“Next!” called Bernard Lawless to the near-empty waiting room attached to the side of his house. He could hear Jack Kearns coughing: severe emphysema, with little to be done about it.
The young Doyle girl was ahead of him and he could sense her embarrassment already at visiting him; there was no sign of her mother or the rest of them.
He gestured to her to sit down in his small surgery. She looked washed-out, pale, perhaps after the shock and grief of her sister’s accident. He went to the filing cabinet in the corner and took out a slim folder, laying it flat on the desk.
“I think I might be expecting a baby,” she blurted out, “but I’m not sure.”
Bernard Lawless sighed. The age-old story: another young girl in trouble. “How long is it since your last period?” he asked matter-of-factly, jotting down the date. “Well let’s see if we can confirm if you are or are not pregnant first.”
A faint glimmer of hope gleamed in her eyes that there might be some other cause for her missed monthlies. Handing her a metal bowl, he sent her down the hall to the bathroom to give a sample of urine for testing. Then he examined her, already noticing the enlarged breasts and able to detect the growing fundus. He checked her blood pressure and weight. She looked like a scared rabbit, terrified out of her wits at what he was going to tell her, which after all was what she knew already.
“Come and sit down, Esther,” he said kindly. “The test will take a few days but I think it will only tell us what you suspect already. You are going to have a baby.”
Tears welled in her eyes and she sniffed, trying not to cry.
Checking his calendar, he gave her an approximate date in March. “You are young and healthy and should have a normal pregnancy. Have you told the baby’s father yet?”
She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t want the baby, Dr. Lawless, or anything to do with me now that this has happened.”
Bernard Lawless gripped his pen. Another bastard somewhere out there. Why did these young girls fall for it every time, let themselves be used? “Do I know him? Would you like me to talk to him? Perhaps he’ll come around, change his mind.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about your mother? She’s a good woman, look how well she cared for Nonie, she’ll help you.”
Esther sat across from him, numb. How could a stranger ever understand the complex shifting relationship that existed between Majella and herself?
“Have you told her yet?”
“No!”
“Esther, you are fit and well but having a baby is not something you can cope with alone. You must tell Majella and, if she disapproves, well, there are alternatives until your child is born. You know I’m here if you need me to come and talk to.”
Esther sat in front of him. There was little else he could do. She rummaged in the pocket of her blue knitted jacket, producing an assortment of half-crowns and a ten-shilling note to pay him. He didn’t want to take the money but knew she would be insulted if he refused it. It was her first time ever visiting the doctor on her own and she needed to be treated as an adult. He knew right well she’d probably scrimped and scraped to get the fee together, like so many of his patients: women with prolapsed wombs who could barely walk but hadn’t the money to see him or one of the consultants in Galway, children whose illnesses went undiagnosed because a trip to the doctor meant no food on the table. The system was crazy; was this what he had studied medicine for? Dr. Noel Browne, a Galway doctor like himself, had put forward his Mother and Child scheme while in government, proposing that all mothers be entitled to free ante- and postnatal care and that children’s health be the responsibility of the state.
The Catholic bishops had torpedoed it, forcing his colleague into resignation. The new government was prepared to listen to Browne, who had run as an independent, and he hoped to Christ that Eamon De Valera would keep his election promises and do something to help the women and children of the country. Watching Esther Doyle walking along the path outside the surgery he knew that, like hundreds of other women, she’d a long hard road ahead of her as an unwed mother in holy bloody Ireland.
Esther found the bottle of poitin hidden in a paper bag under the kitchen sink, alongside a bottle of porter. It was her mother’s emergency drink supply. Of late Majella had become fond of a drop of whiskey or a glass of sherry. She drank them alone and in secret, not realizing that the family could smell it on her breath and sense the change in her demeanour as the alcohol took effect. Esther pulled out the bottle and unscrewed the lid. The liquor smelled strange. Gulping it down, she could feel it burning her throat, making her choke. Jesus it was awful! Strong stuff! No wonder the authorities banned it. She could feel it shooting into her brain, lungs, and stomach. Uncaring, she took another swill, her eyes almost streaming. It was like a poison inside her, racing through her veins. How in God’s name did her mother drink the stuff! There was meant to be a secret poitin still in Spiddal, where a man called Frankie Fox brewed up this concoction. Her mother said she bought it for medicinal purposes. Esther drank another drop, for her own purposes. She began to walk around the kitchen, her courage growing with each sip, becoming
more resolute about the answer to her problem. Grabbing hold of Donal’s jumper that lay on the chair and pulling it on, she opened the cottage door and stepped out into the night air. Giggling, she tried to follow the path that led across to the beach and down to the sea. Her legs would not do exactly what her brain told them, and she felt strangely detached and floaty.
