May 2019, Clooneven
Jessie
The night after her discovery, Jessie met Ger in Sexton’s lounge. In her view, Sexton’s was the best of Clooneven’s bars. It was basic without being dirty, busy yet calm. There was no television, and stags and hens were banned.
She’d been useless at work, forgetting who’d ordered what and handing out the wrong change. Cappuccino, latte, flat white: it was all just milky coffee, and she didn’t believe anyone from Clooneven could tell the difference anyway. When Venetia Lillis complained, she’d wanted to shout, Look, love, you grew up with a mug of instant, and you were glad to get it. Do you have any idea how much important information is in my head? Cut me some slack here, would you?
The words had remained unspoken. Not only would Lorna have given her a talking-to, no one, apart from Ger, would have understood why a news report about a woman who’d lived almost two hundred years ago could be important.
‘Are you sure it’s her?’ he asked, from behind his pint of Guinness.
‘I am. I know the name’s slightly different, and I know there were a million Bridgets, but on balance, it has to be our woman. Doesn’t it?’
‘I reckon you’re right. I’m kicking myself I didn’t come across the article. I suppose the different spelling didn’t help.’
Although the London Illustrated Gazette had spelt her name as Brigid Malowney, everything else was a perfect match. She’d been living on boggy ground in Boherbreen, having been evicted from her cottage some months previously. Her husband had died from Famine fever, and she’d had one daughter, whom they now knew had been called Norah.
Other details were new. Her father had been lost at sea some years earlier. She’d had a sister called Mary Ellen McGuane who’d lived in Hackett’s Cross. On the day the journalists had met her, she’d intended travelling there to leave two-year-old Norah in her sister’s care.
These basic facts were only part of the story. What captured them both was the picture the article painted of Bridget’s life, of the poverty and hunger but also of her intelligence and determination. There was a rare honesty about her comments. She’d had nothing left to lose and nothing to sell. She was described as a ‘pauper’, as part of the ‘great mass of peasantry’, yet in the article she came alive. She was fierce in her love for Norah and her home. ‘We’re entitled to better than this,’ she’d told the reporter. ‘The failure of one crop shouldn’t mean we have to die like neglected animals. My girl is no less important than the children of landlords and gentry.’
The descriptions of Clooneven and its surrounding townlands were graphic. According to the journalist, in the space of a few hours, he had counted ninety-two roofless houses. The whole district, he wrote, had been swept of food. Jessie tried to imagine what those familiar fields must have looked like.
The article was accompanied by a portrait. In black ink, it showed Bridget, her tattered clothes dripping from her thin body, holding a curly-haired Norah.
Ger kept picking out different words and lines. ‘“The present condition of the Irish,” he read, “has been mainly brought on by foolish and vicious legislation. Surely, there can be nowhere else on earth where misery and neglect are so rife.”’
Jessie sipped her wine. ‘He didn’t hold back, all right. I stayed up half the night trying to get more information. Apparently, the piece caused a stir because interviewing “real people”, especially someone as young and poor as Bridget, was unusual.’
‘So both Bridget and her mother made the headlines?’
‘Mmm. Only I don’t think anyone’s ever made the connection between the two.’
‘We’ll be professors of history before we know it,’ he said, with a wink. ‘Another glass?’
‘Go on. I’m not working till ten in the morning.’
It had been the best part of two months since she’d spent Friday evening in a pub. The last occasion had featured a large group of friends, too much over-priced prosecco and unwelcome attention from a guy who worked at Facebook and planned on retiring at forty. She knew this because he’d talked about his achievements in the sort of run-on sentences that made it impossible to interrupt. He’d also spoken at length about his dislike of authority, without appearing to recognise any contradiction. His name escaped her, but she couldn’t picture him enjoying a quiet pint in Sexton’s. Back then, she’d still been mourning her relationship with Phelim.
Little by little, she was filling in the gaps with Ger. She’d known that he’d spent several years in Cork. What she hadn’t realised was that his return to Clooneven had been involuntary. Three years ago, his father had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. A permanent job had become available in St Finian’s, and before you could say, ‘Only son does the decent thing’, he was back in Clare. He shared a rented house in Kilrush with two other teachers and didn’t know whether he was home for the long haul.
That he enjoyed his work and devoted so much energy to it made Jessie feel all the more inadequate. Oh, she knew she was being self-indulgent. Compared to Bridget and Irish women of almost every other generation, her life was a bounty of gifts. But coming across the article had deepened her angst. The correspondent for the London Illustrated Gazette had done genuinely important work. It was hard to picture him wasting ink on the nineteenth-century equivalent of Hollie Garland.
At the next table, three women were moaning about a neighbour. ‘No harm to her,’ said one, ‘but talk about losing the run of yourself. I remember her at school, and the family were so poor she wore sandals in November.’ On the other side, two men were discussing a recent funeral. ‘Ninety-nine’s a grand age,’ said the elder fellow, ‘though it’s a mighty shame he didn’t make the hundred. Not that he’d have spent the cheque from the president. May God forgive me, but he was tight.’ Maybe it was the alcohol, but Jessie found herself enjoying the conversations. There was little to match the sound of small scores being settled.
