Chapter 42
CHAPTER 42
Bernie
Maura is as quiet as a church mouse as we begin walking back into town. I don’t have many words either. I find myself talking about the weather.
“Bit windy, isn’t it?”
The day has taken a turn. What started as a beautiful sunny morning is now cloudy and gray, as if the weather is offering its sympathy. Tiny goose bumps line Maura’s arms, and I’m not sure if it’s the sudden chill or the experience.
Maura stops walking and turns her attention to a doorway. Someone is curled up under a patchwork blanket.
“Probably a drunk,” I say. “It’s sad, isn’t it? Leave them be. The gardai will move them on soon enough.”
I begin walking again but Maura doesn’t follow. She’s cemented to the spot in front of a blanket that rises and falls with each heavy breath of the poor fella underneath. I guess Maura doesn’t get many drunks on her side of town and I give her a moment to gather herself, but she doesn’t budge.
“Let go,” I say.
Maura points and calls my attention without words. I walk the couple of steps back to stand beside her.
“What? What is it?”
“The shoes,” she says. “Look at the shoes.”
I drop my gaze to the pair of black patent shoes poking out from under the blanket.
“Huh, a woman.” I am shocked.
“Not a woman. A girl. This is the girl we saw leaving Mrs. Stitch’s shop. I recognize her shoes.”
“Really?”
I don’t think I’ve ever noticed anyone’s shoes, ever. And I hope no one notices mine, not with a hole brewing in the sole.
“We used to stock ones just like them in Switzers. I think they still do,” Maura says.
“You really think this is her?”
Maura doesn’t answer, instead bending down and placing her hand on the mound under the blanket. There’s a rustle and someone shoots to their feet. I shriek and jump back. Maura too. But we steady ourselves quickly when we discover Maura is right. Standing, shivering, is the young girl from Mrs. Stitch’s shop.
“Don’t call the guards. Please don’t call them. I’ll move. I’ll go somewhere else.”
The girl smells. I hate myself for noticing, but it’s rancid and I wonder when the last time she washed was. Her legs are long and thin like straws, with knees that stick out like doorknobs in the middle. Her fingernails are black underneath and all around. Her clothes are stylish, expensive maybe, but her knitted Aran cardigan is missing a couple of buttons and her pleated maroon skirt is creased and grubby.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Please don’t call the guards.”
She shakes like a leaf in the wind.
“We won’t. We won’t, don’t worry,” Maura says. She tries placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder, but she jerks away.
“How old are you?” I try again.
“Fifteen.”
“Jesus.”
“Are you pregnant?” Maura asks.
The girl freezes.
“It’s all right,” Maura says. “You don’t have to be scared. We saw you at Mrs. Stitch’s a little while ago, remember?”
“Please don’t call the guards.”
“Listen, please listen,” Maura says. “We’re not going to call the police. We just want to make sure you’re well and safe, that’s all.”
“I’m well and safe. I’m well and safe. Please don’t call the guards, they’ll take me away. They’ll put me in one of those homes for fallen women. My ma said so.”
Her lip trembles and she turns around to gather her blanket and a small rucksack. A glass bottle with the label ripped away is lying in the doorway. It’s empty now.
“What was in that?” Maura asks, pointing at the bottle.
The girl shrugs.
“But you drank it anyway?”
“I had to.” She places her hand on her stomach.
“Are you going home now, then?” I ask.
The girl begins to cry and I hold her. I think if I don’t, she will tumble over. The smell is worse up close and I know the answer to my question is that she has no home to go to.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She swallows hard and says, “Josephine. But my ma calls me Josie.”
“Nice to meet you, Josie,” I say. “I’m Bernie. And this is Maura.”
“You look like a film star,” Josie tells Maura, before she looks down at her own clothes and awkwardly tries to hide some of the stains with her rucksack.
“How long have you been out here, Josie?” I ask.
The girl shakes her head as she looks at me and then at Maura.
“We just want to help you,” Maura reencourages.
Josie shrugs. “A week, I think. I don’t know.”
“And where are your parents?” Maura continues.
“At home?”
“But you can’t go there?”
Maura is soft-spoken so as not to spook the poor child, and I let her do the talking now because I want to scream. I want to scream and shout, because what kind of parents could leave their fifteen-year-old to sleep in a doorway on the street like a lost dog?
“They don’t want me anymore,” Josie says, pulling her rucksack closer to her chest. I can hear how the pain of abandonment sticks to her every word.
“Because you’re pregnant?” Maura says.
The girl nods. “But if it’s gone, then maybe Ma will let me go home. Da says I can never come back, but I think Ma might talk to him. I just need to wait until it’s gone.”
“Do they know you’re here? Sleeping here?”
“No.”
“Where do they think you are?”
