Stolen Child (16 page)

I almost lost you. It could have happened so easily. All my fault. I dropped my guard for an instant and believed I could be free. I will never return to Dublin…never. I need a fortress to keep you safe. Miriam can think what she likes. They all can. This is where we will remain. But the walls are too thick, the windows too small. I want a conservatory filled with light that will look out over the countryside and alert me to danger.

Last week Miriam phoned and asked us to call into her studio. For inspiration, she has moved from the sea to the land. ‘The Blind Stallion of Leamanagh Castle’ is the centrepiece of her new collection.

There’s a story in these regions about a fierce, red-haired woman, known as Maura Rua, and her blind stallion. In the 1600s she lived in Leamanagh Castle and battled as hard as any warrior to retain her lands and property. Her blind stallion was equally spirited, and lashed out so wildly with his hooves when he was released from the stables that she had special niches built into the gateposts where the grooms could leap to safety. This fierceness is what Miriam has captured and turned into glass.

When we arrived at her studio, the stallion was revolving slowly in a display cabinet. She took it out and handed it to me. The glass hooves were raised in a flailing movement. Each fierce muscle was delicately etched, and the smooth barrel-belly was tense with energy. The stallion’s eyes bulged with awareness, yet were lost in an opaque sightlessness that sensed but could not see the enemy ahead.

I held the stallion carefully, knowing how hard she had worked on its design, the numerous sketches that littered her studio floor, the many failed attempts before she was satisfied with the finished model.

You clamoured to hold the horse. To my horror, Miriam took it from me and placed it in your hands.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said calmly. ‘Joy knows it’s precious. She won’t let it fall.’

To have such faith in a four-year-old child is ridiculous but you, as if respecting Miriam’s belief in you, solemnly inspected the figurine. You stared into the eyes and said,
Cross horse.
You looked at the frenzied body, the anger that seemed to exude from the thin nostrils and drawn-back mouth, and you repeated,
Cross horse…The horse is cross like Mammy.

Miriam hunkered beside you and said, ‘He’s a very cross horse indeed but your mammy is not cross. She loves you very much and only gets cross when you’ve been a naughty girl.’

You begin to chant.
Mammy is naughty. Naughty Mammy…cross, naughty Mammy.
Your eyes raked me from under your long eyelashes, those dark eyelashes, curving over your judgemental eyes. Miriam removed the horse from your grip and placed it out of reach. She pointed through the glass doors of the showroom. ‘Why don’t you go out and say hello to Rita,’ she said.

She asked me if I would assist her on the stand during the Finest Crafts Fair.

‘It’s only three days,’ she said. ‘David will be on leave then and if the two of you could help out, it would make a huge difference. I’m sure Phyllis would be delighted to mind Joy. She’s always looking for an excuse to do so. Think about coming back to the studio,’ she added. ‘Joy will be going to school soon and you’ll have time on your hands. You could consider working on a part-time basis. I’m going to need someone with experience to market this new collection.’

I held the horse again. This job was created for me. I could imagine the stallion on display, the interest it would create at trade fairs, the gallery exhibitions, the publicity. Suddenly, the walls of Rockrose expanded outwards. The future ran beyond the lane, ran past Dowling’s Meadow and out into the world again.

At the Finest Crafts Fair, Miriam’s seahorses tinkled, clinked, jangled, and the customers came in their droves to see the blind stallion. The exhibition stand became crowded. Everyone seemed to be demanding my attention at once. I could see David on the opposite side of the stand, hear his laughter as he lifted one of the stallions and displayed it to a customer. The translucent hooves flashed and dashed against the lights as he twisted his wrist this way and that. Something about his laughter alerted me. A frisson of excitement, perhaps, or nervousness, but I was unable to see who was causing that reaction. A customer shook Miriam’s hand and left the stand, leaving me with a clearer view. Carla Kelly swept her long blonde hair over her shoulders and she was smiling at David, her long fingers brushing his as she took the stallion from him. His posture reminded me of the way he had leaned forward on the night she appeared on
The Week on the Street
, watching her intently as she knelt beside the empty cradle. He had watched her again with that same intensity when her secret was exposed, and, after the programme ended, he had called Josh Baker an exploitative gutter rat.

My heart began to palpitate, just a flutter at first but building steadily. I slipped into the galley where we kept the chilled wine and coffee machine, and gripped the counter for support. The pain spread across my shoulders. The moment I had always dreaded was about to happen. I would collapse, lose control, open my mouth and scream my secret. Above the boom of my heart, I heard the low rumble of water preparing to burst its banks and I was swept back again to that night, the fields turning to glass as I carried you safely into my world.

