Six

Mother Assumpta was reading the paper in the top-floor sitting room when Sister Marguerite, out of breath and excited, called her to come quickly.

‘Two minutes in the day I take, to read and pray for the poor souls of those suffering all over the world. It had better be a matter of supreme importance.’ Assumpta did not move, but shuffled her newspaper loudly to convey her annoyance.

‘It is the American on the phone, looking for Consuelo. Will I say you are at prayers, Mother?’

Assumpta carefully folded the newspaper, her hands trembling and jerking as if she were trying to parcel an awkward item. ‘No need for that.’

Spinning Marguerite out of the way, she swept along the narrow corridors to the main house. Stomping down the stairs, she stopped on the widest step of the sweep to compose herself before marching into her office to pick up the phone.

‘Miss Kading, dear, is there anything wrong?’

‘I want to talk to Sister Consuelo.’

‘What good would that do? There are no records of your birth here.’

‘She would be able to clear it up. I will have to go further if you don’t let me talk to Consuelo.’

‘Miss Kading, if that is a threat, you are very silly indeed. I am not going to subject an old woman to your senseless, emotional ravings.’

‘Mother Assumpta, I just want some answers.’

‘You have got your answer, Miss Kading: there is no record of your birth here.’

‘Please, can I talk to her?’

‘Sister Consuelo is no longer at this convent.’

‘Tell me where she is and I’ll visit her.’

‘I have no intention of doing that.’

‘Maybe you would, if you could understand why this is so important to me.’

Assumpta sighed loudly. ‘Miss Kading, there is no one more sympathetic than I, but there is simply nothing I can do to help you; you must understand that.’

Debbie was about to answer when Mother Assumpta cut across her.

‘We will leave it at that, Miss Kading. You will not harass members of this community. Go home, Miss Kading, to the family we gave you, and thank God for them.’

Mother Assumpta replaced the receiver gently, shaking her head: a sharp pain was needling the back of her neck and soon she would have a full-blown migraine. The last time she had had such a troublesome enquiry she had managed to frighten the woman off with the prospect of a court order and the ensuing publicity. She dialled Consuelo’s mobile, becoming mildly irked when Consuelo answered with a soft, singsong voice as if she were being interrupted mid recreation.

‘Mother, what can I do for you?’

‘Sister, I have had another bothersome enquiry. Please do not engage in conversation with the latest person, an American. I am sure she will run you down and we certainly do not want such an embarrassment on our hands.’

‘I never did anything but find homes for those unwanted children.’

‘We both know we are in different times now and the less said is the best approach.’

‘Who is she anyway?’

‘A Deborah Kading from New York.’

‘I don’t remember a Kading offhand, but there were so many applications in those days.’

‘Quite.’

Consuelo sighed when she heard the frosty edge to Assumpta’s voice. ‘I found good homes for lost souls; that is what I did. I don’t see them traipsing back to thank me. “Ungrateful” springs to mind.’

‘That debate is for another time, Consuelo. Please do not engage with this woman, if she makes contact, which I am sure she will. Do not engage in any way. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘Make sure you do. God bless.’

‘God bless, Mother.’

Assumpta took two painkillers from a drawer and called Marguerite to bring some sweet tea. When she had been elevated to this position two years ago, she imagined presiding over a productive and happy convent and spent hours on plans to improve the accounts and the kitchen garden. When one of the older nuns remarked that her promotion might be a poisoned chalice, Assumpta put it down to bad feeling. Now, as the dark clouds of uncertainty loomed over her patch, Assumpta wondered why indeed she had been picked for this job; maybe it had something to do with her age and the fact that she had so few links to the murky history of the community. She needed to ask Consuelo for the details of all the adoptions she had facilitated, but today she did not have the stomach for it.

