaken Martha Clare stood on the doorstep.

  “Hello, Father. I’m . . . I’m glad I got you in. Would you have a couple of minutes—”

  “Of course, Martha, of course.”

  Over her shoulder, he saw that Ruby was still in the driver’s seat. He thought it odd that she was not acknowledging him, but just sitting there, staring straight ahead.

  “Isn’t Ruby coming in, too?”

  Martha gripped the priest’s arm, suddenly fearful.

  “No, Father. That’s the problem; Ruby doesn’t want to come in. I need to talk to you about her. It’s very serious.”

  Father Kelly led the way into the sitting room.

  “A cup of tea, perhaps? You look a bit pale, Martha.”

  Martha shook her head. “No, Father. Thank you all the same. Father, I . . .” She swayed slightly.

  Father Kelly helped her into the armchair. “Now, now, sit down there for a wee minute and take your time. Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems . . .”

  “It’s the case, Father. Ruby’s got the case . . .”

  The word had a profound impact. For a few seconds the priest did not speak. An image was looming at him out of the far past: the image of a young curate entering a darkened room in an old farmhouse, riven with fear and fright.

  “Edna’s . . . Edna’s case . . . ?” he said at last. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I asked her to burn it, but . . . but I know she didn’t.” Martha looked about her, distracted, her eyes beseeching the holy pictures on the walls to lend her strength. “And now I think she’s . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

  “You think Ruby’s what, Martha?”

  “Po-po . . . possessed, Father!” Her face crumpled. “Oh dear God, Father!”

  He tried to hide his consternation. Resolved to keep the atmosphere light.

  “Oh now . . . what would give you that idea?”

  “She is, Father. I’m convinced of it. She’s not herself at all. She’s driving very fast. Something she never did before. And . . . the things she comes out with . . . well, it’s just not her. Sometimes . . . sometimes I’m afraid of her. Afraid, Father, in my own home.”

  “Well, now, this must be a difficult time for her. She’s still grieving the loss of her poor father. People do and say strange things in the depths of grief. It’s a hard time for both of you. You’ve come through a lot. Vincent is a great loss. Not only to you but the community as well.”

  Tears welled up in Martha’s eyes. She groped in her sleeve for a hankie.

  “Maybe I was too hard on her . . . taking her away from the farm like that. So sudden and all. But I couldn’t see her doing all that work on her own. It’s a man’s job . . . and I needed her in the house with me. God knows, with my weak heart I’m afraid to be on my own, Father . . . and now . . . well, now I’m afraid to be with her.”

  “The Lord’s always with us, Martha. Sure we’re never on our own.” He glanced through the window and saw that Ruby was still sitting in the same position, staring blankly through the windscreen. He wondered whether he should go out and have a word.

  “And what has Ruby done now that would lead you to believe she might be . . . be possessed, as you say? Has she stopped saying her prayers?”

  “Oh, we say the rosary every evening all right, Father, but . . .”

  “That’s grand.”

  “But her heart’s not in it no more. I can tell. And I see her go down and stand by . . . by Beldam. And that’s not good.”

  “The lake?”

  Martha nodded. “There was never any luck with it . . . And last night—”

  “Does she know what happened to her grandmother now?”

  “No.” Martha shook her head vehemently. “She’ll never know that, Father. Not unless . . .”

  “That’s good. And last night, you were saying . . . What happened?”

  “I got up to go to the bathroom and I . . . I thought I heard noises coming from her room. Like she was talking to someone. In the morning . . . well, it was in the morning that I saw it and I knew . . . I just knew.”

  “You just knew what, Martha?” Father Kelly was choosing his words carefully.

  “The picture of Michael the Archangel smashed on the floor. That’s when I knew. I would die, Father, if all that came back again. I just couldn’t cope.”

  Father Kelly looked grave. “That’s too bad,” he said, gazing out the window again. Ruby still sat in that resolute pose. “I’ll come over and do a blessing.”

  “When, Father?”

  “Tomorrow evening, if it suits. The sooner the better, I think.”

  “That’s good. D’you think . . . d’you think it’ll be enough, Father?”

  “Well, we can only do our best, Martha. The rest now . . .” He gazed out at Ruby again. This time she turned her head, looked at him, then quickly looked away. “Well, the rest, Martha . . . the rest is up to God.”

  Chapter seventeen

  Belfast, 1983

  Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength,” said the sage.

  So which of the sages, thought Henry Shevlin, was that? Yes, he remembered: Sigmund Freud. The great Siggy, as his friends used to call him—though never to his face. Siggy, the founder of psychotherapy. Siggy, the man who gave us the notion of “hysteria,” borrowed from that crazy French doctor who ran the lunatic asylum in Paris. It was, Henry mused, St. Ita’s as seen by Dante: an Inferno housing 4,000 incurably mad women. Hysteria . . . hysterectomy . . . words derived from an ancient word for the womb. Did hysteria affect women only? Siggy was convinced it did. But Henry had seen his fair share of male sufferers, too.

  He swung the white Mercedes convertible onto Finaghy Road—and slammed on the brakes immediately. Two heavily armed RUC officers were directing traffic past a fresh crater in the tarmac. It could have been made by anything, he thought, but most likely an explosive, given the political climate.

  One of the policemen raised a hand. Henry wound down the window.

  “Where you goin’, sir
?”

  “Kashmir Road.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to take an alternative route. Through Broadway’s the quickest, then the Falls and the Springfield Road.”

  He looked at the dashboard clock, didn’t exactly relish the idea of driving through that part of town, a heartland of Republican sympathizers. But . . .

  He turned left at the Broadway traffic circle as instructed, and was soon negotiating a maze of rough streets scarred with graffiti and gable murals commemorating various events in the Republican calendar. Not that murals and graffiti were alien to Belfast; they were part of the cityscape since the Troubles began. The Troubles: code for the bloody internecine feuding between Protestant and Catholic, Unionist and Republican, that had swept across Northern Ireland a decade before and which, sadly, showed no sign of abating.

  There were several foot patrols of British Army personnel on duty. At the sight of them, Henry became unnerved. Foot patrols brought the ever-present threat of sniper fire. He tried to speed up but was forced to stop again for a red light.

  Only then did he see it.

  On a wall across from the junction was an enormous mural. It intrigued him because it was so unusual. Painted in black and white, it depicted three women “volunteers”: one in uniform, and two brandishing firearms, all enclosed within a ♀ symbol. Three women fighters: a Muslim wearing a niqab, a black African, and the third one, the central figure, in the signature black beret of the IRA. There was a slogan daubed to the left of the image. It read:

  SOLIDARITY BETWEEN WOMEN IN ARMED STRUGGLE.

  More hysteria, Henry thought. Is this what the—

  The thought died abruptly. He was staring at the central figure: the Irishwoman in the paramilitary uniform and beret. She was gazing directly at him.

  There could be no mistake: the woman’s face bore a striking resemblance to that shown in the sheaf of posters that lay behind him on the rear seat of the car. The poster with the bold headline that asked, Have you seen this woman?

  It was Connie. That was Connie’s face painted on the brick wall.