When Ger returned, they discussed what they should do next.
‘I’ve been thinking about it all day,’ she said, ‘and, bleak as this sounds, I don’t reckon Bridget could have survived much longer. When she spoke to the reporter and illustrator, she was in a very bad way and, apart from Norah and Mary Ellen, everyone belonging to her was dead.’
‘What about her sister?’ said Ger. ‘From what she said, Mary Ellen was better off. Plus, she wasn’t that far away. Mary Ellen could hardly have taken Norah and allowed Bridget to fend for herself.’
‘I know it wouldn’t have been the kind thing to do, but perhaps they’d never been close.’
Ger paused to drink some of his pint. ‘There’s one way we might find out. Back around 1860, a curate called Father Kelly carried out an informal local census. Presumably, the Church wanted to see who was left. He surveyed most of the area including Hackett’s Cross. I think that’s where he was based. If Mary Ellen McGuane and her husband were still alive, they should be on the list. And who knows? Bridget and Norah might be there too.’
‘You’re a genius.’ Jessie picked up her phone again. The drink was definitely kicking in, and she felt her shoulders loosening. ‘Is the priest’s census online? I’ll look it up.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not. Copies of the records are available from the current parish priest in Hackett’s Cross, though. We can go and have a look if you like.’
‘Absolutely. I’m at work all day tomorrow, but I’m free on Sunday evening. How are you fixed then?’
Ger picked up his glass. ‘Ah, I won’t be here. I’m going down to Cork to spend the weekend with Rosemary.’
Jessie must have given him a confused look because he quickly added, ‘My girlfriend, you know? I’m sure I mentioned her. She’s a nurse in the University Hospital.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ve an awful memory.’
Of course he had a girlfriend, and of course she had a wholesome name and a wholesome job. No doubt they did wholesome activities together, like hill-walking and watching GAA matches. Oh, and going to christenings. In her experience, wholesome people attended a lot of functions involving either children or religion. At their family gatherings, they played card games for small change and shared photos of their pets. Their WhatsApp groups were filled with jokes and affection and entirely free of snark.
Using Ger’s Facebook page as a starting point, Jessie found Rosemary O’Donovan’s social media. Her Instagram page was private (Why? What could she possibly put on there that required privacy?) and her Twitter barely used. Her Facebook account was more useful. Post after post showed Rosemary walking in the countryside or on a night out with the girls. You could practically smell the fake tan and floral perfume. Ger made an occasional appearance, usually as part of a large gang of friends. Everyone was as stick-thin and rosy-cheeked as Jessie had feared. Rosemary was also a regular 10K runner, and a range of children’s and mental health charities had benefited from her efforts. Truly, she was the patron saint of wholesomeness.
Twenty-four hours later, and she remained annoyed with herself for becoming interested in Ger. It was beyond cliché: small-town girl goes home and falls for small-town boy. If any of her friends behaved in such a pathetic needy way, she wouldn’t be long in putting them straight. Not, she assured herself, that she had fallen for him. It was more a case of wanting a distraction and thinking he might provide it. And wasn’t that one of her weaknesses? She’d spent her life being driven by boredom or the fear of it. She’d hooked up with men, not because she found them particularly appealing but because she’d fancied the adventure or, worse, because she’d been flattered by their attention.
Okay, she’d been with Phelim for five years, but they’d had several breaks. She’d been unfaithful before Oisín and, deep down, she suspected Phelim had too. If it was ridiculous to claim that such a lengthy relationship hadn’t been particularly serious, it was also the truth. A long time had passed since she’d expected them to have children, get married or save for a house. Like the worn-out couples she saw shuffling down the prom, they’d stayed together because it had been easier than splitting up. Their relationship had been like a starter marriage, only without the certificate and the chocolate fountain.
In frustration, she considered going to Hackett’s Cross without Ger, but that wouldn’t be fair. Besides, her free time was limited. She’d spent most of Saturday in the café and now she was on her way to Lorna’s house for a few hours’ babysitting.
After Lorna and Simon had renovated his family home, they’d renamed it Clevedon. To Jessie’s ears, the name was out of place. It sounded more suited to a prosperous part of England than to the marshy end of west Clare. There were six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen the size of a football field, and a dining room with French windows and a chandelier. ‘I wouldn’t like to be paying the heating bill,’ had been their father’s assessment. Jessie thought the house was fine, in an antiseptic, generic sort of way. Then again, she’d never been particularly interested in furnishings.
A sweep of trees masked the view of the old farm buildings at the back of the property. The sheds hadn’t been used for years, and the time must have come to level them. The garden was largely untouched, which was a shame. It was as if Simon and Lorna had spent every last cent on the house and had run out of cash for the grounds. Come to think of it, that might be the case. Making money in a seaside town wasn’t easy. If they could afford it, many Irish people chose continental heat rather than a soggy week in a west-coast caravan.
As she cycled up the tarmac, past the clusters of ragwort and dandelions, she wondered why Lorna hadn’t asked their mother to look at the garden. She was sure Maeve would be able to work her magic at minimal expense.
