Jessie
The night before the football match, Jessie received another email from Boston. She didn’t open it. She’d had a fraught day at work with too many customers making too many bizarre requests. Seriously, what sort of person asked for banana slices and ham in the same sandwich? Or three different types of cheese? As if that wasn’t enough, a woman had thrown up all over the toilets and a young guy had given her a hard time about her TV appearance. Oh, and her hands smelt of mayonnaise. In Jessie’s opinion, mayonnaise was the work of the devil.
She tried telling herself that she would feel better if she replied. Procrastination was never a sound policy. She did nothing.
‘Go away,’ she said to Kaitlin’s latest message. ‘I can’t handle your American perfection right now. Go and screw up your life and then come back to me.’
With the injustices of the day zipping around her head, she couldn’t sleep. She listened to a podcast about poison-pen letters in South Dakota, did some social-media stalking (Phelim and his new girlfriend were having a wildly photogenic time in Santorini), and considered buying a pair of sandals she didn’t need with money she didn’t have. Still sleep wouldn’t come.
It was only then that she decided to read the email.
From: KaitlinWBoston@gmail.com
Hi there, Jessie,
I hope all is good in Clooneven. I thought I might hear from you again, but I guess you’ve been busy. You probably have a better social life than me.
Jessie almost laughed out loud. There were prisoners with a better social life than her. She continued to read.
I got the impression from your last email that you couldn’t quite understand why I’m so interested in my ancestors’ stories. Some days I’m not sure myself. At the same time, it’s the most satisfying project I’ve undertaken in years.
My interest started after my brother, Brian, got a job with an anti-immigration lobby group. That made me do some thinking. I don’t know how things are in Ireland, but here it’s a subject that seems to bring out the worst in everyone. (Or maybe that’s just our family.)
Once I started work, I found I genuinely wanted to know more about where we came from. When I read about Alice and Martin, I was hooked. Learning that Martin was from Connemara and Alice from County Clare made them more real for me. There’s every chance we still have relations in Claddaghduff or Tulla, and I’d love to be able to find them.
Today I had lunch with Brian, and it struck me that, as much as I love him, we’re never going to agree. I can’t understand why someone who’s such a good person in so many ways can fail to be moved by what happened to our ancestors, but I suppose I’ll have to accept that there’s nothing I can do to change that.
What he did tell me was that a cousin of ours has also been researching the family’s background. I’ll probably call her and see if she knows anything that can help. I’m not overly optimistic, but you never know . . .
By the way, you were right about the Frobishers. I’ve attached a file with more details.
If I’m being honest, and I’ve debated over whether to tell you this, one of the reasons I’ve embraced the family search is that I’ve been at a low ebb. (Don’t worry, I’m not about to load all my personal traumas on top of you!) Back at the start of the year, I had a late miscarriage. I was nineteen weeks pregnant, so if Stella (the name we gave her) had been able to hang on just a few weeks longer, she would have lived, and I’d be a mother now.
I’d love to say I’ve coped well with the loss, but the truth is I haven’t. All of a sudden, lots of things don’t feel right, if that makes sense.
Anyway, enough about me. I suppose what I wanted to say was that I feel fortunate to have made a connection with you. If you find out anything else about the lives of the people on board the Mary and Elizabeth, do let me know. Given that they were almost the same age, I like to think that Alice and Bridget were friends.
By the way, my uncle’s wife, Orla, is from Limerick, and she says that when she was a child, they spent their vacations in Clooneven. She says they went swimming every day – even when it rained.
All best wishes,
Kaitlin
‘So,’ said Jessie, ‘it seems I got her totally and completely wrong. Far from having a flawless life, it sounds like she’s in a bad way.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Ger. ‘It happens to the best of us. Even I’ve been wrong once or twice.’
‘Very funny.’
