Chapter 45
CHAPTER 45
2023
Saoirse
“I can still see her face when I close my eyes. Her skin was like porcelain and her lips like rubies,” Maura says. Her eyes are wet.
“She sounds beautiful,” I say. My own vision is blurred.
“Unfortunately, she was. And ultimately it cost her her life, through no fault of her own.”
“Did her parents care? In the end, I mean. They treated her so wrongly. Were they at least sad when she died?”
“Her mother wore black for the rest of her life,” Maura says, and I surmise that she got to know Josie’s mother after the tragedy. “Although her life wasn’t long after. Just three years. A heart attack, they said. But everyone knew the grief and the guilt killed her.”
“If only she’d stood up to her husband. She clearly never wanted Josie to leave home.”
“No.” Maura sighs. “I don’t suppose she did. But it wasn’t easy for her to stand up to him then.”
“I know. I know. But for the sake of her child.”
“I mean no disrespect, but I’m afraid you don’t know. Even if she had put her foot down, it would have, most likely, played out in the same way, regardless,” Maura says, turning to look out the window.
“Some people shouldn’t have kids,” I say.
“You’re right. They should not.”
At Newry a slightly frantic woman boards the train. She’s in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, I think, with salt-and-pepper hair. She wears colorful rimmed glasses that remind me of Miles’s and her rain mac is almost identical in style and color to Maura’s.
“There you are!” she says, hurrying down the aisle and relaxing slightly when she stops next to Maura and me. “You’re not answering your phone. Leonardo and I were worried. We thought you might have missed the train or had a fall or something.”
She looks at Maura with concern and then she drops her eyes to the scrapbook and the small, empty bottle of wine on the table and she begins to smile. “But I can see you’re okay. Enjoying yourself, it seems. Who have you cornered this year, eh?”
The lady’s gaze shifts to me, and I’m not sure if I should introduce myself or not. Thankfully, Maura speaks before I overthink it.
“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to worry you. My phone is in my bag and half the time I don’t hear the blasted thing.”
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay. Leonardo has the car here at the station, so if you want to hop off we can travel the rest of the way with him. It’ll be much faster.”
“Oh no.” Maura sounds horrified. “I’m not going anywhere. I took this train all the way to Belfast fifty-two years ago, and I’m taking it all the way to Belfast today.”
The woman puffs out, defeated. “Okay,” she says, with a smile. “I’ll tell him.” She pulls out her phone and there’s a quick conversation to decide they’ll meet in Belfast. Then she slips into a seat at the opposite side of the table.
“Are you sure you’re all right sitting there? Those seats travel backward. Won’t that make you feel sick?” Maura asks. “It always made you sick when you were younger.”
“I’m okay, Aunty Maura. It’s just a couple of stations.”
I feel the pang of disappointment that soon it will be time we all get off.
“So, is the wine plonk, or am I safe getting a glass?” the lady says.
“It’s lovely train wine,” Maura says, and I decide that I will call it “train wine” forevermore—even when I’m on a plane or a boat and so on.
The train pulls out of the station and the woman orders a small bottle of wine from the confectionery cart. I buy a KitKat and Maura says she’s fine for now.
“This is Marie Russo,” Maura says, smiling across the table at the woman.
“Hello,” I say, feeling very much like I’m intruding on something personal, and I wonder if I should offer to switch seats.
“Marie is married to a lovely Italian man, Leonardo Russo. But she was a McCarthy before that.”
“Oh. Wow. That Marie,” I say, and I’ve sudden butterflies in my stomach as if I’m face-to-face with a celebrity.
“I was telling lovely Saoirse all about your ma,” Maura says.
Marie blushes and Maura spins the scrapbook around to share it with her. As she does, a piece of paper falls out. Marie picks it up and emotion sweeps over her. The resemblance to a young Bernie in the photograph takes shape instantly. They share a nose and the dimple in their chin. I think Marie might be taller, but that’s just a guess.
“I forgot Ma kept this,” Marie says, some tears welling in the corners of her eyes.
“Your mother was so proud of your art,” Maura says.
“Oh, I’m not sure you could call this art.” Marie starts to chuckle and then tilts the paper toward me so I can see a page full of colorful scribbles. “But she definitely encouraged us to enjoy expressing ourselves and following our dreams. I think that’s why this scrapbook was so important to her. It was her little piece of self-expression.”
“Come now, you and I both know your mother had no trouble speaking her mind. It was keeping her words in that she struggled with.”
Marie laughs. “That was Ma. Gosh, I miss her.”
“Me too,” Maura says. “Me too.”
There’s a moment when both women glance out the window as if they will find Bernie somewhere in the distance, waving back at them from the rolling hills and green fields.
Marie clears her throat and says, “What part of the story are you at?”
Maura’s face lights up, and I can tell how eager she is to dive back in. She flicks through the pages of the scrapbook and points to a photograph of a door with a lion’s head knocker.
“Mrs. Stitch’s place,” Marie says knowingly.
“I’ve just been telling Saoirse about Josie’s passing.”
“I remember,” Marie says. “Ma was cut up for weeks after the funeral. You know, she was convinced she didn’t do enough to help her.”
“We did our best,” Maura says. “It was too late for Josie. But for others…”
Marie pours her wine and sighs. “You and Ma did more than your best. But, Saoirse, wait for this next part.”
“Is it what the police said?” I guess. “The autopsy would show she was pregnant, wouldn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, the police didn’t have much to say about any of it,” Maura says. “As far as they were concerned, it was suicide. Plain and simple. Josie wasn’t the first young girl to take her life in a situation like that.”
“Did Mrs. Stitch get in trouble?”
“Hmm,” Maura says, pausing for thought. “I think Mrs. Stitch—or Bernadette Brighton, as I would later come to know her—certainly knew how to squeeze a few bob out of a desperate girl or woman. But I don’t blame her, not entirely. If contraception had been available she’d have had few, if any, customers. She wasn’t the bad guy. But she certainly wasn’t a good guy either.”
“I can’t believe the police didn’t do anything. Did they arrest that man? Josie’s father’s friend?”
Maura shakes her head. “I doubt they ever knew about him.”
“Jesus, he got away with it and no one said anything. That’s so messed up, isn’t it?”
“Actually, people had a lot to say.”
“Good. That’s good,” I say, relieved to hear it. “At least someone shed some light on how shit this was.”
“Ah, not quite. Josie was a young woman who took her own life. It was a sin. Families were ashamed. Communities gossiped. It was a dark time.”
“But she didn’t do anything wrong. It was all that dirty old man’s fault. He was the sinner. He was a goddamn criminal.”
Maura is quiet. She’s thinking of a girl forever fifteen. A young woman who died long before I was born, and yet I feel an intense connection with her—with all the daughters of Ireland lying under the ground because they had no hope and no help.
“Change was on its way,” Maura says, cutting into my thoughts. “But let’s get another glass of wine, and we’ll get to that.”