The Godforsaken Daughter Page 9

  He was regretting the words as soon as he’d uttered them. He recalled putting the same question to a Belfast patient several months before: Gavin Considine, a man in his late sixties with bushy gray sideburns and a paunch. Before Henry could stop him, Gavin had whipped a small harmonica from an inside pocket, put it to his lips, and launched into a medley of Larry Adler’s greatest hits. The impromptu jazz performance had continued for a good ten minutes before Henry could—tactfully—put an end to it. He hoped that the harmonica was not Mr. James McCloone’s choice of musical instrument.

  He need not have worried. “I play the accordjin, Doctor,” Jamie said proudly.

  “Ah! A lovely instrument. There are two types, aren’t there? A big one . . . What’s this they call it? The piano accordion. And the . . .”

  “Mine’s a Hohner two-row button,” Jamie said with even more pride. “They’re wild hard boys tae play, so they are. The pianner accordjin is easier—though there’s them that say it’s harder, what with all that pushin’ and pullin’, and the shoulders would be cut off you by the end of an evening.”

  “Sounds fascinating. And are you in a band or what?”

  “Nah, just meself, Doctor. I give them the odd tune in O’Shea’s of a Sa’rday night, so I do.” He looked at the floor in an endearingly modest manner. “There’s them that would say I’m the best they’ve heard. Rose and Paddy and the like.”

  “I’m sure they’re right.” Henry smiled and glanced quickly at his bullet list. “Indalpine. Are they helping much?”

  “Helping a bit, Doctor. Make me tired all the time.”

  “I know. They sometimes have that effect . . . When did you start drinking again?”

  The good doctor had put the question in a light, almost casual tone of voice. Long, hard experience had taught him that it was the method that worked best. He’d schooled himself in taking his client by surprise. When the guard was down.

  “The drinkin’?” Jamie looked up at the ceiling. “Must be the three weeks now. Naw, more than that. Must be the month. Aye, the month. When wee . . . when wee . . .”

  He could not finish. Silence.

  Henry broke it. “You see, your tiredness is down to the fact that antidepressants and alcohol don’t mix, James. How much do you drink?”

  Jamie shifted in the chair, uncomfortable. “Ah, well now . . . maybe a couple of half ones and a stout now and again.”

  “Half ones being whiskey, I take it?”

  “Aye, a wee Johnny Powers . . . now and again.”

  “‘Now and again’ would be how many times a week? Once, twice, three times?”

  “Oh . . . well, now . . . It’s hard . . . hard to say right, Doctor, ’cos . . . ’cos I don’t count them, like.”

  Henry suppressed a grin and scanned his notes again. “Hmm . . . I see you’d been off it for ten years. That’s quite an achievement. Not many people are as strong-willed as you, you know.” He pushed the notes aside and leaned across the desk. “So, James, together—you and me—over the next few weeks, we’re going to talk about ways to get you back to your sober self. You can tell me anything and it will stay in this room.”

  “Aye . . . maybe. God, Doctor, is that the time?!” Jamie jumped up and pulled on his cap. “Me cows will be up in ten minutes. I’ve got tae go.”

  “Don’t forget your appointment next week!” Henry called out to Jamie’s back as he fled the room.

  He went to the window and watched the farmer clamber up into the seat of his tractor. Winced at the swiftness with which he reversed the vehicle, narrowly missing the rear fender of the Mercedes convertible, and roared off.

  A sharp tap had Henry turning round. Miss King stood in the doorway.

  “I apologize for that, Dr. Shevlin. I should have warned you that often the care of one’s livestock takes precedence over the care of one’s mental health in these parts. I fear it’s a hazard of the job.”

  “I have a lot to learn, Edith.”

  “Yes, a country practice must be quite a jolt after a hospital in Belfast. Not to worry. I’ll keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  Henry smiled. He was in no doubt Miss King meant what she said.

  “A cup of tea, perhaps? I’m sure you could use one.”

  “Splendid, Edith. Just splendid!”

  Chapter eleven

  Ruby, are you in there? Wake up this minute!”

