Monday dawned with a brilliant-red sky. Daddy was a robot eating porridge. Mammy rubbed at her stomach where the kept-for-best underpinnings pinched her hard. Matthew looked from him to her to me and was finally told to get out and see to the beasts. Your father has to take your sister to Carncloon this morning, she spat, and I have to go too whether I like it or not. With that she took the mug of tea out of his hand and smashed it against the sink. I hardly moved but Matty and Daddy leapt out of their chairs as if they’d been whipped. They both looked at me for the first time that day.
Doctor Brown confirmed my worst fear and sealed my mother’s loathing of female creatures: we all should be spayed. She asked him to repeat it twice and four times to tell no one and he nodded six times. I let out a giggle when he asked when I’d had my last cycle; it sounded so funny but Mammy fetched me a good hard wallop across the back of the head. I didn’t laugh again.
I sat dumb while my mother talked dates, deliveries and vitamins. I was to take an iron tonic for the baby. There was no talk of where it would live when I had to go back to school. By what they were saying I would miss the first term when I should be starting my A levels which would be a disaster. I’d have three whole months to catch up on.
My father was waiting for us in the car park unaware of the news he was about to receive. I sat in the back seat looking at the necks of the two people who would hate me for the rest of my life and I burst into tears.
– What’s wrong, girl? asks Daddy.
– Ha! Wait ’til we get home and you’ll hear all about your lovely daughter! says Mammy.
And he did. Mammy made me stay in the kitchen while she explained that I was in the family way to someone who wasn’t the doctor’s son and someone I didn’t care to name. She stoked the fire with her ‘tramps’ and her ‘disgraces’ but he didn’t rise to it. He chewed the inside of his cheek.
– She’s only sixteen.
– She might only be sixteen but she’s only sixteen and carryin’ a baby that’s come from Good Holy God knows where! Pah! We’ll have to get the priest. He’ll find out soon enough! Do the Dirty Magees know?
– No. No one knows … Daddy?
– I’ve to see to the beasts, Mary. Do as your mother tells you.
He left us inside where we belonged, ashen-faced, for the outside where he belonged. He would probably have a toke or two on his pipe after news like that. It’s not every day you find out that your daughter is a T.R.A.M.P. I just wanted to tell him I’d only done it once, just once, but then I’d have to say to my daddy I’d done it.
– Get to your room and don’t come out of it unless you hear me say otherwise. You’re not to even come down the stairs, d’y’hear me? You’re not fit to stand in my kitchen!
I was formally sent for the next night. I was instructed to make myself look ‘decent’. I didn’t laugh. Daddy, as always, was already in the car waiting. He said nothing when I got in the back. The lush green hedges slid by, a few early lights glowed around the foot of Aghabovey, then we were under the steeple at St Bede’s. We passed the big wooden cross that stood by the entrance to the graveyard. As we drew up outside the black and white parochial house I wished myself asleep again and alone on my side of the bed. A telling-off from Father O’Brien was all I needed. He was from the days when girls like me were disappeared to Dublin and the Magdalene Laundries and often never seen again.
The housekeeper, Mrs Byrne, opened the door and looked at us all like she’d found a dog turd on the step. She stood behind it for protection as she told us to go into the big sitting room at the front: Father would be with us in a moment. But within seconds I saw it was going to be much worse than a sermon from Father O’Brien. Joe was in the big sitting room and so were his parents. Seeing him there, I was suddenly overwhelmed by what I had thrown away; my key, my happy ending, thrown away with both hands.
I stumbled to the chair nearest the door. My face was mottled and so was his; he was hunched over, grinding his teeth to keep from crying, a picture of misery.
Our parents were going through the motions of greeting each other but Mammy was a bit bristly; thinking she had the doctor and his snooty working wife cornered, she tried to get the smug smile off her lips as Father O’Brien came in.
– Well now, well now, here we are, Doctor …
– Father …
– Frank, Sadie …
– Father …
– Mrs Loughrey …
– Father …
Oh, that didn’t please my mother when Joe’s mammy got a ‘Mrs’ and she just got plain old ‘Sadie’! Joe and me didn’t get a greeting of any kind.
– Well now, well now, this is a very sorry thing, a very sorry thing.
