30

Tales from the Purple Handbag

It’s quite true what they say about digging up memories. You only bury the ones you really want to forget. They stay in the ground so long they develop huge, long taproots and anchor like dandelions to the subsoil. Today, Ewan, I don’t have to worry about the strength of my weeding skills. I have to tell you this horrible story, and everything is bursting out of the ground, marching to the front and waving black flags. The whole thing lasted less than a minute. It was like this:

My mother insulted Patrick’s face.

My hatred exploded like a hand grenade.

I grabbed a saucepan to hit her with.

She ran away up the stairs, but I chased after her.

I caught her on the landing, but I dropped the pan.

I swore at her, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

I began to shake her, and my ankles locked around hers.

I pushed her hard.

Boomp-boomp-boomp down the stairs she went.

She broke her neck.

She died.

The Judge’s Tale
June 1965

After spending a couple of nights in a cell at the Oxford police station, I was taken to Winchester prison. ‘Some sight you look now, my lady,’ said a toad-eyed prison wardress. ‘When you get in the witness box they’ll all see what a common little baggage you are.’

‘Well, at least I haven’t got plastic teeth and my legs weren’t put on upside down,’ I spat at her. What a bitch she was. Was it my fault my hair had become like a ball of straw and I had dark roots an inch long? With no face cream my skin had become dry and sore. I suffered from dandruff and cold sores. My armpits and legs grew fuzzy. The red Lifebuoy soap gave me a rash, so I stank.

When the Prison Governor came to see me he told me I was very lucky. ‘Lucky!’ I said. ‘My mother accidentally falls down the stairs and I’m charged with her murder. My little boy has been taken away from me for his own care and protection, and you think that’s lucky? Well, I’d hate to have bad luck, sir.’

‘Now stop this nonsense, Miss O’Dowd. How many times do I have to tell you? The charge is not murder but manslaughter. I’m trying hard to do my best for you, and the legal aid scheme has done you a great favour. There’s a barrister, a Roman Catholic gentleman like yourself, who has just heard of your predicament. He’s a kind and caring man who wishes to defend you. Now, don’t get your hopes up, but not all’s lost.’

The wardresses brought the important barrister to see me, and on instruction from the severe man in the immaculate black pinstripe, they left the room. He was just a middle-aged man. Short and overweight, with large features and a neat chin beard, but his eyes were kind. He shook my hand and we sat down, facing each other across a small wooden table.

‘I will call you Molly and you will call me Mr Proudfoot,’ he said. I immediately recognised that he spoke with the comforting tones of southeast Eire, but he didn’t comment that we were both clearly born to the green and had a common bond. The relationship was to be professional and detached. ‘I’m acting in your defence, Molly,’ he said. ‘That is to say, I’m going to try and prove your innocence, or at least minimise any sentence. You’re going to be tried by jury and it’s my job to convince them your mother’s death was accidental. As far as I can tell all the evidence against you is circumstantial anyway. You may find that I accentuate points that seem to bear no relation to the case. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, m’lud.’

‘I’m not m’lud, Molly. I’m Mr Proudfoot.’

‘Yes, Mr Proudfoot. I understand exactly what you mean. You’ll over-egg the pudding and bend the truth to make me be seen in a good light.’

‘Precisely, Molly. It wasn’t a wise move to run away and leave your mother in a heap, so I shall portray you as being a little simple-minded. You mustn’t be offended, as I can tell you’re highly intelligent and clever enough to recognise all my tricks. However, most of your critics won’t need much convincing.’

‘If I’m found innocent, will I get Patrick back?’

‘No, Molly. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but the powers that be have decided he’s to be legally adopted. The wheels are firmly in motion and there’s nothing I can do to stop the proceedings.’

I laid my head on my folded arms and wept. A vacuum inside me sucked away my life’s air, leaving a big collapsed hole. Mr Proudfoot reached across the table and placed his broad, stubby hand on mine. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I wish I was a magician, but I’m only a servant of the legal system. Rightly or wrongly, you’ve been deemed an unfit mother and his permanent removal from you is considered to be in his best interest.’

‘But I’m not an unfit mother. I love him. I really love him and he loves me. I’ve tried so hard to do the best I can for him. Surely he can’t be taken away?’

‘I’m afraid he can. The 1949 Adoption of Children Act allows adoptions to take place without parental consent. Furthermore, local authorities have specific powers to arrange these adoptions, and to include third parties as respondents. The rights of the birth parents have, in tragic circumstances such as yours, been virtually eradicated. In simple terms, this means that the Social Services, our Church representatives, and the police are authorised to make judgement against you. They have assessed that even if you should survive this terrible blight on your life, your bad character has been unequivocally proved. Had I been involved right from the start I could have intervened, but I’m afraid it’s too late now.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone? Are they good, kind people?’