Whatever chance there’d been of Jessie getting a sound night’s sleep had been shattered by Kaitlin’s email. She’d read it twice before returning to the American woman’s Instagram. On closer inspection, there was something a little off-kilter about the more recent photos. Something flat. And, while there was nothing wrong with the way she dressed, it was a bit drab, stern even, for someone who was only twenty-nine. Oh, and now that Jessie thought about it, perhaps Kaitlin was too thin. Perhaps she was more skinny than slender.
She was annoyed with herself for taking Kaitlin’s life at surface value. She’d transformed her into a caricature, and judged her accordingly. Another lesson learnt.
Eight hours on, and Jessie was sitting on the prom, one hand gripping her phone, the other attempting to shoo away an obese seagull. She’d be late for work, but they’d have to cope without her for ten minutes.
‘Why would Kaitlin tell you all that personal stuff, do you think?’ asked Ger, who sounded as though he was still in bed.
‘I guess sometimes it’s easier to open up to someone you don’t know. It’s like the way people tell their secrets to hairdressers and barmen and strangers on trains.’
‘Have you written back?’
‘Ah, Ger, what sort of bitch do you think I am? Of course I have.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’
‘I emailed her last night, but didn’t hear anything more. I hope she’s all right.’
‘The line about the cousin who might know something was interesting.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jessie, ‘not to mention the stuff about the Frobishers – and the disagreement with her brother.’
‘Is that any big surprise, though? The brother’s job, I mean.’
‘I suppose, in my unsophisticated way, I’d always assumed that Irish people, even in America, would be drawn towards the underdog.’
‘I reckon that’s one of the stories we’re fond of telling ourselves. Like how generous and welcoming we are. The problem is, it doesn’t stand up to much scrutiny.’
‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘you’re miserable this morning.’
Ger laughed. ‘Nah, I’m just being honest.’
Usually Jessie tried to stay out of other countries’ affairs. She had enough trouble deciphering Irish politics without getting involved in what was happening elsewhere. She made an exception for the United States. The whole world felt entitled to have an opinion on America.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d better get moving or Ivana will be on my tail. Ashling’s taking a day off on account of the big match. She’s having her nails done in the Clooneven colours.’
‘It’s a shame you won’t be there,’ he said.
‘You’ll hardly miss me. You’ll have the whole town cheering you on . . . and Rosemary.’
‘True, but . . .’ Ger stopped. He’d clearly had second thoughts about what he’d been going to say. Instead, he switched the conversation back to Kaitlin’s email. ‘Send me a message if you hear from her,’ he said.
‘Will do,’ she replied. ‘And good luck.’
Clooneven won by three points. Although Jessie tried to listen on local radio, her nephew and niece kept distracting her. The under-tens, it seemed, were immune to the charms of a local GAA match. As far as she could tell, Ger had played well.
As usual, Ethan and Zoë had more questions than Mastermind. They either imagined she would provide the answers their parents couldn’t, or they liked being awkward. The latter, she feared, was closer to the truth. Among the latest batch were:
The logical: ‘If you’re younger than Mammy, why are you taller?’
The bruising: ‘You’re old. Why aren’t you married?’
The strange: ‘How do they know it was St Patrick who got rid of all the snakes?’
The even stranger: ‘Why don’t people have tails?’
And the perennial: ‘Why can’t we stay up as late as you?’
‘Because,’ said Jessie, feeling on firm ground with this one, ‘you need more sleep than me. It’s a scientific fact.’
‘Who says?’ replied seven-year-old Ethan. ‘Zoë’s only four, so she needs lots of sleep. But I don’t.’
‘Four and a quarter,’ said Zoë, peeping through her blonde curls. She was wearing a pink sun hat, which functioned as her version of a comfort blanket. ‘And I could stay awake all night if I wanted to.’
‘You could not.’
‘Could so.’
‘Ah, lads,’ said Jessie, saying a silent prayer of thanks that she could hand them back at the end of the night, ‘I tell you what. You can have another half an hour, and then it really will be bedtime.’
‘What if we won’t go?’ said Ethan, with a giggle.