*

Debbie stuffed her hands in her pockets and walked against the wind on Main Street. She had been mad to come here; she felt that now. She did not notice when Muriel Hearty waved as she closed up the post office for the day or when Pat McCarthy, chatting at his doorway, saluted her. She was grateful for the family this place had given her, even with all that had happened, but why now, especially now, were there no answers to her questions? She felt like a child again who was not being told, protected from the truth for whatever reason. The sense of helplessness was the same as when sad Rob had tried to build a type of normality back into their lives.

She and Rob, they had stayed with Nancy for two weeks. It was a Saturday morning, early, when Rob announced they were going to move back home. Nancy was dismayed and ushered him to the side, whispering fiercely that it was too early and pleading that the child was not ready. When he could not be moved from his decision, she pleaded to be allowed to keep Debbie.

‘I need her help back home. She knows what to do. God knows, she spent long enough at her mother’s elbows.’

They walked the two blocks side by side. Neighbours pretended not to notice. He quickened his pace as they got closer and she had to scurry to keep up with him.

When they reached the front gate he moved even faster, covering the stone driveway in three strides and lightly skipping up the front steps, as if he were a ballet dancer on stage. He beckoned Debbie to follow.

‘I don’t want to have to push you in, but I will. It’s best to get it over and done with.’

She tried to shrink back among the raspberry canes and flower beds. A red cardinal sat on a window ledge, pecking at the sill. In one stride, Rob came to her and, grabbing her roughly by the arm, pulled her towards the house. Her feet slid across the porch as she half-heartedly resisted her father’s urgent grip.

‘I don’t know any other way. Mommy has left us like this. Now we must get on with it, until she decides to come back.’

He was slightly out of breath, but he did not hesitate for a second. He turned the key and pushed the door. It gave way freely, the door fanning back so they could see the height of the stairs. Sunshine flooded into the hall. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. The floor tiles were polished and the coat stand was empty.

‘I thought you might like to have something of Mommy’s in your room. The necklaces; I thought you would like to mind them for Mommy, and her dressing table. We can move it into your room, if you like.’

Shrinking back, Debbie shook her head fiercely.

‘Sweetheart, I’m only trying to help.’

Debbie knew she would never want the sparkly necklaces. They still belonged to her mother; she had declared her rights to perpetual ownership. Hadn’t she told her so, screamed at the top of her voice two days before she left that she was never to look at or touch the jewellery again? She could still feel the softness of her spit spraying over her, when Agnes had stuck her face in hers. Tiny holes in her skin were clogged with fine brown powder; her nostrils flared red.

Mommy had been in such a good mood when Debbie came home from school, singing as she pushed the power pedal on the sewing machine. Debbie, who was sent to tidy her room, saw a new pearl necklace had been laid out on Agnes’s dressing table. The whirr of the machine on a long, straight seam gave her the confidence to step inside the room. Three lines of pearls and a diamante clasp were draped side by side. It hypnotised her with its perfect simplicity. She should have left it at that, but, mesmerised, she could not leave. The only thing she could do was reach out and touch one of the strands, picking it up and letting the beads run through her fingers. So transfixed was she by the feel of the pearls, like light rain on her cheeks, she never realised the machine had come to the end of the long evening-skirt seam.

‘What’s going on?’ Agnes asked.

‘I was just looking.’

‘Really? Who gave you permission to put your grubby little hands on my pearls?’ Her mother’s arms were folded across her chest, her eyes cold and hard.

‘I was just looking and then I picked it up. It’s beautiful.’

She held the pearls closer. She did not expect her mother to hit her, so when the slap came stinging across her cheek, it knocked her sideways, making her stumble into the dressing table. The pearls shot out of her hand, skittering across the floor; bottles rattled and two tubes of make-up slipped to the floor.

‘You are a thief in the making. Don’t think you can even look at my jewellery. Do you understand? It’s mine. I don’t want your dirty paws near my necklaces again.’

Pushing Debbie roughly out of the room, Agnes banged the door shut. Debbie ran to her own room, where she curled up tight on the bed, sobbing, her tears dampening the pillow.