I must be the very sorry thing he was talking about; he was looking straight at me. I pressed my knees and ankles so tight together that I thought the bones would break through. Mrs Byrne wheeled in the hostess trolley and a fruitcake the size of a breeze block. It had a fish picked out in orange and lemon candied peel and a glacé-cherry eye. I was instantly back with Granda Ban at Macroom’s wake: the salmon fisherman who had no option but to breathe in the river he loved. A cloud plump with rain settled over my heart.
Mrs Byrne took an age to pour milk first and add sugar to five sets of cups and saucers. Joe and me weren’t going to get any kind of refreshment either, it seemed. God, she was really stringing it out, the horrible auld bag, hoping someone would break rank and start shouting.
With chinaware to civilise them they started. The good doctor wanted to know if I had been forced? Only he had discussed this with Joseph and Joseph had assured him that he had nothing to do with it? His good wife wanted to know if I was alright, sweetheart? She knew in her heart that Joseph Darling would not tell her a lie, isn’t that so, Dermot Darling? The good priest wanted to know where the daddy was and my mother wanted to know why we all couldn’t admit it was Joe so that we could be married off as soon as possible. My daddy didn’t want to know anything. He kept both his eyeballs glued to the swirly carpet.
It all fell apart when the tea ran out and my mother made a jibe about Mrs Loughrey surely not being able to keep track of her children when she was gadding about in high heels and tights and paint behind the counter at the post office. Joe’s mammy retaliated with details of how she only worked part-time, part-time, which left her ample hours to look after her family and Joseph and how dare my mother insinuate that she had taken her eye off the Catholic mothering ball!
It took the professional men in the room to keep them apart while my father stayed in his seat, a spectator. The parochial house was dripping with poison and Mrs Byrne was as happy as an apple-fed pig. It was Joe who restored peace. He was on his feet and shouting.
– I NEVER TOUCHED HER, OK? IT WASN’T ME! IT WASN’T ME! I never laid a hand on her, I swear on my life. It wasn’t me.
When he had their attention and finally caught my eye he broke down and cried, a bubble of snot unnoticed at his nose. Mammy would call him a cissy and, may Good Holy God strike me where I sat, I would agree with her as the tears ran down his face. Could he not wait ’til he got home? Instead he stood and let his shoulders heave and we all had to sit and stare at him falling to pieces. When he finally realised that no one could rescue him, not even the Darlings, he turned his misery on me.
– I’ll never forget what you did! Never! For as long as I live!
With that he ran, past me and away out of the front door. The cold air he let in brought the adults to their senses. Father O’Brien agreed that no more must be said about the matter: the Loughreys – hugely respected family that they were – were obviously not involved; my parents must come to some sort of decision on their own on what was the best way forward. I saw my father shake hands with the doctor; the women kept their fists in their laps.
– Frank, I don’t know what to say, truly.
– No harm, no harm.
Daddy was already backing away, wanting to be outside. The priest asked me to stay behind as Mrs Loughrey’s high heels clicked along the black and white tiles in the hall towards the front door and freedom. Dermot Darling and Mammy followed and Mrs Byrne wished them all safe home and God bless as the glee of seeing them all exposed warmed her through. She hated my mother; they had often battled over the flowers for the altar and now she would be able to arrange her sad dahlias without fear of intervention. Sadie Rattigan would be banished from the rota. When my shepherd and me were alone I got my little homily.
– Mary, if you were complicit in this – and it seems you were, it certainly is your intention to make us think that you were – then you will have to answer to God in this life and in the next. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Mary?
– Yes, Father, I understand.
He was saying that it would have been more palatable all round if I’d been raped. I’d probably get off scot-free if I said I had been raped by a British Army soldier or, even worse, an RUC man. It would help everybody if I’d simply been blown to bits in a bomb. I was worn down from not ever being the right girl at the right time in the right place. I felt my temper rise, finally, finally it rose! I’d tell him what had happened. I’d make myself right.
– Would you hear my confession, Father? I want to confess.
– Of course, my child, kneel here.
He picked out his forgiving ribbon and placed it around his neck as he kissed the crucifix on his rosary beads and adjusted his buttocks so that he wasn’t sitting on his balls. I saw him glance up at the clock. Mrs Byrne was frying him a nice bit of haddock and I was in danger of eating into his teatime.
– Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a month since my last confession.
– Go on, my child …
– I’m worried, Father, worried about what I did.
– And why is that, Mary?
– Father, I do know who the father is. But I’m not sure if I should tell you; I’m not sure if I wouldn’t be putting myself in more trouble with God?
– Speak freely, Mary, you have the secrecy of the confessional to protect you.
– It was Father Martin O’Hara, Father, but I hear he’s been posted to another diocese now and surely he’s not going to be able to marry me and make it better in the eyes of God? What do you suggest, Father? Father, are you alright? You’re looking a bit green around the gills. Shall I get Mrs Byrne? No? Tell me, Father, do you have a phone number or an address for Father Martin, at all? I’d love to let him know. He was always so kind to us girls.
I left with my absolution firmly in place and Father O’Brien’s word that not only would he make sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever be informed but that he would talk to my parents and try to make them understand that young girls are apt to have help when they make such big mistakes.
The look of dread I’d managed to nail on Father O’Brien’s face and the way he placed me outside his front door like an incendiary device was all that was keeping me in one piece. I’d got the Salve Regina as part of my penance, my daddy’s favourite. Tomorrow I would escape from the house and run all the way to Brooky Hay and I would run on to Joe’s house. I would pound on the beige bungalow until I got in. I would have to find the words to explain that I wanted to be touched by someone other than him when I hardly understood it myself. I’d make him understand that I hadn’t set out to get myself into trouble. I knew he’d forgive me; even Father O’Brien had forgiven me.
Tomorrow, I screamed silently, tomorrow I’ll tell you everything and you’ll come to see how it was. You’ll come to see it was just a mistake, a silly mistake, I’d never do it again. Wait for me, wait for me and I will wait for you. Tomorrow, tomorrow, please wait for me to come tomorrow.
I didn’t get out the next day because Mammy was on the warpath. Father O’Brien had been early that morning and managed to unhinge her unshakeable faith in the vengeance of the Church. She wouldn’t have liked to hear that there are two sides to every story and that she might think of practising a bit of Christian forgiveness when it came to her poor besmirched daughter. I even heard her raise her voice, unheard-of behaviour in front of a priest.
– How? How EXACTLY would I do that, Father? How do I get over the fact that I’ve reared another Rattigan T.R.A.M.P. when I did everything in my power to keep her from harm? This would NOT have happened if she hadn’t been sent home with a begging letter from that do-gooder Pious!
– Sadie, there is no evidence at all that this … this incident happened at Gortnahook, no evidence at all!
– There’ll be plenty of evidence in a few months’ time! PLENTY!
It was to be a day of traumatic events. When she had cleared away Father O’Brien and his tea tray and custard creams, my father came crashing into the kitchen covered in blood. He had sliced through his hand with a scythe he had been sharpening and needed taking to the town or a doctor fetching. He stood with his arm in the air while Mammy tried to find tea towels she could bear to part with to stop him from ruining her clean lino.
I would have to run to Johns Farm and see if John Johns was there. And I did run, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, taking no care, jumping and leaping over puddles and muck. Bridie was on the stoop with a cup of tea and she called out for John Johns to come quick. He dropped everything and came at once. I rode with him in the cab of the tractor and I kept slipping and sliding as we joggled up the long, bumpy lane. I had to touch his shoulder to steady myself; he was wearing a thin shirt and I could feel the heat of his skin through it and I pulled my hand back as if I’d been burned. He never opened his mouth and neither did I.
I was knocked up, alone, in the doghouse with both parents, and I was hard-pushed not to look at John Johns’s red lips and the ridges of muscle running from the back of his neck to his shoulders. When we got back to the street, John revved up the Austin Maxi and got Daddy in and settled while Mammy roared at them to watch the good upholstery.
With the men away to the town there was no escaping Mammy who had recovered from the sight of Daddy’s poorly hand as if it had never happened.
– What did you tell Father O’Brien? Hmmm? What? He showed up here today in a very different frame of mind. Did you spin him some sort of a sob story when you saw your chance?
– I told him nothing. There’s nothing to tell.
