With Our Blessing Read online

  With Our Blessing

  Jo Spain

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus

  This edition first published in 2015 by

  Quercus Publishing Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  Copyright © 2015 Jo Spain

  The moral right of Jo Spain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 316 1

  Print ISBN 978 1 78429 563 9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Author Note

  Day One: Friday, 10 December

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Day Two: Saturday, 11 December

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Day Three: Sunday, 12 December

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Day Four: Monday, 13 December

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Jo Spain has worked as a journalist and a party advisor on the economy in the Irish parliament. With Our Blessing is her first novel and was one of seven books shortlisted in the Richard and Judy ‘Search for a Bestseller’ competition 2015. Jo lives in Dublin with her husband and their four young children.

  For Martin, who made it possible

  Author Note

  While this book is fictional, Magdalene Laundries and mother and baby homes did exist, in my home country and elsewhere. With Our Blessing draws on the real-life accounts given by women who went through such institutions. However, the religious order mentioned in this book and the remote rural village named Kilcross in Limerick are inventions of my imagination and not intended to resemble any real-life people or places.

  *

  The following are just some of the books, programmes and websites I used for research during the writing of With Our Blessing:

  Banished Babies: The Secret History of Ireland’s Baby Export Business by Mike Milotte

  The Light in the Window by June Goulding

  The Lost Child of Philomena Lee: A Mother, Her Son, and a Fifty-Year Search by Martin Sixsmith

  Sex in a Cold Climate directed by Steve Humphries for Testimony Films, Channel 4

  Justice for Magdalenes (JFM Research) can be found at www.magdalenelaundries.com

  www.adoptionrightsalliance.com/

  1975

  Her whole body shook as the adrenalin coursed through it. Sweat glistened on each unclothed patch of skin and relief from the pain washed over her like a wave. She knew, instinctively, that the physical ache would return between her legs and in the depths of her stomach but for now, in this instant, she was distracted by the little pink bundle and its continuous pitched wail.

  ‘Let me hold my baby. Please. I think it’s hungry.’

  Her voice was plaintive, pleading.

  The labour had been long and arduous. Fourteen hours of contractions with nothing to take the edge off and only harsh, scornful words from the woman meant to assist.

  None of that mattered now. This baby had sprung from her womb, healthy and vital. She had created this miracle. It was the best thing she had ever done.

  It didn’t matter how the child had been conceived. The seed was nothing; it was the growing and nurturing that mattered. This small bundle of innocence, with tiny perfect hands and dainty poking feet, red mouth open like a hungry chick’s and darting blue eyes – how could anybody blame it for anything?

  ‘Please, please let me hold my baby.’

  The mother tried to sit up, reaching out as the nun wrapped the newborn in a pristine white towel.

  The movement in the bed alerted the sister.

  She turned to look at the mother, lifting the baby so that all the young woman could see from her bedridden position was the back of its head. She could still hear the keening, though. The baby wanted the warmth of its mother’s body, the sound of her heartbeat, the smell of her skin and her milk.

  The nun raised a disdainful eyebrow.

  ‘Do you really think I’m going to let you hold this precious gift from God? Do you really think Our Lord would allow you to keep this child? You, a whore?’

  She spat the words.

  With a curt nod to the sister by the bedside who had come to replace her, the nun turned and swept out of the room.

  Sheer panic gripped the mother.

  ‘Wait. My baby,’ she choked, her heart racing. She tried to get up but, weak and dizzy, fell back.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  Then she started to scream hysterically. The sound drowned out the wailing of the baby and the echo of sharp footsteps receding down the corridor.

  It broke the heart of the nun left to tend to the woman. She ceased trying to wipe the perspiration from the mother’s brow.

  ‘My baby!’ the new mother implored, every ounce of colour drained from her face, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Then, overtaken by a primal reaction, she used every last ounce of her strength to raise her exhausted body and swing her legs to the floor. The sound that came from her throat was guttural.

  She would get her baby back.

  The young woman was possessed of a determination that was more powerful than anything she’d ever felt, but the nun beside her was physically stronger and hadn’t been weakened by hours of labour.

  She put her arms around the mother in both a comforting and restraining way, and they struggled.

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t. You knew this would happen. There’s nothing
we can do.’ The nun’s voice broke on the last sentence.

  The woman fought against her some more before collapsing back with a small cry. She looked at the nun, aghast.

