Chapter 65
CHAPTER 65
Belfast 2023
Saoirse
“Wow. Just wow. I really had no idea about any of this,” I say, slightly embarrassed to admit my poor historical knowledge in front of a woman who indirectly changed my life. Changed all women’s lives. “They should teach us this stuff in school.”
Maura smiles. “Yes. Maybe someday. We’re not great with change in this small island of ours, are we?”
“We’re not,” I say, and I am reminded of my own struggles, more than fifty years later. “How did he die? Christy, I mean.”
Maura shrugs. “Oh, they said a heart attack.”
Marie snorts and rolls her eyes, and I guess we’re sharing an assumption.
“They put it down to the stress and strain of his high-profile career,” Maura adds.
“Really?”
I think of all the doctors I work with. They work long hours and they are almost permanently exhausted, but their hearts are not giving out in their cars. I can’t imagine the job was so entirely different back then.
“It’s bullshit, I know,” Maura says.
I smile. I didn’t think Maura had the word bullshit in her. How bloody surprising and fabulous, I decide.
Maura sighs. “A fifteen-year-old rape victim could commit suicide. But not a pillar of the community like a doctor. Not Christy Davenport. Nature had to have taken its course. Or so people told themselves, anyway.”
“It wasn’t considered taking your own life back then,” Marie says. “Suicide was a crime. Josie would have been considered someone who committed a crime. Ridiculous, but they had no understanding of mental health. The term wasn’t even invented yet.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. “But I’m so glad I wasn’t born until the late eighties.”
“It wasn’t all bad,” Maura says, with a delightful smirk. “It gave me the McCarthys. A family kind enough to open their hearts to me.”
“Are you still in touch with Dan?” I ask.
Maura sighs again and her eyes glisten.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Forget I asked. Please.”
“Ma passed away in twenty twelve,” Marie says. “Cancer. She fought it for five years. But it beat her in the end. She was sixty-nine. Da followed her a year later. Alice, my youngest sister, swears Da died of a broken heart. I think so too.”
“Oh absolutely,” I say, as if I know Bernie and Dan personally. “He loved her so much.”
“Thank you. Yes, he did.”
There is a screeching of brakes and I realize with a heavy heart that we have pulled into the station. I glance out the window and find BELFAST clearly signposted.
“It’s time, Aunty Maura. Are you ready?”
Marie links Maura’s arm and helps her stand. Maura is shaky getting to her feet and I wonder if I should help. I’ve no doubt Maura’s stiffness is the legacy of the broken leg Christy inflicted. And all the lovely train wine added on top.
“The reporters called it the contraceptive train,” Maura says, turning back to me. “Or the condom train, for those who like to give all the credit to the penis.”
I smile. Penis is yet another word I didn’t think I’d hear from Maura.
“We didn’t mind what they called it once it got the word out. The women of Ireland had had enough. We wanted safe and legal contraception. Even Mrs. Stitch was on board, and that was saying something.”
I laugh. Marie does too.
“Come on, Aunty Maura, leave this poor girl be,” Marie says, closing the scrapbook carefully before she picks it up and tucks it under her arm.
“No, no, it’s okay,” I say quickly, trying to hold on to Maura and her story for as long as I can. “I’m just amazed at all of it.”
“You know, earlier, in Connolly Station, I spotted a machine in the ladies’ loos that will spit out a condom for two euros. What a long way we’ve come,” Maura says.
“Maura, do you know that women under thirty-two have free contraception these days? The pill, the coil, the implant. You name it. It’s all free.”
Maura sighs. “That’s great, Saoirse. But, as ever, it would seem birth control is a woman’s problem. I suppose we have come a long way, but I think there’s a lot further to go.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, there bloody is.”
Marie curls her arm a little tighter around Maura’s. “It was lovely to meet you,” she says warmly.
“Yes. You too. Enjoy the city.”
“We will,” Marie says. “We come up every year. On the anniversary. Covid threw us off for a while, but we’re back on track now.”
I look at the determined elderly lady linking Marie’s arm, and I have no doubt that she will return to Belfast for the rest of her days.
They turn to leave. “Wait, wait,” I call out, a little too loudly for the limited space of the carriage. “Can I get a photo of us before you go?”
Maura turns her head over her shoulder.
“I don’t have a lovely scrapbook like Bernie, but I’d really like to keep a memory of today on my phone. So when I share this story with my friends I can show them our picture.”
“You’re going to tell your friends?” Maura’s eyes sparkle.
“Yes. Of course. I can’t wait to tell them.”
“Oh, lovely, Saoirse. You remind me of Bernie so much.”
Marie nods and adds, “Ma would have liked you a lot.”
I blush. I don’t think I’ve received a nicer compliment before.
I stand up and drape my arm over Maura’s shoulders. Then Marie takes my phone and snaps our picture. After, I show it to Maura and she says, “Oh goodness, my hair needs doing. I’ll be in to the hairdresser first thing next week.”
I smile and suspect that in fifty years Maura hasn’t changed a bit.
I watch Marie and Maura disembark and meet other people on the platform. Two women so like Marie—Elizabeth and Alice. There are men and teenagers, and a handful of other adults too, grown-up children, I suspect. There is a baby on someone’s hip and I realize that one of the McCarthy girls is now a grandmother. I stay on the train and watch them through the window. They clearly care for one another, and they care for Maura. I suspect that long after Bernie and Dan and Maura, the McCarthy girls, their children, and their children’s children will continue to return to the city where a small group of trailblazing women shaped history.