Stolen Child (32 page)

25 July 2008 Dear Dylan,

You were right about circumstantial evidence but wrong about Susanne Dowling. I saw the scans taken in St Anne’s Clinic during her pregnancy. I understand you were trying to help and that, somehow, you believe you owe me a debt of gratitude. Nothing could be further from the truth. You have achieved much since the first time we met. I may have been a catalyst but what you have achieved is due to your own determination.

Since I returned home, I’ve had time to reflect. Now that I know Joy is not my daughter, I feel a sense of relief, especially after seeing her with her father and grandmother. They adore her and she adores them. They’re a close-knit family and it would be impossible for me to sunder it.

In a peculiar way, I’m glad this happened. I’ve been sleepwalking through my life, unable to accept my own reality. Well, even Rip Van Winkle woke up eventually. Now it’s time to rub the sand from my eyes. I want to move on with my life and accept that the search for my daughter is at an end. Soon I’ll be married to a thoughtful and loving man. So please don’t worry about me. My future is secure.

Joy Dowling is suffering deeply over the death of her mother. I recognise the symptoms of bereavement and hope you will be able to help her.

Yours sincerely,

Carla Kelly.

29 July 2008

Dear Carla,

I’m sorry. I know that’s an inadequate apology but no words can convey my feelings of regret. I acted in what I believed were your best interests but, in doing so, I’ve subjected you to an incredibly traumatic experience. I hope you can forgive me.

If there is a sliver of a silver lining in this whole sorry business, it is the fact that you are moving on with your life. I wish you every happiness in your marriage.

I’m sorry…

Dylan.

5 January 2009

Dear Clare,

A very happy new year to you. The letting agent for the cottage you rented kindly passed on your address so that I could contact you. I’ll be in Dublin on the 14th January, taking part in a glass designers’ exhibition in the Three Lanterns Galley in Dublin with my grandson Joey. He’s been working closely with me since he came back to us from Italy and will be displaying his latest piece,
The Swan Maiden of Inchiquin Lake.

We had a lovely day with you by that lake and I thought it would be nice to see you again. If you’re free,
why not drop by and have a glass of wine with us? David tells me you’re soon to be married, indeed, may already be married by now. Obviously, my invitation also includes your partner.

How is your book progressing? I’m sorry you had to leave Maoltrán so suddenly. I was afraid we’d offended you but, afterwards, David told us you were upset by the album. I’m so sorry, my dear. You told us about the loss of your baby and I can quite understand how those scans would trigger your own memories. I’d no idea Susanne had placed them in the album but Joy’s pregnancy was an anxious time for her.

We’re all keeping well and busy. Work on the hostel was delayed for a few months over some planning objection but that’s been sorted now and David is moving things along as fast as possible. He hopes it will be up and running by the summer and has already had lots of enquiries. It should do very well, particularly as plans for a hotel in Maoltrán have fallen through.

Joy is studying hard, although she’s down with a dose at the moment. Lots of snuffles and sneezes. It’s that time of the year again. Thankfully there’s been no repeat of her sillier behaviour earlier in the summer and Danny Breen has been keeping well out of David’s way.

My grandson is proving to be a talented glass designer. I’m so proud of him. I hope you have an opportunity to see what he has achieved.

Warmest regards

Miriam Dowling.

For over an hour Joy has been waiting to see Dr Williamson in a waiting room filled with sneezing, coughing, wheezing, spluttering patients. She’s coughing louder than any of them. Her throat aches and her nose, according to her father who is sitting beside her, could steer ships away from rocks in a fog. When her name is finally called, her legs ache as she drags herself into the surgery.

She says ‘ahh’ and opens her mouth so that Dr Williamson can shine a torch down her throat. She shudders when she feels the stereoscope jabbing her back.

‘Bronchitis,’ declares Dr Williamson. ‘It’s bed, I’m afraid, Joy, and lots of tender loving care. How are you otherwise?’

‘Fine.’

‘You’ve been through a very tough time. It’s okay not to feel fine. I’m sure you must miss your mother very much.’ Dr Williamson sits back in her swivel chair and folds her arms. She’s got an army of patients waiting outside but she doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to call them into her surgery.

Joy nods, too miserable to pretend otherwise. ‘Sometimes I wake up and think she’s still alive. She should be, shouldn’t she?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She should have gone to you and got better. I begged her to do so when I saw the bleeding the first time.’

