Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

She gave a nervous laugh, continued,

“Passed it on to me, I think. Anyway, she was always sick and used... to harm herself. Then she’d be in the hospital for a long time. Bill couldn’t understand it. He’d fly into rages, blame my father, blame me. When she came home, he’d be so delighted. The few times she was well, he was totally different. On fire with joy. After she died, my father sat us down, told us about her time in the Magdalen, that she’d never recovered. How that woman, Rita Monroe, had singled her out for persecution. Once Bill knew, he was like a man possessed.”

She looked at me, asked,

“Do you know about hate, Mr Taylor?”

“Please call me Jack. Yes, I do know about it.”

Her eyes bored into mine, and I saw a strength there. She said,

“Yes, I think you do. It became Bill’s reason for living. This is strange, but he was never more alive than when he was feeding the hatred. As if electricity had touched him. He never tired of planning revenge. You know what he was most afraid of?”

I couldn’t imagine, said,

“No.”

“That she’d be dead.”

“Oh.”

“He wanted her to suffer like our mother did.”

I considered briefly telling her what I knew. Before I could decide, she said,

“I hope he didn’t find her.”

“Didn’t you want her to pay for what she did to your mother?”

She shook her head, said,

“If she was so... demonic... as we’re told... life itself would deal with her.”

I finished my drink, said,

“I’m not so sure I agree with that.”

“Mr Taylor, Jack, my brother destroyed his life with hatred and cast a malignant shadow on mine. If he’d found that woman, it wouldn’t have made any difference. He’d become just like her. That’s what hatred does.”

I asked if I could get her another drink or some food, but she declined. She said,

“I’ll sit here a while. It’s peaceful.”

I stood up, my sodden clothes itching my skin, asked,

“What will you do with Bill gone?”

“I’ll tend his grave.”

“If you ever need anything, you can get me at Bailey’s Hotel.”

“Thank you, Jack. Bill was lucky to have a friend like you.”

When I got to the door of the pub, I looked back. She was watching the rain. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she seemed content. I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Opened the door, put my head down against the onslaught.

I was in my room in dry clothes, sitting on the bed, flicking through Spirit Brides by Kahlil Gibran.

After my encounter with Bill’s sister, I wanted to be quiet, to read and to regroup. Don’t know what possessed me to pick that book. Here’s the piece I hit upon:

Woe unto this generation, for therein the verses of the Book have been reversed, the children eat unripe grapes and the father’s teeth are set on edge. Go, Pious woman and pray for your insane son, that heaven might help him and return him to his senses.

My mother would love that. I thought about what Fr Malachy had told me, about her stroke. The last thing in the world I wanted was to see her. Tossed and turned and eventually went to the window. The rain had stopped. I shook out my all-weather coat, decided to get it over with. Walked along Forster Street and stopped outside the site of the Magdalen. Soon, I’d go to call on Rita Monroe. What I’d tell her I had no idea. Would play it out as it happened.

Came to my mother’s place, took a deep breath, knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform. She asked,

“Yes?”

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

It took her a moment to process the information, then,

“The son?”

“Yes.”

She seemed amazed. I said,

“Can I come in?”

“Oh... of course. I’m surprised.”

As she stood aside to let me in, I asked,

“Why?”

“Fr Malachy mentioned you... but he said it was unlikely you’d come.”

“He was wrong.”

She led me into the kitchen, said,

“I’m Mrs Ross. I’ve only returned to nursing, to private nursing.”

She’d just made tea, and a box of Jaffa cakes was open on the table. The radio was playing. Sinead O’Connor had begun “Chiquitita”.

We didn’t speak till the song had finished. She said,

“I love Abba. I didn’t think anyone else could do that song.”

I wanted to say,

“You’ve tea, cakes and the radio. Where does the fucking nursing get a look in?”

But it was a little late to pull the concerned son gig. I asked,

“How is she?

The nurse threw a glance at the table, then folded her arms, said,

“I won’t pretend it wasn’t quite serious. However, she’s made remarkable progress. The right side of her body and her face are paralysed and she hasn’t recovered her speech. She is alert and getting stronger all the time.”

I nodded, and she continued,

“Your mother is a saint. All the good work she’s done in the parish. I’ve always admired her.”

She stopped. This was my cue to row in with my part of the eulogy. I asked,

“Can I see her?”

I’d have been delighted if she refused, but she said,

“Of course. She’s upstairs. I’ll come with you.”

“No need, you have your tea.”

She didn’t insist. I went up, paused a minute, knocked. Then realised she couldn’t answer. I went in. If you had to put lines to my feeling then, you’d capture it with,

Mary, mother of celibate clerics who have turned their back on human love, would have presented Augustine with the perfect heavenly projection of his own domineering mother.

How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill.

I’d braced myself for her to look different. Hadn’t braced enough. She was an old woman. The one characteristic she’d always had was energy. Sure, it was the dark kind, didn’t spring from a source of goodness. Based more on a sense of grievance and a deep bitterness. Whatever else, it fuelled her so she’d always seemed in motion.

Seated in a chair, her whole body had diminished, as if she’d collapsed in on herself. The right arm was lying useless in her lap, her face was contorted, and a trace of spittle leaked from her lips. The hair, once a lustrous black, was completely white.

Worst of all, I didn’t know how to address her. I stood near, said,

“Mother.”

It sounded as stilted and awkward as that. I didn’t so much sit on the bed as near collapse. I thought my mother had lost the ability to have such an effect on me. Her eyes had a dull sheen, seeing nothing. She didn’t register my presence.

The silence was bewildering.

I’d never experienced her without the running mouth, usually littered with recriminations, vague threats, but definitely alive. I said,

“It’s Jack.”

And felt a tightness in my chest, added,

“Your son.”

I’d tried to recall a time when I’d been close to her. Not a single incident surfaced. What I did remember was the constant belittlement of my father. He bore it without retaliation. As my passion for books grew, he had encouraged me. Built a large bookcase of which my mother was scornful.

“Books! You think they’ll pay the rent.”

I’d also discovered hurling. The two, books and sport, occupied every moment. My first day in Templemore, my mother had sold the books and burnt the bookcase. My father said,

“Your mother had a hard life.”

Perhaps it was my first adult awareness. I’d answered,

“And she wants to make ours harder.”

Now it was her turn. I moved to the sink, got a towel, brought it back. Carefully wiped the spit from her mouth, thought,

“What would it cost me to hug her?”