Money worries would also help to explain why Simon looked so worn out. One of the worst things you could say about anyone was that they weren’t ageing well, and it was definitely true of her brother-in-law. Although still in his late thirties, he looked a decade older. There were pouches of flesh beneath his eyes and his hairline edged backwards by the week. Even his voice sounded too old. Oh, and he was crabby. No matter what Jessie said, he found fault with it. He reminded her of the guys who hung out on Twitter with a contrarian take for every occasion, the guys who liked to say, ‘Fixed it for you’ or ‘Do better.’
She’d never liked Simon, a view bolstered by the fact that he didn’t have much time for her. In his eyes, she was a messy, unpredictable presence, who liked poking at things and asking questions. Once upon a time, she’d made an effort to meet him halfway. She’d told herself that even Lorna wouldn’t marry for money alone. There must, she’d reasoned, be a softer, more inviting side to him. She’d conceded then that he was warm towards his children, was on friendly terms with her parents and didn’t appear to be mean with money.
None of this was enough. If you asked Jessie, Lorna was too compliant. Too willing to follow her husband’s line. It was as if her high-handed behaviour with other people was compensation for her far meeker attitude at home. No doubt the Clooneven gossip-mongers would maintain that Lorna had ‘done well for herself’. In Jessie’s opinion, she could have done far better.
That her sister wouldn’t stray far from home had always been clear. To this day, she had an old woman’s perception of Dublin, seeing it as a noisy, smelly place filled with fumes and chancers and criminals. ‘I wouldn’t have the patience for it,’ she liked to say. ‘I mean, it’s not the 1980s. We have everything in Clare now.’ Once, after several glasses of sauvignon blanc, she’d become philosophical about her sister’s determination to travel. ‘I think it’s in your blood,’ she’d said. ‘Because previous generations left, you were convinced you had to leave too.’
Jessie had pointed out that wanderlust couldn’t be in her blood because she was descended from people who’d stayed. Her pedantry had received a cool response.
Lorna met her at the door. She was wearing a white towelling bathrobe and pink flip-flops. ‘There you are now,’ she said, with a smirk. ‘I gather you were in Sexton’s with Ger Dillane last night.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jessie, following her up the stairs and into the master bedroom. ‘I’ve invited him over so we can have wild sex in front of the kids.’
‘You’re joking me.’
‘Duh. Of course I am.’
‘What’s the story, then?’
‘There’s no story. Well, actually, there is . . . only not what you’re thinking.’
She perched on the powder-blue chaise longue and told Lorna about Bridget.
Her sister, who was at the dressing-table, frowned. ‘That’s a terrible tale, but, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s it to you?’
‘It’s interesting. I might write about Bridget and her mother.’
‘They’re a long way from your usual fodder.’
‘That’s for sure but, like you keep reminding me, it’s time for a change.’
Lorna, who’d been applying bronzer with the precision of a portrait artist, paused. ‘The best of luck with it, anyway. Oh, and sorry if I’ve come the heavy lately. I’ve been under a bit of pressure. Believe it or not, Ash and Ivana are full of your praises.’
This, thought Jessie, was classic Lorna. Nothing was clear cut. Every time she felt as if her sister’s judgemental tendencies had gone too far, Lorna would say or do something thoughtful. It would be easier if Jessie could dismiss her as an uncaring social climber, a self-obsessed money-grabber, but she was more complex than that. Despite their disagreements, they’d often looked out for each other. For every petty argument, there had been a moment of solidarity, for every frosty exchange, an evening of laughter.
Lorna had spent seven years as an only child, and according to family history, the Dalys had expected her to be jealous of baby Jessie. Instead she’d been delighted with the new arrival, forever offering to push her buggy or play games. Later, she’d been generous and protective, her sharp tongue and even sharper elbows a shield against the likes of Venetia Lillis.
This was the first time Jessie had been alone with her sister since the unknown man had walked into the café. Now, with Simon and the children in the kitchen, she had an opportunity.
‘You know what I’ve been meaning to ask you, who was the chap who came into the Seashell looking for you?’
‘People look for me all the time.’
‘You know who I mean. The fellow with the goatee and the south Dublin accent.’
‘Him?’ said Lorna, picking up her mascara. ‘He’s an ice-cream rep.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Jessie, confident that whoever the man was, he hadn’t been there to sell ice cream. Unfortunately, before she had the opportunity to probe any further, Simon’s head appeared around the door.
‘I thought we’d agreed that tonight we’d be on time,’ he said.
‘And we will,’ replied Lorna. ‘Give me five minutes, and I’ll be with you.’
‘Not if you stay up here gossiping, you won’t.’
Jessie took her cue and got to her feet. ‘I’ll go down and say hello to Ethan and Zoë.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Simon.
It was as she was going down the stairs that something struck her. She thought of how nervous her sister had been when the – still unnamed – man had come into the café. In her desire to get rid of Jessie, she’d practically pulled the cloth from her hand and shooed her out the door.
If there was one skill Jessie possessed, it was the ability to spot a couple having an affair, and that was what she believed was happening.