With that, she finally hit the boil and was up and after me, swiping and swiping at me with a bloodied tea towel, when the front door knocked. I ran for the stairs while Mammy tore through the pantry to roar at the person to come round to the back door. It was Lizzie’s mammy, Dirty Sheila Magee. Sheila wanted to know if I was alright, only Lizzie hadn’t heard from me and they both knew how prone I was to bronchitis.
– She’s grand. Just a chest infection so she’s laid up and can’t come down. Best she stays where she is ’til she gets better, don’t you think?
– Aye, of course, but tell her we were askin’ after her? Maybe she can come down and stay for a night when she’s well?
– We’ll see. Good day to you now, Mrs Magee.
Would the Magees want to see me when another few months had gone by? What would they do with my toothbrush? Would Dessie still think I was gorgeous?
I heard Daddy coming back with John Johns and unusually John came into the house. I don’t think he’d been through the back door in the past five years, as men had their chats outside, leaning on gates. I heard all three of their voices speaking low in the kitchen. I wanted to know how Daddy was but I couldn’t sit in the same room as John Johns. What if he guessed that I was in trouble? What if Bridie had broken the habit of a lifetime and dobbed me in?
They droned on and on, mostly my mother’s voice and the sound of my father clearing his throat over and over again. John’s voice was a rumble under the floorboards. Finally my mother made a sound which I had thought I wouldn’t hear again for a while. She was laughing, the resentful cak, cak, cak like a machine gun beneath my feet.
By the by, John Johns left and when the phut-phut of the tractor engine faded a little I heard my mother on the phone, sounding altogether too cheerful. She never called anyone except Vi or Harriet and then only if someone had died violently. They loved a good wake. Ham sandwiches don’t criticise themselves, y’know? The stairs creaked as Mammy made her way to me.
– Well, lady, I have news. Don’t you want to know what it is?
– Yes, Mammy.
– Joe Loughrey has been sent away to his uncle in America, went this very happy mornin’. Your father just got it straight from the horse’s mouth at the surgery. And as for you, you’re to be married – this Saturday, in fact, which will give us just enough time to find some clothes to throw on you and might even mask that you’re way too far gone to be married in a chapel, but Father O’Brien is willing so why not? He’s even going to skip the reading of the banns.
– What do you mean, he’s away to America?
– Just that. The doctor and his perfect wife thought that he would be better away. A sure sign he’s as guilty as sin! But no matter. Put Joe Loughrey out of your mind; he’s obviously not thinkin’ of doin’ the decent thing and it’ll be too late for you before he comes to his senses.
– How can I marry Joe Loughrey if he’s already gone? Where’s Daddy?
– Never mind cryin’ for your daddy! Do you think he wants anything to do with you? You are gettin’ married … and this Saturday coming, no other day and no more delay.
– Who’s going to marry me?
– Well now, the real boy next door, John Johns himself!
Ordinarily she would have stuck around to enjoy how flummoxed I was but she was too busy. Shotgun weddings don’t arrange themselves, y’know?
Blood hammered at my ears and roared around my head, getting hotter and hotter with every circuit. Thoughts of Joe scalded, thoughts of John blistered; every member of my family floated by to drop burning embers on my skin. Even Bridie stood in the shadows with a branding iron. I thought I would melt from the heat.
John Johns had been called to kill a calf at The Hill a week ago. It had been born with its guts all outside its body. I wasn’t supposed to see it but I couldn’t stay away. She was beautiful, a roan heifer, her soft hooves destined never to harden. Her mother called out from where she was tied up in the next stall, swollen with milk that wouldn’t stop coming. He stepped past her with his bolt gun and the poor little thing was dead in a minute. Was I nothing more than the next ruptured animal on his list?
I must have slept because I dreamt that I was running, running, running through a cut cornfield, the rough stalks scratching my legs. Someone or something was after me and I knew that if I turned to find out I would be wiped off the face of God’s good green earth. When I finally stopped, gasping for breath and daring to look over my shoulder, a huge blade came spinning out of the dark and took the top of my skull off. The blood ran down my face and into my eyes; the metallic taste of it coated my tongue.
It had the feel of a dream that would stick with me for years and years. I woke up in a panic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d bit my lip and the tinny taste of blood pooled in my mouth, reminding me that it was no one’s fault but mine that I had hurt myself again.