  Ruby woke with a start, her mother’s voice clanging in her ears. She sat up in the bed, shocked to see she was still fully clothed. Around her lay the contents of Edna’s case.

  Reality dawned.

  “Oh dear God!” She jumped up. “Aye, Mammy, I’m comin’. I’m comin’. I must of slept in.” She piled everything back in the case and stuck it under the bed.

  The door handle was being agitated vigorously. “Open this door this minute!”

  Ruby straightened the bedspread. Checked that nothing had fallen. Ran a brush through her hair at the mirror. Took a deep breath and pulled the door open.

  “What in God’s holy name’s going on here? What time d’you call this? Where’s my breakfast?” Mrs. Clare stood in her night attire, firing queries into the dartboard that was Ruby’s heart.

  “My-my alarm mustn’t have . . . have went off. W-What . . . what time is it?”

  “A quarter to nine: that’s what time it is, and I’m seeing the solicitor at half past. What’s got into you? Why weren’t you up at seven like you always are?”

  “Don’t know. Wasn’t . . . wasn’t able to get to sleep. I’ll make your breakfast now.”

  “About time, too.” The mother scanning the bedroom, keen for clues to this untypical transgression. “What’s that on the floor?”

  Ruby froze. Had she forgotten to lift something?

  “Nothing. I need to clean up later. The room’s a mess.” She bundled her mother into the corridor and pulled the door shut. “I’ll get us a cuppa tea.”

  She hastened down the stairs. “You get ready. I’ll not be a minute.”

  Half an hour later, they were on the road, speeding toward Tailorstown. Ruby at the wheel of the old Ford Cortina, guilt and shame churning in her head like mixer gravel. What if she hadn’t locked the door? What if her mother had seen the case?

  “BUT YOU DID. AND SHE DIDN’T.”

  The voice!

  She swerved across the road.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Sorry, Mammy, me hand slipped.”

  “YOU ARE PROTECTED.”

  “I am?”

  “I am what? What’s got into you? What are you saying?” Martha Clare, still high on the boil. Ruby’s transgression setting the tone for a whole day of hectoring. She sat rigid in her Sunday best, mushroom dress and buff sandals, handbag clasped tightly in her lap.

  “Sorry, Mammy.”

  “And why did you have your bedroom door locked? What’s that about?”

  “I THOUGHT I HEARD A NOISE DOWNSTAIRS.”

  “I thought . . . I thought I heard a noise downstairs.”

  “THAT’S WHY I WOKE UP AND COULDN’T GET BACK TO SLEEP.”

  “That’s why I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

  “SO I LOCKED THE DOOR, TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE.”

  “So I locked the door, to be on the safe side.”

  “Could you not have gone down and looked, then?”

  “I WAS AFRAID TO.”

  “I was afraid to.”

  “Oh, you were afraid to, were you? It was all right that I was lying asleep with my door wide open. You didn’t have much thought for me, did you? Could have been murdered in my bed. But as long as you were safe, what did you care?”

  “LOCK YOUR DOOR FROM NOW ON, THEN. WOULDN’T THAT BE THE SENSIBLE THING TO DO?”

  “Lock your door from now on, then. Wouldn’t
that be the sensible thing to do?” Ruby had the words out before knowing it. Someone else was speaking through her—and she knew who it was.

  Mrs. Clare turned in the seat, appalled.

  “How dare you tell me what to do in my own home?!”

  “IT’S MY HOME, TOO.”

  Ruby stared straight ahead. Her mouth clamped shut.

  “GO ON, SAY IT. SAY IT! IT’S MY HOME, TOO.”

  “It’s my home, too.”

  The mother slapped the dashboard hard.

  “Stop this car this minute!”

  Ruby kept her eyes steady on the road. She found her grip on the steering wheel relaxing. A calmness was descending, unknotting the tension, not only in her hands but in her stomach and head as well. It was a good feeling. She was free. Free to say what she felt. The words flowing from her like the purest water, pooling into sentences that were hers and hers alone.

  “You want to get to Mr. Cosgrove’s on time, don’t you? You were in an awful hurry to leave the house. So, really, there is no time to stop.”