‘Then I’ll be very sad, and I’ll have to go into town on my bicycle and find your mammy and daddy so they can sort you out. That means you’ll be left here all on your own.’
‘No, we won’t,’ said Zoë, rocking on her heels.
‘Who else will be here?’
‘The people out the back.’
‘And who are they?’ asked Jessie, assuming Zoë was referring to a group of make-believe friends. At the same age, she’d been a terror for inventing other children.
The little girl appeared to be on the verge of answering when her brother sent a pointed look in her direction.
‘Only messing,’ she said eventually, a bashful look on her tiny face. ‘It’ll just be Ethan and me. All on our ownselves.’
‘That’s right,’ added Ethan. He paused. ‘We promise we’ll go to bed if we can have another cartoon first. And a hot chocolate.’
Jessie used every technique she knew to prise more information from Zoë. Nothing worked, and she decided that her niece had indeed been talking about imaginary friends.
When, finally, the two were asleep, she poured a large glass of white wine, settled into the grey crushed velvet sofa and opened her book. A wealthy Californian couple were unhappy, and their story was making her feel stupid because, rather than finding something profound in their misery, she thought they were a pair of self-obsessed bores who needed to get over themselves.
Earlier, she’d received another email from Kaitlin, who sounded slightly embarrassed at having revealed so much personal information. Still taken aback that the public-facing Kaitlin was so different from the private one, Jessie reassured her that there was no reason to feel awkward. In a spirit of share-and-share-alike, she also gave her an edited version of the events that had forced her own return to Clooneven. Somehow, she sensed Kaitlin already knew.
Half an hour passed, and then an hour, but every time Jessie tried to focus on her book, Zoë’s words returned to niggle at her. On second thoughts, it wasn’t so much what her niece had said that stirred her curiosity as the way Ethan had shushed his sister with a stare.
Who were ‘the people out the back’? And why was she not supposed to know about them? She decided to put on her hoodie and take a look.
The ground to the rear of Clevedon remained neglected, and as she walked, the waist-high grass swished around her. She heard a rustling sound, and her muscles tightened. She cursed the fact that she was wearing shorts. It was then that she noticed a track linked to the main driveway. She hadn’t seen it before. Then again, she hadn’t been looking.
Once she’d joined the track, she was able to move more quickly. On she went, towards the three old sheds, a clean breeze in her face. To the west, there was still a bright streak in the sky. Otherwise, it was darkest blue, the moon a silver sliver. Something brushed against her. She jumped back before realising it was only a branch.
This is madness, she said to herself. I’m wandering around in the dark because of a throwaway comment by a four-year-old who believes in fairies and wears a pink sun hat to bed.
Having come this far, she decided to take a quick look at the sheds. Not that she could picture anyone living or even working there. They hadn’t been used in years. The land was too marshy to support either animals or crops.
Given how close they were to Boherbreen, it struck her that once upon a time these fields might have been owned by Henry Frobisher. Nowadays, everything reminded her of Bridget. All it would take was a line on the weather forecast about conditions being suitable for the spread of blight, and she’d think of her ancestors. Small-craft warnings had a similar effect, as did news stories about women being separated from their children or a family losing their home.
By now, Jessie was . . . well, scared would be an overstatement, but she was jittery. She took out her phone and flicked on the torch. The buildings were less dilapidated than she remembered. The grey stone had stood firm against decades of Atlantic storms, and the corrugated roofs, though discoloured by rust, remained intact. The thin windows had been boarded up. A thicket of brambles smothered the side of the first building, the tendrils stretching in every direction. Closer examination showed that, while the door was closed, it wasn’t locked. She pulled, and it creaked open.
‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘Is anyone here?’
There was no reply.
She repeated her shout. Again, no reply. What there was, however, was a strong smell. A distinctive smell. It was also unexpectedly warm, the heat rushing towards her as if she’d opened an oven door.
A noise like someone stamping on dry twigs went off in Jessie’s head. Snap, snap, snap, it went.
‘Oh, shit,’ she heard herself say.
Everything made sense.