‘The first time?’

‘One morning. The blood was all over the bed. I can’t stop thinking about it. Dylan says I’m suffering from unresolved grief.’

‘Dylan Rae?’

‘Yeah. I went to see him after I came back from Arizona. Sometimes…’ She begins to cough, that awful tickle in her throat acting up again. Dr Williamson gives her a glass of water and a throat lozenge. ‘I get so furious with her at times. She must have known it was serious but she kept talking about the menopause and how it was perfectly normal…but it wasn’t, was it?’

‘She did come and see me, Joy. And she was attending her gynaecologist in Dublin.’

‘What gynaecologist?’

‘I don’t know his name. Did she ever mention him to you?’

Joy shrugged. ‘Not that I can remember. He didn’t help her very much, did he?’

‘Sadly not.’ Dr Williamson frowns and writes a prescription for antibiotics and a tonic. ‘Are you still seeing Dylan?’ She hands the prescription sheet to Joy.

‘No. He figured I needed a proper bereavement counsellor. He gave me a name, but what’s the use in talking? Mum’s still going to be dead, not matter how much I talk. And I’m still going to be furious with her. She wouldn’t let me tell Dad…I shouldn’t have listened to her, I know that now. Fat lot of good that is…me knowing.’

‘That kind of anger is not good for you.’ Dr Williamson stands up and walks to the surgery door with her. ‘Take Dylan’s
advice and make an appointment with that counsellor. But in the meantime, go straight home to bed and stay there for the rest of the week. I’d like a quick word with your father. Will you ask him to come into the surgery for a moment?’

Her father doesn’t speak until they arrive home. Joy falls into the sofa and huddles into the warmth of the kitchen. He makes tea and toast and places a tray beside her.

‘I don’t feel hungry,’ she says.

‘Try and eat something.’

‘I can’t…what did Dr Williamson say?’

‘She wanted to know the name of Susanne’s gynaecologist in Dublin.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I never knew she had one…other than Professor Langley in St Anne’s. She should have told me…’ He presses his lips tightly together and sinks down beside her on the sofa.

‘What else did she say?’

‘She told me to talk to you about Susanne’s death.’

‘Did she tell you it’s all my fault?’

‘Of course not. Why on earth should she say such a thing?’

‘Because it’s the truth.’ The tickle gathers at the back of her throat. She is going to cough again. Her eyes water from the effort of holding it back but it’s impossible. Her breath splutters free as she bends over her knees, her chest heaving. Her father runs cold water and soaks a flannel, places it across her forehead. When she is able to speak she tells him about that morning and the expression on her mother’s face when she turned and saw Joy standing at the door. That lost, hopeless expression that has been burning a hole in Joy’s head ever since. If she starts crying she won’t be able to stop. Never ever.

‘All my fault,’ she sobs. ‘She said I mustn’t tell you…it was women’s stuff and you’d hate to know…it’s all my fault…all my fault.’

‘No, Joy. It isn’t your fault. Have you been carrying those thoughts around in your head since she died? You silly, silly girl. Come here to me…come here…’

Then she is in his arms, crying against his rough tweed jacket. It doesn’t matter if she can’t stop because no matter what awful things happen he will always be there to look after her.

Statement of Dr Una Williamson.

Address: Wheat Acres, Maoltrán, Co. Clare.

Occupation: Medical Doctor.

Taken on Monday 14 January 2009 at Maoltrán Garda Station by Garda Eoin Morris. I hereby declare that this statement is true to the best of my knowledge and belief and that I make it knowing that if it is tendered in evidence I will be liable to prosecution if I state in it anything that I know to be false or do not believe to be true.