‘The details of his new home are strictly sub judice. That means that no one is allowed to know, not even me, but I’m told the boy is to be placed with a good Catholic family. Professional people. He’ll be brought up very well and want for nothing.’

‘Mr Proudfoot, do you think Patrick will be better off with Mr and Mrs Perfect? Mr Perfect will be honest and sensible and serious, and bring him up to be honest and sensible and serious. Mrs Perfect will be rosy-cheeked and loving. She’ll make her own bread and cakes, and knit him jumpers and teach him how to say his prayers. He’ll sleep in his own little bed, in his own room, with a Mickey Mouse light and lots of toys and books. He’ll put on weight and get an education, and he’ll be a real somebody in the end. That’s true, isn’t it, Mr Proudfoot? It’s not the best for me, but it’ll be the best for Patrick.’

‘Molly, I’m assured that five-year-old children have very short memories and he’ll adjust well. All I can do for you now is my professional best, and there’s much work to do. I’ll return tomorrow with my junior and make a start.’ He rose. He wasn’t much taller standing up than he was sitting down, but his presence was so overpowering, he filled the room with authority and prominence. ‘Is there anything you need, my dear? Anything my secretary can get for you?’

‘I’ve no photograph of Patrick,’ I said. ‘I could never afford a camera, and even when one was around no one thought it was worth taking one of him.’

‘I’ll ask the Prison Governor to contact your solicitor. He’ll be able to convey your request to the Social Services, and thus to his new parents, but there’s no guarantee they’ll comply. I’ll do my very best. Goodbye Molly.’

October 1965

There was a knock on the door of the small bed-sitting room I’d been taken to. Mr Proudfoot was standing there, shifting shyly, and wearing an unfamiliar brown tweed suit. He was carrying a trilby hat and a stiff carrier bag from Harrod’s Food Hall.

‘Molly, now the trial’s over and you’re free…’ He seemed unable to say more. ‘May I come in?’

I stood aside for him to enter. ‘Thank you, Mr Proudfoot,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for saving me. I wasn’t allowed a chance to speak to you. They just bundled me out of court and brought me here.’

‘That’s why I’ve come to see you. I… I wanted so much to see you again. I’ve some more good news for you and sharing that news is very important to me.’ He withdrew a small envelope from his breast pocket. ‘Open it, my dear.’ I withdrew a coloured photograph of Patrick. He’d grown so much. He was sitting on a sunny beach with a fawn puppy in his arms. He wore new glasses, a cherry red fleecy top and yellow shorts. He was smiling. Really smiling. I felt he was looking into the camera and trying to convey to me that in his new life he was being loved and looked after, but he would never forget me. I stared at his image for several minutes, looking at every millimetre of the photograph, trying to form some sort of clue as to where he was and where he belonged now, but there were no answers. I kissed his face and placed him back in the clean envelope without sentiment or tears. I knew I’d never see him again, but I had to be strong for his new baby brother or sister. At that exact moment, a tiny foot flicked within my belly. Mr Proudfoot placed the back of his hand on my cheek and I twisted my neck to enjoy its comfort. ‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, Molly. I’m sure he is. Would it be apt then to break bread together, and offer a toast and a prayer to the future? Not only for Patrick, but for yourself. I’d be most honoured if you would. We are, after all, fellow natives. I’m a Waterford man myself.’

‘Limerick,’ I said.

‘Then to be sure there’s a good main road to join us across the Galty Mountains.’

He withdrew the contents of the Harrod’s bag. Soft bread rolls, best butter, several cheeses, a glazed open fruit tart (‘Tarte Tatin’ he said) and double cream. He’d also brought a bottle of red wine and had been wise enough to bring a corkscrew and two wineglasses. I fetched some plates and cutlery and followed his gentlemanly etiquette. Gentlemen clearly didn’t make large, filled doorsteps with the rolls. The bread was broken with the thumbs and buttered. The cheese was cut into small pieces and placed on the bread with a knife. The wine was sipped and not sloshed back like beer. The tart was cut, placed on flat plates, topped with the cream and eaten with small forks, not pudding spoons.

‘You were my last case, Molly,’ he said, ‘and it’s grand to go out on a high note. I’m now known as Lord Justice Proudfoot. That means I’m a High Court Judge, but I’d be pleased if you’d call me Toby. I was baptised as Eugene Lorcan, but all my friends call me Toby. I’d like us to be… well… friends too. Your real name’s Maureen, isn’t it?’