When it seemed as if the noise could grow no louder, the level increased. From my vantage point, I watched a government minister, surrounded by officials and photographers, walk onto the stand. Miriam emerged from the crowd to speak to him. They posed together for the photographers, holding the stallion between them.

She entered the galley, beckoned to me. ‘Susanne, come and have your photograph taken with the minister,’ she said.

The floor shifted. I sat down on a high stool and pressed my head between my knees.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Miriam’s gaze was speculative, flickering with hope. ‘Is everything okay…anything I should know?’

I straightened and whispered an excuse about a stomach bug, hardly aware of what I was saying. She shrugged and returned to the minister. One of the photographers aimed his camera towards David and Carla Kelly. She turned away and stepped off the stand before her face was framed in the lens.
Later, Miriam said, ‘Did you notice who else was on the stand? That poor woman whose child was stolen. She bought one of the stallions. God love her, can’t be easy, never knowing.’

Today, I called into the studio and told Miriam I would be home-schooling you.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ I said, ‘but I can’t possibly take on a job outside the home.’

‘Home-schooling?’ She made no attempt to hide her annoyance. ‘Why on earth would you prevent Joy making friends her own age? No wonder she’s highly strung. She’s forever stuck down that lane with only you for company and now you want to educate her yourself. Really, Susanne, I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life. What does David think about this ridiculous notion?’

It’s unusual for Miriam to be so forthright. I tried to make her understand that you are too sensitive and highly strung for the rough and tumble of a country schoolyard. She bristled, as she always does, if she suspects I’m criticising anything to do with Maoltrán. But I’m staying with my decision. I’ll research the subject thoroughly and devise a curriculum that will keep you abreast of the national one, if not surpass it. It will be a perfect balance of study and outdoor activity, free from the constraints of the classroom.

‘I’m committed to home-schooling Joy,’ I repeated. ‘I can’t accept your offer.’

The floor was steady yet I walked carefully from her showroom. It was filled with delicate, brittle creations that would shatter if I made a wrong move.

After three long and tedious flights, Carla finally landed in Melbourne airport. She moved in a daze through the passport channel, knowing that within the next few minutes she would exit into the arrivals hall and see her husband for the first time in a year. She was relieved that the glass stallion had survived the flight in one piece.

At the Finest Crafts Exhibition she had recognised the seahorses immediately. Initially she had turned away, unable to watch them swaying in a kaleidoscope of coloured glass, then stopped, undecided. She was joining her husband in Australia and that meant letting go of the past. The stallion had attracted her attention. Such energy etched into every line of its design, its blindness only adding to its determination to clear the way forward. The man who sold it to her had lines around his eyes. White lines against a ruddy skin, as if he spent his life outdoors, squinting into the sun.

A woman in the passport cubicle examined her passport then handed it back without a flicker of emotion. No one cast a sideways glance in her direction as she walked towards the luggage reclaim area. She was alone in a crowded space,
flowing through the indifference of others. No wonder Robert did not want to leave. Her hands shook as she waited for her luggage. She steadied them on the handle of the trolley. Like the prisoner who learns to love his cell, she was falling into freedom, terrified by the open vista before her.

Robert looked slim, tanned and fit. The bagginess around his eyes had disappeared. His complexion was clear. He had slotted effortlessly into this continent of tall, outdoor people. Their eyes locked when she emerged into the arrivals hall, the same direct, searching glance that once sealed their future. By the time she reached him, his face was flushed and raw with longing. They clung together, mumbling unintelligible endearments into each other’s ears.

He drove confidently from the airport, obviously familiar with the route. She smelled his aftershave, a hint of something citrus, and longed to touch his face again. He was nervous; there were little signs she had forgotten, the way he rapped his fingers on the steering wheel when he stopped at traffic lights, the anxious way he cleared his throat when they fell silent, his sideways glance, speaking of pleasure to come. She asked about his work. As always, he remained vaguely informative. She wondered how he enjoyed being back again on the dark side of the city streets.

‘I saw you once on O’Connell Bridge.’ She was surprised to hear herself blurting it out after so many years. ‘I thought you were a junkie at first.’

‘I wondered.’ He braked at traffic lights. ‘Why did you never mention it?’

‘I thought you’d be annoyed with yourself.’

‘I’d have had little to worry about.’ He caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. ‘Jesus Christ, Carla, I missed you so bad it never stopped hurting.’

His skin was as smooth as she remembered. She wondered
how long it would take to reach his apartment. Her body ached for him. She was alive in a way that had not seemed possible an hour ago. He brought her hand down to his crotch. She felt his hardness and laughed as he quickly accelerated when the light turned green.

‘What if the law finds out you’re breaking driving regulations?’ she said as she was jerked back against the seat.

‘Fuck the law,’ he replied and grinned.