My name is Dr Una Williamson and I have been in general practice in the town of Maoltrán for twenty years. During that time, I saw Susanne Dowling professionally on only two occasions. On one occasion she discussed symptoms related to anxiety. On the second occasion I had reason to be concerned about dysfunctional uterine bleeding which began to occur prior to the onset of her menopause. I found Susanne Dowling to be evasive about her gynaecological records. She was insistent that she had had regular smear tests carried out by her gynaecologist, who was based in
Dublin. As she was originally from Dublin, I had no reason to doubt her word but I did find it strange that she never revealed his or her name. I knew her personally and she had been my bridge partner for a number of years. Shortly after her last appointment in my clinic she explained to me that our partnership was over as she was becoming increasingly involved in selling property in Spain. Again, my suspicions were not aroused. I was, however, shocked by her sudden death. If she had consulted her gynaecologist, which she claimed to have done, then her symptoms should have been immediately apparent. I contacted the Medical Council with my concerns but they failed to establish a link between her and any of the Dublin-based gynaecologists. I could only assume that she had lied to me for reasons that would always remain a mystery. I had occasion to speak to a counsellor, Mr Dylan Rae, who admitted that he had concerns about the identity of Susanne Dowling’s daughter, Joy. He had reason to believe Susanne Dowling was not her natural mother. Although I found his suspicions almost impossible to believe, I decided to check the blood records of Susanne Dowling, her husband, Mr David Dowling, and Joy Dowling. My own suspicions were immediately aroused when I realised that both Susanne and David Dowling were rhesus positive while their daughter, Joy Dowling, was rhesus negative, thereby making it impossible for them to have conceived her. However, it was possible that David Dowling was not Joy’s father. Susanne Dowling may have conceived her child by another man. But after a further conversation with Mr Dylan Rae, I reached the conclusion that Susanne Dowling did not give birth to the child she claimed was her daughter. I have read over this statement
and it is correct. I have been invited to make any amendments or changes to it and do not wish to do so.

Signed: Una Williamson

Witness: Eoin Morris, Garda

Witness: Siobhan Comerford, Garda

Date: 14 January 2009

The speeches were over and the exhibition launched by the time Carla arrived at the Three Lanterns Gallery. She pushed her way through the crowd but was unable to see the Dowlings anywhere. In the centre of the gallery, the level of noise dropped to a murmur while Josh Baker interviewed one of the designers. Carla stopped abruptly when she saw him, then she merged back into the crowd. She heard the seahorses before they came into view, a kaleidoscope of flashing jewelled colours swaying gently above the laughter and conversation. Joey’s design revolved slowly on a display stand. The plinth formed a glinting, rippling pool from which the swan maiden arose, translucent, ephemeral, her glossy hair drenched from the lake, pearls of moisture on her arms. She reached upwards, each delicate fold of her cloak and hood perfectly chiselled.

‘What do you think of my son’s work?’ David Dowling had approached quietly and now stood beside her.

He was dressed once again in a suit, formally polite, except for his eyes, raking her.

‘This is an exquisite piece of work,’ she replied. ‘You must be very proud of him.’

‘It’s receiving a lot of attention. We’ve very happy for him.’ Their shoulders touched when he stepped closer to her. ‘I’m glad you came, Clare.’

She nodded, laughed nervously. ‘I had an hour to spare and thought it would be nice to say hello to Miriam.’

‘She’s around somewhere with Joy.’ He waved his hand vaguely at the crowd. ‘That creep Baker is interviewing Joey.’

‘The Week on the Street
is prime publicity.’

‘I agree.’ He shrugged, dismissively. ‘But Baker’s still a creep.’

‘He’s not one of my favourite presenters either,’ she agreed. ‘How is Joy?’ Funny to mention her name and feel nothing except polite interest.

‘Just out of bed. She’s had bronchitis.’

‘That’s a tough one. Has she fully recovered?’

‘Not quite. But nothing would keep her away. She has a severe case of hero worship of Joey. Is your fiancé, or should I say your husband, with you?’

‘My fiancé. And no. He’s launching a book tonight. It’s quite a celebrity event.’

‘Is that the book you told us about? Rocking your way from the bedroom to obscurity.’

‘That’s the one.’ Carla laughed and leaned forward to look closer at the swan maiden. Why did legendary women emerge from their watery kingdoms, she wondered, only to retreat back again, heartbroken and betrayed?

An elderly woman with a young man in tow elbowed her way in front of them. Carla did not need an introduction; the young man’s resemblance to David was immediately apparent. As the woman began speaking in a loud, authoritative voice about his design he looked sheepishly at David, who shrugged sympathetically and steered Carla away from the crowd.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said when they reached a quiet corner of the gallery. ‘I wanted to contact you and apologise for my clumsy behaviour—’

‘It’s okay, David—’

‘No, it’s not okay…’ He stopped as the noise surrounding them increased. A government minister, surrounded by his officials, moved past and stopped a short distance from them. Josh Baker shook the minister’s hand and they chatted casually to each other while the television crew set up the lighting and camera.