The tide had turned and even in the moonlight she could see the soft waves rippling towards the shore. The family were all fast asleep and she was glad of the peace and quiet. The blindingly obvious solution to her problem had snaked into her mind and now she realized what she must do. There was no way out of her misfortune, no way of turning the clock back and pretending her pregnancy did not exist. She felt used, dirty, and soiled. Conor did not care about her anymore. If he had his way she would disappear to England and solve all their problems by ridding herself of the child. The embarrassment she would cause him was nothing compared to the shame that she knew lay ahead when her family discovered about the baby. She had never done anything truly bad in her life, except perhaps maybe love and trust Conor. She had been foolish and stupid. There was no going back.
The alcohol coursed through her veins as the gansey slipped off easily and she left it on the weed-covered rocks. Barefoot, she walked across the stone and shingle, right to the water’s edge. The freezing cold water lapped at her feet and ankles, the bottom of her nightdress, trailing around her legs, soaking as she began to walk out into the sea.
“Christ!” she gasped as the chill of the Atlantic suddenly enveloped her.
Funny, but she didn’t feel scared, she was glad now that she could barely swim. The icy water covered her thighs and bottom, caressing the curve of her belly. She just kept on walking, glad that there were no waves to knock her off her feet and delay her purpose.
The water was getting deeper, the going heavier, as she tried to wade out further and further. The nightdress was weighing her down as the water covered her breasts and arms, her hair floating around her shoulders.
The cold was almost unbearable, forcing the breath from her body, as if she were already dead. Surely only a few more steps would do it. Her whole body was shivering, her teeth chattering as she kept on walking. She shut her eyes.
“Uurrghh!” Salt water filled her nostrils and mouth, choking her. She gasped and coughed as it poured down into her throat and lungs, forcing her instinctively to try and breathe.
“Esther! Jesus! What are you doing!” Tom was in the water, pushing through it, grabbing her and pulling her towards him.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed, trying to push away from him, fighting him off.
Her brother grabbed her from behind, forcing her afloat. “What are you trying to do? Drown yourself?”
“I’m shhwimming!” she said, feeling giddy. “Leave me alone!”
“You can’t swim! And you’re drunk!”
“No, I’m not, so bloody get lost! Go away!” She tried to break away from him and move even further out of her depth, as a wave broke over them and she swallowed what
seemed like another gallon of sea water. Frantic, she closed her mouth, desperately trying to tilt her head and neck and stretch out of the water. Panicking, she tried to tread water and attempt to dog-paddle. I’m going to die! I deserve to die! she told herself.
“Esther!” Tom pulled at her, forcing her arms round his neck, dragging her shorewards. “Let me help you, stop fighting against me.”
It was so dark and she felt too tired to even bother trying to keep afloat. Tom dragged and wrestled with her, forcing her into the shallows where she stumbled and crawled to the water’s edge, another wave rolling over them both as they gasped and struggled to get to their feet, Tom gripping on to her, shale scraping her feet and legs as, wincing with pain, she collapsed on to the beach, coughing after all the salt water and freezing with the cold.
“What in God’s name were you trying to do?” questioned Tom, his dark eyes serious, his face filled with concern as he knelt beside her.
“I don’t know,” she sniffed, “I don’t know. I’m just so sad and I don’t know what to do.” The two of them sitting there in the darkness, teeth chattering, freezing cold.
“You’re drunk!”
“I know,” she said, giggling, feeling stupid.
“What is it, Esther? What’s going on?”
“‘Tis a secret, Tom. Are you good at keeping secrets?” Tom stared at her, impatient and annoyed. “I’m pregnant,” she announced, grinning wildly. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Tom groaned. He should have guessed it would be something like that. “What about Conor?”
She shrugged, laughing crazily. “He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want the baby.”
“The bastard, the bloody bastard!” said Tom angrily. “What are you going to do, Esther? Have you told Mammy yet?”
The very thought of Majella’s reaction to such news scared them both, and Esther suddenly felt exhausted and sick. Her brother put his arms around her and held her as she wept drunkenly. “We should go back home, Esther, you’re freezing.” Tom grabbed the jumper from the beach and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Promise me you won’t say anything to the others,” insisted Esther, standing in front of him, sensing his dismay.
“Only if you promise not to try anything stupid like this again.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
They walked back up the beach together, Esther suddenly miserably sober, aware of what she had tried to do and how she must disgust her younger brother. Intense gratitude surfaced and broke inside her. She didn’t really want to die, even though nothing had changed, she was still pregnant and eventually would have to face her mother and brothers. Praying that the rest of them were still asleep, she sneaked back home to the comfort of her warm bed.