‘Maureen Immelda Dympna O’Dowd.’

‘Then can I call you Maureen?’

‘Marina,’ I said. ‘Call me Marina. It’s a much posher way of saying my name.’

‘Marina then. Lady Posh. It might be a good idea to change your identity anyway, now you’ve got this sad business behind you. Your solicitor gave out a short statement to the press about you going to Australia to start a new life. Is that true?’

‘Fat chance of that,’ I said, smoothing my hand over my belly. ‘Does it show? I lost so much weight in prison, but it moved just now for the first time.’

‘Is the father aware?’

‘No. Nor will he ever be.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

I thought of Mordechai and the filth and degradation of the conception, but I knew that the child inside me was clean and pure and innocent, and would have no contamination from his evil father. ‘Not a shred of affection passed between us,’ I said. ‘I’m just a tart, you see. A whore of the highest order.’

Toby clasped my fingers. ‘You’re not. Please believe me. You’re a beautiful, sensuous woman. God gave us making love as a pleasure, but we’ve been brought up to believe that our desires are sinful. I’m a single man who’s never married. I’m ugly, I’m ageing fast and I meet no women in the nice, polite society I move in who would dream of sleeping with me. So what do I do? I pay for it. In France it’s legal, but this is England. Men like me, the pillars of society, have to be very careful. One afternoon a week I go to Curzon Street, to Mr Montefiore, the dental surgeon. I walk in, go past the dentist’s door and on up the stairs to find high-class call-girls who charge more than a working man earns in a week. They call me darling and pretend to find me attractive. I do the deed, I get dressed and I pay the maid. I make another appointment and furtively leave. That’s the sad life of a pathetic old bachelor, Marina.’

I looked at the red-faced man so placidly pouring out his heart and protecting my morals. I owed the freedom of my life to him. The sight of him in his confessional had softened me to affection and understanding, but it was obvious what he wanted with me. The same as all the others. ‘I won’t refuse you,’ I said. ‘Quid pro quo and you’ve really earned it.’

‘No. No. It’s not like that at all. Of course I want to make love to you, but I want to do the right and proper thing. I’m in love with you, and I’ve come today to ask you to marry me.’

I swallowed and stared at him in disbelief. ‘Say it again, just so I’m sure I heard you.’

‘I love you, Marina. You’re the most stunning young woman I’ve ever met in my life, but it’s not just your beauty. You’re sweet and gentle and sensitive. I want to take you on my knee and comfort you, and spoil you like a child, but you’re bold and exciting as well. You fill me up with so much energy, I feel like dancing on the table and playing the trumpet. Over the weeks I’ve fallen deeply in love with you. It’s never happened to me before, so… forgive my embarrassment but…’ He stood up, took my hand and spoke in the sweet, old-fashioned way he would always use with me. ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

‘But I’m pregnant,’ I said. ‘How can I possibly marry you?

Toby pulled me to my feet, reached out and lay his palm on my abdomen. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a father. The child will become our child. I promise to love it and care for it, and be a devoted parent to it. I’ve a fine old house near Henley, with lots of land where I rattle around on my own like a recluse. We’ll turn it into a real family home. If you’re willing we may even have our own children in the fullness of time.’

‘Then we’ll marry,’ I said, with no second thoughts, ‘but how will you explain me to your friends? I might be recognised from the dock.’

‘Changing your appearance won’t be difficult. A brand new hairstyle and lighter makeup is all that’s needed. I’ll pass you off as a young woman I’ve long courted from Ireland.’ He reached out and held up a handful of my long, desiccated, bleached hair. ‘Can I take you to the best hairdresser in Knightsbridge? How about an auburn tone? Then, perhaps, a short and feathery style like Audrey Hepburn’s? You’ll look even more beautiful. Then I’ll buy you some fine clothes, starting with Dior or Chanel for your wedding outfit.’

I sighed deeply. ‘Toby. There must be no lies or deception or any shadows between us, so we’d better get one thing straight. I hated my mother. She insulted Patrick. She accused me of not finishing his face off properly. I really did mean to kill the old trout.’

‘I’d worked that one out for myself,’ said the clever judge, pulling me towards him. He kissed me gently on the lips. His breath was sweet. My tongue found his. I pulled his short, portly body into mine and held him tightly. There would be no more Curzon Street for this wonderful man. Thus began our long and truly indelible love-match.

Here endeth The Judge’s Tale.