Tuesday 27th September – 1 p.m.
‘Looks like we’re here.’ Rav’s commentary to Sylvia was unnecessary, as she could read the satnav as well as him: St Melangell.
He glanced at her. ‘Are you sure you really want to do this?’
They’d driven straight here to start with. Then Sylvia decided it was far too early to call. So they’d found a café for breakfast. Then she’d thought it would be more polite to phone ahead. So they’d gone for a walk, with Rav taking the opportunity to do some stretches from his wheelchair. Then he’d tried to distract Sylvia from the slow seconds ticking by with some footage of hares darting around on the clifftops, while she waited until what she deemed an acceptable time to phone.
Finally, lunchtime was agreed, so then they’d got a sandwich for the journey back. And now … here they were.
‘Oh, yes. I’m very sure.’ Sylvia took a deep breath and made the turning.
Driving through the open gates on graceful stone pillars, and up the long, curving driveway, lined with flame-leaved beech trees, Rav wondered how she would tackle this. He checked his phone again, and saw another worried text from Nell, asking what was going on.
Sylvia had begged him not to give away where they’d gone. Not until she’d got some answers.
She’d been quiet for most of the journey, and Rav hadn’t pushed her to talk. But he was worried about her lack of spark, how flat she seemed without her lively humour, and he knew she was weighing up her future. Hers and Conor’s.
She parked in a nearby bay and brought his chair to the car door. As he shifted into it, she looked back towards the gate, and Rav knew she was thinking the same as him. The sweep of the driveway meant that anyone coming here to leave a baby would be obscured from the building until the very last moment. And the driveway was wide enough to turn in, to keep the car well away from the house.
Reaching the thick wooden door of the stone convent, Sylvia knocked softly.
The door was opened by a smiling woman in a nun’s habit. ‘Welcome in, Sylvia, Rav. I’m Sister Clare. Have you had a long journey here?’
As she drew them into the still, tranquil space, Rav felt his concerns calm.
‘We’ve been driving for a couple of hours,’ Sylvia said.
The ceiling soared overhead as she led them up the wide hall, her skirts swishing over the flagstones. The acoustics, and some sense of respect, made Sylvia and Rav respond in hushed tones.
‘We’ve set aside what you’ve asked for in here.’ She paused at an arched doorway and invited them to go into the whitewashed room ahead of her. ‘And this is Sister Magdalen, who found little Aoife that morning.’
The elderly woman sitting at the table looked up and smiled, inviting them to join her with a tremoring hand.
‘Speak up,’ Sister Clare mouthed as she retreated.
‘Thank you, Sister Clare,’ Sister Magdalen said, her voice wavering like a reed. She turned to them. ‘She’s quite right, I’m stone deaf, so do speak up. I think the good Lord is granting me some peace. It filters out the things that don’t matter. People never raise their voice to tell you what they had for breakfast. You don’t have to deal with idle chit-chat.’ Her smile transformed her face into apple cheeks and sparky eyes.
‘Now.’ Her demeanour grew solemn again. ‘You’re here to know more about little Aoife.’ She shook her head. ‘I realise, of course, that there would be some confidentiality around it all. But all of this has been made public to some degree over the years. And I was won over by what you said about uncovering the truth about her family, and helping her with her tests.’
She fixed Sylvia with a shrewd gaze. ‘It looks like you’re here for your own answers, as much as hers.’
Rav tried not to show his surprise as a flush crept up Sylvia’s neck. There was not much that made her blush.
‘I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the shock of it, you see. You don’t just find a baby on the doorstep every day. I’d been feeding the chickens and one got out of the coop, and ran across the driveway there. So I chased her, and spotted the bundle in the doorway.’
She turned to the tray on the table, with pots and cups. ‘I didn’t offer you a drink. Tea?’
‘Shall I pour? While you tell us the story?’ Rav offered.
‘Thank you, young man.’ Sister Magdalen pushed her cup towards him. ‘Black for me, please. Well, the poor little mite was frozen. For the first few minutes, we really thought she might have hypothermia. But we all fussed around her, one of our number had medical training so knew what to do. She guessed the poor little soul was about three months old. And I called the local Gardaí.’
Opening the album on the table, she explained, ‘These are their photos, taken the morning we found her. They needed a record, and I asked for copies because I thought there may come a time when little Aoife might have questions, and I wanted to show her what we knew. As it happens, I was right about that.’
