December 1955;
Roscrea
When Sister Annunciata had left for England, Anthony’s supply of presents had come to an abrupt end and for the past year he had had nothing to play with other than the few battered communal toys that lay forlornly in the corner of the day room. But thanks to her brother Jack, Philomena now had some money of her own and she was desperate to spend it on her son. As the girls were not allowed out of the abbey she had no access to the shops in Roscrea, but one evening after the children had gone to bed she waylaid a member of the convent’s lay staff who was about to go home for the night.
Philomena offered to pay her five shillings if she would go to the general store on Castle Street and see what Mrs Frawley had in the way of toys. The woman demanded ten and Philomena handed them over.
The next morning was better than any Christmas. When the woman came back for the morning shift she had a large brown-paper parcel with her, which she unwrapped to reveal a tin bus painted in the colours of the Irish state bus company and a plane painted red and yellow with the inscription ‘GE 270’ on its wings. The toys were cheap and shoddy, but Philomena could scarcely wait until the evening hour to give them to her son. When he saw them, Anthony’s eyes opened wide. Without a word, he took the bus and rolled it across the floor. Then he did the same with the plane and burst into peals of laughter: the toy had a friction drive that made it whirr and gather speed when he pushed it, and sparks flew from its nose and wings.
Philomena sat and watched as Anthony launched the thing from one corner of the play room to the other, chasing after it with shrieks of pleasure, repeating the operation time after time with mounting excitement. But then he suddenly seemed to remember himself. He placed the two toys by the wall, ran to his mammy and without a word gave her a tender hug and nuzzled his face into her lap.
18 December 1955
Nobody actually told Philomena and Margaret their children were leaving that weekend; it just filtered down through the convent grapevine. A few people had spotted Sister Hildegarde taking photographs of Mary and Anthony on the steps of the old house – a lovely one of them holding hands together and a shot of Anthony on his own, clasping his beloved plane to his chest – and the girls had put two and two together.
They had eaten their lunch on the Sunday afternoon and were clearing the refectory table when an older sister who had spoken kindly to them in the past came running through.
‘Girls, quickly! Come over to the window, will you?’
The nun was panting from running up the stairs.
‘It’s your babbies, girls. Quick. Sister Hildegarde’s taking them . . .’
Philomena and Margaret ran to the casement window overlooking the drive in front of the house. Below, a large black car was sitting with its engine running and rear doors open. In the back seat were two little figures and, on either side of them, Mother Barbara and Sister Hildegarde were squeezing themselves in, beaming and chatting as they always did on their days out.
Philomena yelled, ‘Anthony! Look up here!’ and Margaret banged on the window. But the noise of the engine seemed to blot out their voices and neither child responded. As the car pulled away, Philomena wailed, ‘No! No! Not my babby. Don’t let them take my babby!’ and at that precise moment Anthony twisted in his seat and climbed up to peer through the rear windscreen. He was wearing the brown shorts and blue knitted sweater Philomena had made for him and in his hand he was clutching his tin plane.