Chapter 40
CHAPTER 40
August 1970
Maura
Summer is by far my favorite season. Warm, bright days allow me freedom to wander about the city. An early morning walk in the park. An afternoon visit to my parents. Dinner at Bernie’s. A catch-up with Ger over a cigarette. I’ve even been back to Timmy’s pub a couple of times when Christy is working a night shift. Christy’s shifts are ever changing and my days mirror his schedule. If his day starts before dawn, so, too, does mine. I make sure to have a hot breakfast waiting for him when he comes downstairs. Evenings are much the same. If he arrives home close to midnight, as he often does, I have a wholesome dinner waiting to be heated on the stove. I do not take my routine for granted and it does not come without its worries and pressures. Chores are ever waiting and they must come first. Cleaning, washing, ironing, baking, cooking. I am the epitome of the dedicated housewife and although he hasn’t said it, I can tell Christy is pleased. All things weighed, I enjoy my life. There’s just one fly in the ointment: how much Christy wants a baby.
On Friday, 28 August 1970, Elizabeth McCarthy turns four years old. I’ve kindly been invited to the McCarthys’ flat to celebrate with the family. I change my outfit several times before I find something that will cover all the latest bruises.
I bring homemade apple tart, Elizabeth’s favorite, and we nearly lift the roof off Bernie’s flat singing “Happy Birthday” as loud as our lungs allow us. Dan pops up from the butcher’s shop below for a while to have a slice of tart and a cup of tea, and to tell his daughter that she’s the most beautiful four-year-old in the world. Children’s laughter fills the flat as they play pin the tail on the donkey.
“Cold. Cold. Turn around, Marie. Warm. Warmer. Go. Go.”
I’m watching the children when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Is something the matter?” Bernie says.
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve a face that would stop a clock and you’ve been in funny humor all week. Has Christy hurt you again? Maura, if it’s getting worse…”
“It wasn’t Christy this time.”
Bernie tells the girls to hush.
“Into the bedroom, girls. Take your playing into the bedroom. The grown-ups are talking.”
“But, Ma,” Marie protests.
“You heard me,” Bernie says, pushing her chair back to stand up and point toward the room at the back of the flat.
Marie, Elizabeth, and Alice sulk away with their arms folded.
“Tell me,” Bernie says, sitting back down.
She pours us more tea, although I don’t have the stomach for it.
“It was Mother Nature this time,” I say.
“Oh, Maura. I’m sorry. How many is that now? Three?”
“Four.”
“Oh, Maura.”
In the year and two months since Christy and I married, I’ve experienced four miscarriages. Three because my husband can’t control his temper and one because Mother Nature intervened. Perhaps she’s trying to tell me something. Perhaps the Davenport house is not a home for a child.
“I think it might be for the best,” I say, sipping some tea, and to my surprise the warmth soothes me.
“Maura, you don’t mean that.”
“I do. I think I really do. There are days when I can’t keep myself safe in that house. How on God’s green earth could I protect a baby?”
“You’d find a way. You’re a strong woman, Maura. Stronger than you know.”
I sigh and Bernie squeezes my hand and pulls some tissues from her apron pocket to offer to me. I take one, but I’m not going to cry. I’m not sad. I am resigned. And that’s a different matter entirely. I’ve known for some time now that the best way to protect my baby is to make sure he or she is never born.
“Christy Davenport shouldn’t be a father,” I say.
“Well,” Bernie says, folding her arms and nodding, “he does have a very big nose. It wouldn’t look good on a baby.”
“It is huge, isn’t it?” I say. “That’s probably why he snores so loud.”
Christy’s nose is perfectly proportioned. Just as the rest of his face is. But Bernie and I laugh for a long time, nonetheless, until finally she grows serious and says, “Are you sure about this? You would be a wonderful mother. Just look at how much my girls love you.”
“I love them too. And I would love my baby. I would love my baby so much that I couldn’t bring him or her into my home. Please tell me you understand, Bernie. Please tell me I’m not mad.”