  ‘But it’s my baby.’ Her voice was now a haunted whisper, incredulous. She was in shock but she also knew, in her head if not her heart, that she was defeated. She had known this was going to happen.

  Great shuddering sobs spilled from her throat and the nun held her tightly but gently, hot tears welling in her own eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the mother, over and over. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you. She will answer for her sins. I promise you.’

  The desolate woman heard the nun through a fog of pain.

  She collapsed back on the bed, turned over and stared at the white metal bars of the empty cot beside her.

  ‘Was it a boy or a girl?’ she whispered.

  The nun told her.

  The mother responded with a heartbroken sigh.

  Hours ticked by, but the woman didn’t move. Not when they washed her, nor when they wheeled the bare cot out and left her staring at the wall and the table of medical instruments.

  She heard none of the compassionate words mumbled by the nun. She didn’t taste or swallow the water that was held to her lips. The smell of the clinical disinfectant being mopped over the floor didn’t reach her nose.

  She lay there, feeling nothing, seeing nothing.

  It was six hours before the madness came.

  The return of the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury and the anguish that consumed her.

  The light faded. The nun ordered to watch her fell asleep.

  The woman in the bed wrapped her arms around herself. She began to rock. Then she began to whisper, over and over.

  ‘I hate her. I hate her.’

  The words filled the void. They were a comfort, a mantra to replace what had been taken from her. Her body lay empty under the coarse blanket. Her arms clasped herself, not her baby.

  All she had now was grief and loathing.

  2010

  I am frightened. I keep thinking I can hear sounds. Doors banging. Footsteps.

  The kitchen is a Christmas wonderland, with aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg. On the counter is a tray of storybook gingerbread men lined up to cool, delicate icing dotted down their fronts. Beside the tray is a red muslin basket of spiced buns, sugar frosted. It’s early December and soon there’ll be a Christmas tree in the corner, twinkling with lights and home-made ornaments from years past.

  It’s cold and the air smells of snow. I shiver and close the back door gently, shutting out the frost.

  I cross the room, pausing at the kitchen door.

  The wind has risen, shaking the window frame, and my hand trembles in concert with the old glass.

  I steady myself. Close my eyes. Remember not to let fear get the better of me.

  For years, I’ve been haunted by the feeling that someone is coming for me. I’ve a vivid imagination. Some might say I’m paranoid.

  They haven’t lived my life.

  I open the door.

  There’s nothing in the well-lit entrance hall. Nobody up when they shouldn’t be. No bogeyman ready to pounce.

  Relief.

  The kitchen door is heavy and crashes shut behind me as I cross the threshold, making a God-awful noise. I nearly leap out of my skin, my hand flying to my mouth.

  It’s a minute before I can breathe again. No one else seems to have heard; I’ve only scared myself.

  I know it’s important to let yourself be afraid. I learned the taste of fear early. It’s a friend. Terror makes you alert.

  I move across the hall, quietly, straining to hear if anyone else is active in the house.

  There’s a small walnut table just to the right of the door I’m approaching, a large vase of white lilies at its centre. Their smell is intoxicating, pungent, used for centuries to mask the stench of death.

  The door leads to a corridor lined with stone alcoves. In each one sits a candle, lit earlier or later in the day depending on the season. The last person up, and it’s always the same person, blows them out before the weary trip to bed.

  The routine is the same. Step, step, step. Blow. A lick of the fingers and a hiss of the wick for good measure. All the way to the end. A lonely task.

  I sense a movement to my left and whip my head round to see what it is, chest constricting.

  It’s nothing. The shadows of tree branches twisting in the wind, caught in the stained-glass window.

  An involuntary laugh escapes my lips, breaking the tension. Not every sound is for me; not every shadow is the enemy. Even as I think it, I relax, the knots in my shoulders easing.

  I’m at the door now. To my right is the light switch for the corridor. Buzzing fluorescent tubes overhead provide a guiding light back to the hall once the candles are extinguished.

  I flick it. In the last few months the old-fashioned fuse box has been acting up, unexpectedly plunging the corridor into darkness. It’s nerve-racking on a moonless night, but the trick is to leave a candle lit and use that to get back.

  To the left of the door is an old coat rack, heaving with long winter garments. It’s so wide and deep, an adult could hide in it and not be seen, head to toe.