“America,” she says, beginning to cry. “I got an aunt there. She’s got a farm and that, and Ma says I can work there. But I didn’t get on the boat. They bought my ticket and all, but I didn’t go. I couldn’t go.”
Maura pulls off her head scarf and passes it to Josie. “To dry your eyes,” she says.
We give Josie all the time she needs to steady herself before Maura says, “Are you hungry?”
Josie shakes her head. Her pale face matches the gray stonewashed building behind her and her blue eyes have lost their shine. I wonder when the last time she had a decent meal was.
“We need to get some food into her,” Maura whispers to me. “Who knows what was in that bottle and if her stomach is empty on top.”
The thoughts of food make my stomach turn but I say, “I’m starving. I could murder a hot cross bun. Do you like hot cross buns, Josie? Maura and I love ’em.”
“What about Bewley’s on Grafton Street?” Maura says. “Do you like Bewley’s?”
Josie nods. “Yeah. We used to go there on Sundays after mass. Ma and Da and my brother, Richard.”
“Great,” Maura says.
Bewley’s is busy, as usual. Josie and I take a seat while Maura insists on buying tea and a hot cross bun for each of us. She returns in a jiffy with a tray of goodies. Josie picks all the currants from her bun the way my own girls do and she drinks two cups of tea. I skip mine so she can have another.
“Do you have a chap?” Maura asks, as Josie finishes her bun.
Tears swell in her eyes once more and she shakes her head.
“He’s not your boyfriend anymore?” I ask.
She shakes her head again.
“Is he fifteen too?”
She shakes her head.
“Older?”
She nods and gulps down more tea.
Maura places her hands around her cup, warming them. She takes a deep breath and says, “Does he know about the baby?”
Fat tears trickle down Josie’s cheeks.
“Does he know?” Maura tries again, almost whispering now.
“No,” Josie exhales, and there’s anger amid her sadness. It’s buried deeper, but nonetheless I hear it. “Da says I’m not allowed to tell him.”
“Why not?” I say, loudly, because I just can’t hold my frustration in. The couple at the table next to us turns and stares. “Oh, mind your business,” I say. They turn back. “Why doesn’t he want you to tell him?” I ask again, my voice lower now.
Josie’s eyes peer deep into me. I almost feel them cut, as if she’s slicing me to see if she can trust what’s on the inside.
Finally, she says, “He’s my da’s friend, that’s why not. They play golf on the weekends. And my ma goes shopping with Mrs. Cl—” she cuts herself off before she reveals a name. “My ma goes shopping sometimes with his wife. They’re friends too.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I don’t like him, if that’s what you’re thinking. He smells old. Like Christmas spices. He said it was a secret. He said if I told anyone he’d tell my ma and da I was a slut. And then this happened. And I didn’t know for a while. But then I figured it out. And Da says it’s all my fault ’cause I wear them short skirts and go out with my friends too much. He says I lead fellas on.”
“Oh, Josie,” Maura says, peeling her hand away from her cup to place it over Josie’s grubby hand. “None of this is your fault. None of it, you hear?”
“What did your ma say?” I ask.
“Nothing, really. She just does what Da says.”
Anger boils inside me until it feels like it might bubble out the top of my head. How can this woman call herself a mother? How can she not put her daughter first? I don’t know Josie’s parents. Or the man who raped her. But I hate them all with such a passion I can hardly breathe with the weight of it.
“Richard said we should tell the guards and then Da smacked him one.”
Maura and I are lost for words.
“That’s when Da said I had to go to America and Ma said she’d write to me.”
“Jesus,” Maura and I say at the same time.
Maura turns to me. “What are we going to do?”
“She can’t spend another night on the street.”
Maura nods. “Josie, would you like to come and stay in my house? I have a spare room.”
Josie’s back arches like a startled cat’s and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s going to jump clean off her chair and run away. But slowly she tries on a smile. It doesn’t quite come all the way up at the edges, but it’s there.
“I have a nice big bath and some warm blankets, and I make a great stew,” Maura adds.
“She does,” I say. “It’s the best.”
Josie’s smile widens. “I like stew.”
“Good. Good. It just so happens I have a pot on the cooker back at my house as we speak.”
The missing sparkle in Josie’s eyes flashes for a moment, and she’s a pretty girl, there’s no doubt about that.
“What will you tell Dr. Davenport?” I say.
Discomfort flashes across Maura’s face before she inhales sharply through her nose. “I’ll say we’re cousins. Christy says family is a gift.”
“Will he believe you?”
“God, I hope so.”
“Maybe Josie should stay with me,” I say, my mind racing.
Maura shakes her head. “You don’t have any room. And what would you tell the girls? No. This is for the best. Besides, if that potion takes hold, who knows, we might be mighty glad to have a doctor in the house.”
Maura is right. We might need Christy before the day is through.