‘That’s thoughtful.’ Sylvia studied the photos as Rav handed out the cups of tea.
‘These pictures show all she had with her, that might give any clue to her family.’ The first picture showed the car seat, the blankets and Aoife bundled in layers of clothes.
Sister Magdalen turned the page to show a close-up of Aoife’s leather friendship bracelet. ‘That seemed significant to me. Something homemade, personal, beautifully made, wrapped around her chubby little fist, that she’d still be able to wear as she grew older. There was also this locket, which looked like a family heirloom.’
A turn of the page showed the locket’s plain front, the distillery’s logo inscribed on the back, and open. The next page showed the pipewort. Rav peered at the picture.
‘This flower. Did you press it? Because it looks like it was already pressed in this picture.’
‘Oh yes, it was already pressed. Carefully done, too.’
‘Was it inside the locket?’ Sylvia asked.
Rav expected Sister Magdalen to nod but she shook her head. ‘Not when we found it. The locket and the flower were both caught inside her little car seat. It was the glint of the necklace that made me find them. I wondered if the pressed flower had fallen out of the locket. It seemed precious, so I tucked it inside her locket. Seemed the obvious place to put it. It was a strange combination, I thought, of precious things, keepsakes, left for a baby being given away.’
‘Didn’t the Gardaí realise a woman with a young child had gone missing?’ Sylvia asked. ‘I suppose there’s quite a distance between here and their village. But wouldn’t this have been in the news? Surely it wouldn’t have taken much to put those things together, especially if, as you say, the story became public?’
Sister Magdalen shrugged. ‘I can’t answer for the Guards. I know that the village team here wanted to deal with things sensitively. I had the sense they thought the child belonged to someone local and didn’t want to add to any trauma. I think that was why there was no publicity. Perhaps their idea was, give the babe a home and some stability and that may relieve the pressure the parents may be under, with the hope they’d come forward.’
‘And, I suppose, over in Ballygiorria, the Garda were looking for a woman with a baby,’ Rav reasoned. ‘Not an abandoned child.’
‘And even then, they weren’t actually looking at all,’ Sylvia said. ‘James told me that the Garda hadn’t registered them as missing, so they wouldn’t be flagged by Gardaí in another area.’
‘We had to give her a name. And everyone agreed that she was just beautiful. So Aoife it was. Over the years, when no one claimed little Aoife as their own, if anyone did give any thought to why, it was justified that perhaps the parents thought she was with a family that might give her whatever it was they believed they couldn’t. Whether that was stability, or a better start in life …?’ She raised her hands. ‘Who knows? We can’t always know the challenges others face.’
As Sylvia thanked the sisters, who had told and shown her everything they knew, Rav photographed the pictures with his phone. Sister Magdalen smiled. ‘That’s what Aoife did when she visited. She came with her new family. They seemed very supportive, very loving. So I knew at least she’d had a good home. That was a great comfort to me.’ She closed the album. ‘I hope this has helped you, too. And I hope you’ll be able to help her. It’s difficult to live with questions that you can never answer.’
Back in the car, Rav’s finger hovered over the satnav. He glanced at Sylvia. ‘Well? Have you got the answers you need? Do you know where we’re going now?’
Sylvia shrugged, looking desolate.
After a long pause, she glanced at the convent. ‘Poor Aoife. As soon as she finds her mother, she learns that another of her relatives murdered her. Her uncles are turning against her newly found father. It’s not the best reunion, is it? And then there’s Conor. I’ve … I’ve never seen him lose his temper, Rav. I know his background. But I always thought his training would mean he’d never lose control. However extreme the situation. But that fight, that flash of temper … well, it terrified me.’ Her shoulders shuddered as she gulped back a sob.
Rav glanced at her as she dabbed her face with a tissue. ‘Can I speak honestly, Sylv? As a friend? And with love – because that intervention by you and Conor helped me see the truth when I needed it.’
She side-eyed him, her body tense. But she nodded.
‘Was it really the fight that upset you? When clearly he was the only one who could stop that? Or is it that he hadn’t mentioned a significant relationship to you? Or given you warning that you were about to hear he was a father?’
Turning, she stared out of the window, exhaling heavily.
He could relate to that uncertain feeling. He’d had it with Nell, over a couple of unexpected revelations. But she had had her reasons, and a right, to be private. And so did Conor. Rav knew that Sylvia knew that – far better than he did, if he was honest about it.
‘So what are you going to do, Sylv? And how can I help?’