‘I will,’ she promised. ‘Just drive a little faster.’

It was good to laugh and tease each other. To run from the car, abandoning her luggage, and slam the door closed on the world outside. She had a brief impression of a tidy living room then she was pulled behind him down a narrow corridor and into a bedroom with a king-sized bed.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, laid her down on the duvet, a masculine duvet with a red and black zigzag pattern. They did not remove their clothes. No foreplay or lingering kisses. Their mouths were hard and searching, his hands seeking her panties, pulling them to one side and her body, wet and eager, arched towards him. It was so familiar yet so strange to be in his arms again, as if something broken was being repaired, only the edges were too jagged ever to match perfectly again. It did not matter. He groaned loudly as he plunged inside her, and the cry she uttered tore against her throat. She wondered if it was agony or ecstasy that caused her to writhe and shudder and bite down on his lip. It seemed, in that instant of capitulation, as if only the taste of his blood would ease her longing.

When it was over, they lay, limbs coiled, too exhausted to move. Eventually the phone roused them from their stupor. She rolled away from him as he sat up on the bed and cleared his throat before speaking.

‘Yes, she’s here.’ He moved his shoulder, only a fraction but she noticed, and that gesture, even if she had not heard the voice at the other end of the line, would have been sufficient for her to know the identity of the caller.

‘We’d like that…but not tonight. Carla’s absolutely jetlagged.’ He smiled down at her and winked. ‘Yes, it was a long flight. But you’re very kind. I’ll tell her.’

‘Sharon?’ she asked when the call ended.

He lay back down and drew a sheet over them. ‘The one and only.’

‘How is she?’ Carla kept her voice neutral.

‘In love,’ he replied and laughed. ‘She moved in with her boyfriend a few months ago.’

She tried to decipher the sound – relief, envy, or simply pleasure that his friend was happy?

When he had first arrived in Melbourne, Sharon had introduced him to her circle of friends. They had accepted his past without being shackled by the publicity that had haunted him in Ireland.

‘I’ve found myself again,’ he said. ‘Today is what matters to these people, not what went before.’

Tomorrow Carla would meet some of his friends and she too would understand what it was like to walk free from the lens of a camera. Then they would leave Melbourne and fly to Brisbane. He had worked out the itinerary for their holiday: a tour of the Gold Coast then a flight to Cairns where they would explore the Great Barrier Reef.

Robert turned into an estate of detached houses, each one individually designed and surrounded by large gardens. For an instant Carla did not recognise the attractive woman who answered the door. Sharon had grown her hair long and dyed it blonde. She had gained weight, not a lot, but enough
to round her figure and make her look a little less like one of the lads.

‘Welcome…welcome.’ She led them outside to the terrace where a group of people were already assembled. Lights hung from trees, candles flickered on the table. Carla was introduced to the other guests. Some were Irish, the rest Australian. She could tell by the height and sturdiness of the men that they were probably in the police force. She was not so sure about the women. Sharon, accompanied by her boyfriend, Harry, a tall, thin Englishman with sloping shoulders, emerged from the kitchen with wine and beer.

‘Food will be ready shortly,’ she announced and handed Robert a bottle of Victorian Bitter without asking what he wanted.

‘Wine or beer?’ she asked Carla, who accepted a glass of white wine. She sipped the wine and answered the obligatory questions about her flight, the connections, the delays she experienced, the food and films. Apart from Sharon, only one of the women in the group belonged to the force, a slightly built woman, whose parents, she told Carla, were originally from Thailand. She quickly lost interest in Carla when the men began to talk about work. The other women, who had formed a book club the previous year, began to discuss their latest read,
The Conversations at Curlew Creek.

Sara, an Irishwoman sitting next to Carla, asked if she was familiar with David Malouf’s work. Carla shook her head and sank back into the shadows. The night was balmy. She was content to simply observe.

‘You should read him,’ advised Sara. ‘There’s quite a strong Irish element to
Conversations.
The lawmaker and the lawless. Both sides of the same coin.’ She laughed and flicked her hand towards the men. ‘Thankfully, we sleep with the law.’

‘I’m from convict stock and proud of it,’ said Kerry, an Australian woman sitting opposite Carla. ‘Both sides. I traced my ancestral line all the way back to West Kerry and Mayo. I’m writing my thesis on it.’

‘What did they do?’ Carla asked.

‘She stole a sovereign from her employer,’ replied Kerry. ‘And he was a sheep smuggler who didn’t run fast enough. She was transported first and he followed two years later. They married in New South Wales and had twelve kids. I have copies of the marriage and birth certificates. Amazing, every one of their kids survived.’

‘Have you ever been to Ireland?’ Carla asked.

‘Next year, I hope. I’d like to find their homesteads.’