  “Right, that’s it! You’re not yourself. I’m going to ask Dr. Brewster to get you in. I’ve had enough of you. Causing all that upset for May and June at the weekend. Now this.”

  “What upset? May and June caused it by talking nonsense. And you finished it by hitting me. I did nothing wrong. So if anyone needs to ‘go in,’ as you say, it’s perhaps all three of you.” She looked across at her mother. “But most especially you.”

  The color had drained from Mrs. Clare’s face. She was apoplectic with rage.

  “Oh Jesus, what have I reared at all? Father Kelly will have to come and pray over you. ’Cos the Divil himself is standing in you to the neck.”

  Ruby ignored her. She slowed for the thirty-mile zone and cruised down the main street.

  “Let me out of this car. Let me out this minute!” The mother frantic now, fumbling for the door catch.

  “Well, you’ll just have to wait until I stop,” Ruby said.

  She swung the vehicle left, reversed into a spot on the main square, and cut the engine.

  Martha clambered out, her cane clattering to the ground. Ruby went to her aid.

  “Don’t you dare touch me! I’m warning you. You’ve done it this time.”

  “Done what?”

  “You just wait till I get you home.”

  “Then what? Slap me again? I’m thirty-three, not thirteen.”

  “You’ll not talk to me like that. By Christ—”

  “How are you, Mrs. Clare?” A jaunty male voice.

  They turned to see Father William Kelly, the local parish priest, raising a trilby off his shiny pate.

  Martha’s face burned with embarrassment. Had he heard her take the name of “the Lord Thy God” in vain? By heaven, Ruby would pay for that! She rallied to repair the damage with an ingratiating smile.

  “Oh-oh, hello there, Father. And how . . . how are you, yourself?”

  Father Kelly, a tall, thin man with weatherworn cheeks and a Greek nose, put a hand to his left ear—the one through which he funneled, filtered, and forgave all the sins of the parish—and stepped closer. “Can’t complain, Mrs. Clare. Can’t complain.”

  “That’s good to hear, Father. I’m just on my way to see the solicitor, myself.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Clare. Hope that goes all right for you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  He turned his attention to Ruby, who was busying herself, locking the car. “And how are you, Ruby?”

  “Fine, Father. Th—”

  “Isn’t she such a great help to you, Mrs. Clare?”

  Ruby, ignored as usual. Her presence at her mother’s side so constant as to render her invisible.

  “Would you mind calling in with us, Father?” the mother said, shooting her daughter a fierce look. “Need to have a wee word with you about something.”

  “Not atall, Mrs. Clare. Any evening this week suit you?”

  “That’s good, Father. Oh, any evening that suits you. I’m always in the house.”

  “Good! Good!” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously as if about to warm them over a fire. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must be on my way. Good day to you now.”

  When he’d taken off, Martha mounted the steps to Mr. Cosgrove’s office without looking back.

  “I’ll do the shopping and come back for you in half an hour!” Ruby called out.

  The mother turned, gave her a look that would kill a scorpion, before disappearing through the office doors.

  Ruby sat back in the driver’s seat. The strange calmness was ebbing away from her now. She felt faint. Her heart was beating like a cornered rabbit’s. She gazed across at the cattle market. Friday was Fair Day, when farmers sold their cattle at auction. She had accompanied her father on many occasions and would sit in the car, just like now, watching as he chatted to his neighbors and finalized deals. She’d often begged to join him, but he’d insist it was no place for a woman.

  She pictured him chatting to the auctioneer, Albert Frogget. Sharing a cigarette with him. Laughing heartily at one of his jokes. The other men milling about, slapping him good-heartedly on the back. He was popular with everyone. Then suddenly remembering his daughter and giving her the thumbs-up. A sign that he’d got a good price. At 12:30, the best part: fish and chips in the Cozy Corner Café.

  Ruby sneaked a look at the café now, as if testing herself. But the steamed-up window with the gold lettering was just too much to bear. She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes. Heard her father cracking jokes with the proprietor, Biddy Mulhern.