“Oh God, you’re not mad, Maura. But how? How are you going to avoid it? French letters aren’t going to solve your problems, as they have mine. Christy would know, obviously.”
“Ger gave me a chart.”
“A chart?”
“It keeps note of your monthlies. It tells you what days you can conceive and what days you cannot.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s only certain days in the month when you can make a baby. Did you know?”
Bernie eyes me skeptically.
“It’s true. Honest. I didn’t know either until Ger told me. She said she read it in a magazine Timmy snuck in from America. Vogue or something. Anyway, the rest of the days nothing will happen. I only have to keep Christy away from me for three or four days every month.”
“And how are you planning to do that?”
I sigh. That part of the plan is certainly trickier. I’ve learned over time that what my husband wants, my husband gets. Or, more correctly, takes.
“There’s a doctor,” Bernie says. “A fella in Limerick. He’s prescribing the pill for women. He’s expensive, but—”
“But I could afford it,” I finish for her.
Her face lights up. “You could. If you say your monthlies are wonky he might give it to you. Oh, Maura, this would fix everything.”
I shake my head. “A husband has to give his permission for his wife to get the pill. Christy has women ask him for it every day. One poor woman lost two sets of twins. Christy said she cried when she begged for the pill.”
“Did he prescribe it?”
“No,” I say. “Even if the husband consented Christy would never agree.”
“Unbelievable. I worry for my girls’ future.”
“Me too.”
“Could Ger help?” Bernie says.
I shake my head. “Ger says Timmy draws the line after French letters.”
Bernie exhales and stands up. I feel her frustration. I share it. She checks on the girls. They’ve started playing again, a loud game that involves lots of jumping and shouting. Satisfied they can’t hear a word, Bernie sits back down and whispers, “I know someone who might be able to help.” Her voice sounds strange, as if it belongs to someone else.
My breath catches.
“A woman here in Dublin,” Bernie continues. “Her name is Mrs. Stitch and she’s a seamstress.”
Mrs. Stitch the dressmaker . I smirk because for a moment I think she is trying to lift the mood with a silly joke. But her face remains serious, her eyes focused.
“Listen, listen.” She lowers her voice even further, and I have to concentrate to hear her above the sounds of the girls playing in the bedroom.
“She’s a sort of jack-of-all-trades, if you will. From noon on she makes coats and dresses and such, but before that, earlier in the day, she has a different line of work.”
I listen but I’m not following.
“She takes care of women’s problems. The sort of care doctors and nurses don’t give, if you know what I mean.”
My gut clenches. Suddenly, I worry that I know exactly what she means.
“Oh, Bernie, I—”
“Now look. I’m not saying she could help in your exact situation. But maybe…”
“That can’t be legal,” I say.
“Of course it’s not. But neither are French letters and they’ve changed my life.”
I rest my elbows on the table and let my face fall into my hands. I feel Bernie’s hand on my back, rubbing circles.
“It’s just a suggestion. I owe you so much for helping me. I just…” Bernie pauses, maybe to gather her thoughts, or maybe to process the gravity of what she’s saying. “I just want you to know she’s there. That maybe help is out there.”
My thoughts are racing. I try to grab hold of them, but they float inside my head like bubbles and pop before I catch them.
“Would you come with me?” I say.
Bernie stops rubbing my back and I lift my head and meet her concerned eyes.
“Yes. Of course. When?”
“Soon.” I swallow hard. “Next week, maybe. Christy is working a long shift on Wednesday, so—”
“Wednesday it is.” Bernie glances over her shoulder toward the noise of the girls. “It’s not somewhere I want to bring the girls back to, I have to be honest. But don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. Dan can close the butcher’s for an hour or two to watch them.”
“You won’t tell him, will you?”
Bernie sighs and I know without asking that there are few, if any, secrets between her and Dan.
“Please, Bernie?”
“I’ll tell him I’m going to mass and confession. To be honest, it might be no harm to go to confession after this.”
I nod, but I don’t see the need. Control over your own body isn’t a sin.
“Yes, all right,” I say.