‘You’ll probably find them buried under Bungalow Blitz,’ warned Sara.

Sharon bustled between them with a bowl of salad and slices of home-baked soda bread.

‘Angels on horseback for starters,’ she announced as Harry leaned forward and placed a large platter on the table. ‘Hold onto your cutlery for the main eats.’

She was flushed and a little breathless as she stood back from the table and clapped her hands. ‘Eat and enjoy,’ she ordered and gave Robert’s arm a brief squeeze.

Was their relationship as platonic as he claimed, Carla wondered. Was it possible to be so close to someone and not have occasional desires, especially when they shared so much in common? With three glasses of wine inside her, and a companionable buzz of conversation around her, it was not a question to be tackled at the moment. She was enjoying the evening. Kerry’s convict relations had lost their Irish families yet had managed to build a new future. That was the answer: moving forward. In this new world there was nothing to slap her in the face and demand sorrow. They could have more
children. She allowed herself to feel Robert’s conviction. Across the fluttering candle flame, she caught his gaze. He smiled, as if linked to her thoughts, and lifted a bottle of white wine, poured it into the glasses as he moved around the table. Sharon had prepared lamb. The smell of garlic and rosemary wafted across the terrace as she emerged with it from the kitchen. Harry followed with bowls of baked potatoes.

He sat beside Carla and talked about the reef where he regularly snorkelled among the shoals of multi-coloured fish and the wavering banks of coral. He planned to honeymoon there later in the year.

‘How long have you been in Australia?’ Carla asked him.

‘Eleven years. Where does time go?’ He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘We’re all hoping you’ll settle here.’

‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’ Carla also instinctively spoke more softly. She was aware of Sharon standing in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand, her arm raised against the door frame. She was silhouetted in the light from the kitchen, the outline of her legs visible through the transparent material of her skirt.

Harry whistled and shouted, ‘Go, girl, go!’ as Sharon jutted her hip provocatively before disappearing back into the kitchen.

‘It’s a good life here,’ he said. ‘We all settle in the end.’

‘I have family in Ireland—’

‘We all have family back home. But a man needs a woman out here. Robert’s waited a long time for you to join him.’

It was a warning, discreetly given, and Carla gave a slight nod in acknowledgement.

Robert trailed his fingers along the back of her neck. His fingers were icy from the bottle.

‘We’ll eat and run,’ he whispered. Her skin tingled. She raised her shoulder in acknowledgement.

Three weeks of swimming and lovemaking lay ahead. Long, relaxing lunches, romantic dinners, their hired car eating up the miles, music playing too loud, drowning out the need to ask the inevitable question. They would not mention Isobel’s name. They would not think about tomorrow. They would gave themselves over to pleasure and clasp it savagely, selfishly from each other. They would explore the Great Barrier Reef, holding hands under water, weightless and adrift in that silent world of perpetual movement.

They were relaxing on the deck of a cruiser, returning from a snorkelling trip to the Barrier Reef, their legs dangling over the edge of the bow, when the sky darkened. Clouds bunching on the horizon broke apart and hurtled towards them. The boat rocked and the easy-going motion of a few minutes earlier was replaced by more turbulent waves. As sheets of rain slanted across the sea, passengers hurried under the canopy for shelter.

‘Get under cover.’ Robert got to his feet and stretched his hand down to her. ‘This will be a beast when it hits.’

She ignored his outstretched hand and gripped the railing. ‘You go,’ she shouted back. ‘I need to be by myself for a little while.’

‘I’ll stay with you,’ he shouted. The rain flattened his hair and ran in rivulets down his cheeks.

‘No!’ The wildness of the storm had entered her. ‘You heard me, Robert. I want to be alone for a while.’

He hesitated; then, reading her expression, turned and hurried under shelter with the other passengers.

The rain gathered force against the speed of the cruiser and needled her face, forced her eyes closed, whipped her hair into drenched tendrils. She must look crazy, she thought, the only person on deck, a demented figurehead at the bow
of the cruiser as it ploughed onwards through the squall. She gripped the rail tighter as the anger she had controlled for so long lurched through her. She screamed into the wind, screamed at Robert for turning his back on their daughter, preferring to believe that she was dead rather than live with the pain of not knowing. Her throat hurt but still she continued to scream. The wind carried her voice over the bow and dashed it against the waves. The rain stopped as suddenly as it started. Raindrops glistened on the rails, water ran from the deck. Her anger passed with the same speed. Robert ran towards her with a towel.

‘My crazy mad fool,’ he said, knowing that her decision had been wrestled from the turbulence of the storm.

‘Do you despise me for running away?’ he asked when they were in bed that night.

She shook her head. To stand in judgement and apportion blame was to hang one more weight around her neck.