  “Biddy, you’re the best cook in Ulster. Better than Delia Smith, begod!”

  “Och, away with you, Vinny!”

  She’d never been inside the café since his death. How difficult it would be to step through those doors again! Sit down at the same table and face that empty chair. No, she could never do it.

  Never.

  She looked down at the shopping list. First stop: the post office, to collect her mother’s pension. Then the supermarket, to get the sundry items, which rarely changed from week to week: flour, teabags, sugar . . .

  A fat tear plopped down onto the paper, and all at once the words were running into each other, the milk into the butter, and the cocoa into the flour. Ruby swallowed down the pain. What if someone saw her like this? She kept her head down, dried her eyes and tried to compose herself.

  “YOU ARE PROTECTED.”

  “No, I’m not! I’ve got no one. No one.”

  Silence.

  “Bring Daddy back, then. Please, bring Daddy back!” Ruby sobbing anew into her handkerchief.

  “’TIS WHEN THE MOON IS AT HER PEAK / THAT WEIGHTY ANSWERS THOU SHOULDST SEEK.”

  The poem. The poem in Grandma Edna’s book.

  “RAISE THE CURV’D BLADE AT THE MOON / ON THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JUNE . . .”

  “Why? What’s the twenty-first of June?”

  The voice more urgent-sounding now.

  “THIS RITE SHALL MAKE THY DREAMS COME TRUE / AND WONDROUS POWERS SHALL THEE ACCRUE.”

  “And you’ll make my dreams . . . come true? You mean I’ll . . . I’ll see Daddy again? And I’ll have . . . my own money? And . . . I’ll meet someone—”

  The sudden roaring of a tractor brought Ruby abruptly back to the present. There, tearing down Main Street, exhaust smoke pluming like gusts of demonic breath, was a man she thought she recognized.

  He swerved the tractor into a space by the market stalls, spewing up gravel, and climbed down. It was only when he reset his cap and pulled on his right ear that she realized who it was: Jamie McCloone.

  He disappeared into the crowd. Ruby’s heart had lifted at the sight of him. She was hoping she’d see him again, and there he was. Maybe if she got the shoppin
g over with quickly, she might run into him roundabout.

  Inspired, she locked the car and made her way first to the post office, to collect the pension.

  Doris Crink, on her knees behind the counter locating a fallen penny, was alerted by the ping of the doorbell.

  “Hello, Ruby,” she said, materializing like a crone in a folk tale, breathless from the search. “God, me knees are killing me, so they are.”

  Doris had been a fixture in the Tailorstown post office for more than two decades. Delicate, faded as a pressed flower, she complained of more ailments than would be present in a doctor’s waiting room on a wet Monday.

  “But it’s to be expected with age, Ruby. A big, strong girl like you wouldn’t know anything about that now.”

  Ruby smiled shyly. “My mother complains of her knees, too.”

  “What?”

  Ruby leaned closer, taking in a lungful of rosewater scent. “I say: my mother complains of her knees, too, Doris.”

  Doris pulled a face and fiddled with an earpiece.

  “Sorry, Ruby, had me hearing aid turned down ’cos of market day. The shouts and filthy language of them men out there would make a sailor blush. Now, who did you say had the knees?”

  “Me mother, Doris.”

  “Och, aye, yer poor mother. But at least she’s got her ears.”

  “That’s true. Nothing wrong with her hearing.” Ruby extracted the pension book from her handbag and laid it on the counter. These conversations with Doris usually followed the same pattern and could endure for ever.

  She was anxious to get on.

  “D’you know, between me ears and me knees I’m nearly kilt, so I—”

  “You’ll not friggin’ do me, you squinty-eyed wee bastard!”

  The raised voice reaching through the open window had Doris wincing and ducking, as though hit by a hammer.

  “Oh dearie me!” She rushed over and looked out. “I thought it was poor Jamie’s voice.”

  Ruby joined her, and, to her amazement, saw Jamie McCloone and the auctioneer, Albert Frogget, grappling with each other outside the market stalls. Jamie had Albert in a headlock, and both men were staggering round in circles like a couple of drunken crabs.