  As I stand by it, my imagination gets the better of me again. I wonder, is someone hiding there now?

  I reach in tentatively and move my hands through the coats. I’m ready to snatch my arm out, petrified that someone will grab me by the wrist and pull me in, a cry dying on my lips before it has time to erupt.

  There’s nothing there.

  I hear a noise. This time it’s real and it’s close. Footsteps are coming my way. I shudder as skeletal fingers crawl along my spine.

  I dive into the coats, heart racing.

  The door opens.

  A woman steps into the hall. I can see her profile through the damp-smelling clothes.

  My mouth is dry and I’m filled with dread.

  It’s actually happening.

  Can she see me?

  Her face is hard. Fearsome. Ever sneering. She’s the one I’m afraid of.

  For a second I think she has seen me. Every muscle in my body seizes with terror.

  Then she turns away from me, places the last burning candle on the table. She raises her hand to the light switch to turn it off. She thinks the fuse has blown again and doesn’t want the switch to be on when it’s replaced.

  Her hand freezes. The switch is off, but she knows she flicked it on before entering the corridor.

  I step out of the coats, as silent as the grave. While she is standing there, puzzlement turning to unease, I raise the heavy torch I’m carrying.

  Her body starts to quiver ever so slightly. She has sensed my presence but doesn’t turn around. Maybe she thinks if she can’t see me, I don’t exist.

  I do exist.

  I bring the weapon down with just enough force. Not too hard, not too soft. I’m like Goldilocks and the three bears. My blow is just right.

  It cracks against the back of her skull. Her right arm flails, her left twitches.

  Too late, I see her trailing arm hit the vase on the table. It smashes against the wall with an explosion that sounds to me like thunder and a siren all going off at once.

  Shards of glass explode in all directions as she collapses to the ground.

  I’ve no time to react. No time to clean. I must move now.

  I pocket the torch and hook my hands under her armpits.

  There’s barely a moment to savour what has just happened. All that watching and waiting. Over a year’s planning.

  Revenge.

  I don’t know if it’s the Christmas spices in the air but it’s true what they say.

  Revenge is sweet. And I’m not done yet.

  Day One

  Friday, 10 December

  Chapter 1

  He was dreaming. He knew this, even though in his imaginings he was actually up and getting dressed
, albeit in that sleepy, sluggish way of dreams. It was his day off and he was going to get the papers, breathing in the sharp winter air on the pleasant fifteen-minute walk to Castleknock village. No hurry. Maybe pick up some Danish pastries. He and Louise could light a fire in the old-fashioned grate in their bedroom and curl up under the duvet.

  Louise. She was calling him now. ‘Tom. Tom. TOM!’

  He opened his eyes. Actually opened them this time.

  His wife was leaning over him, her long brown hair tickling his cheek, amused brown eyes peering into his barely opened green ones.

  ‘Calling Detective Inspector Tom Reynolds. Time to wake up, love. Do you fall asleep at night or slip into a coma?’

  She wafted a mug under his nose. His slightly crooked nose, which she had decided early in their relationship was his most endearing feature, because it gave a manly unevenness to his handsome face.

  He smelled coffee. Steaming and rich, strong wonderful coffee.

  ‘For me?’ he croaked, rubbing his eyes. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, running a hand through his thick, once black, now greying hair.

  He reached for the caffeine. ‘I was having the strangest dream, you know the type when you think you’re awake, but you’re still asleep . . .’

  ‘Tom.’ Louise smiled and stroked his face, her fingers scratching his salt and pepper stubble. ‘You’re still half asleep. Ray is downstairs. You’re needed.’

  Tom grunted, sipping the coffee and grumpily batting her away as she ruffled his bed-head hair.

  ‘What time is it?’

  He wasn’t a morning person at the best of times, but something told him this was earlier than even he was used to.

  ‘It’s just after six. I’d offer to make you both breakfast but Ray says it’s urgent. There are some pastries downstairs you can take . . .’ She paused and patted his stomach. ‘Though maybe some fruit might be better.’

  Tom snorted at that, took another sip of coffee and felt it kick-start his synapses. Put the mug down and stretched.

  ‘I’m an inspector in the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. It’s always urgent. God, why am I so tired?’

  ‘Maybe because you stayed up until 1 a.m. so you could smoke a cigar after I’d gone to bed? Oh, I smelled it all right.’