‘Would you mind stepping out of the picture?’ A young woman with titian hair and an angel tattooed on her neck gestured to Carla and David. ‘We’re about to interview the minister.’

Josh glanced indifferently in their direction then stepped into the space they had occupied. The minister assumed a dignified stance as he faced into the camera and his officials gathered supportively around him.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ David said. ‘Have a drink somewhere?’

Rain was falling when they left the gallery. He took her arm as they crossed the street and entered a small pub. When they were seated he lifted her left hand and held it lightly.

‘Quite a sparkler.’ He stared at her engagement ring. ‘When are you getting married?’

‘We haven’t settled on a date yet.’

‘I hope you’ll be happy, Clare.’

My name is not Clare, she wanted to shout, and you are disturbing my heart. You are dangerous. I came to you in hatred yet when you kissed me it seemed as if I’d known the taste of you forever.

As if attuned to her thoughts, he said, ‘I’d no right to kiss you. I’m not normally so impulsive but you were going away and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘We should forget that moment.’

‘I can’t.’ He shook his head. ‘All I knew was that I’d been waiting all my life for you to step into it. I couldn’t get you out of my head. I was going to follow you to Dublin—’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No, I didn’t. Joy told me she’d seen you in the Stork Club and well…there’s only one reason why women shop there. I thought you were—’

‘I’m not pregnant, David. Nor was I then. I was buying a present for my sister-in-law’s new baby. But even if you had contacted me, it wouldn’t have made any difference. Frank and I became engaged shortly after I returned from Clare.’

She had called into the Stork Club on an impulse. Raine’s baby son gave Carla an excuse to browse among the rails of maternity and baby clothes. She had casually mentioned Susanne Dowling’s name to the owner. Dee Ambrose was talkative and, after some prompting from Carla, she had started reminiscing about the amount of time Susanne had spent in her boutique when she was expecting Joy. As if Joy was aware she was being discussed, she had appeared in view then headed off with a young man, who, Carla had decided after summing up his flashy car, could only be Danny Breen. The sight of Joy going off with him had alerted such a strong maternal instinct in her that she had been unable to resist ringing David. The row that followed was now history, as was the maternal anxiety that had raged through her at the time.

David was still holding her hand. She should pull away and bring the conversation to a close, return to her apartment and gather its security like a protective cloak around her. When she made no effort to do so, his grip strengthened.

‘Logic does not even enter into this,’ he said. ‘Nor does honour. I sensed something between us from the first time we met.’

‘David, don’t—’

‘Let me say this…
please
,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you before it’s too late.’

‘It
is
too late.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘I think so.’

‘You
think
?’

‘I fell in love once,’ she replied. ‘Love at first sight. It didn’t work.’

‘So you believe it’s possible, love at first sight?’

‘Maybe. When you’re young and foolish. I’ve been through too much to believe it can happen again.’

‘But it has,’ he said. ‘And I can’t imagine a future without you.’

‘You know nothing about me—’

‘What is there to know?’

‘That I intend getting married to Frank. I wish it was different, David.’

‘You’re getting married to a man you think you love?’

‘Yes.’

The lounge girl placed two drinks on the table. He drew his wallet from his pocket and handed her a twenty euro note. He lifted his glass then placed it back untouched on the table. ‘If only I’d met you sooner…all those years wasted. Like you, I
thought
I was in love. But you don’t
think
you’re in love. You know you’re in love because it hits you like an express train and you realise that nothing will ever be the same again.’

‘I hope you meet someone, David. You deserve to have a happy life.’

‘As you do, Clare.’ His earlier urgency had been replaced by subdued politeness. He lifted his glass again and clinked it off hers. ‘Here’s to happiness.’

His mobile phone rang, startling them both. He checked the name and spoke to the person at the other end.

‘Excuse me.’ He turned apologetically to her. ‘I have to take this outside. The connection is bad in here.’ He stood up and walked towards the exit.

The lounge girl returned with his change. Carla accepted a ten euro note and some coins. His wallet had a seasoned look, well travelled leather. How many times in strange places had he taken it out and stared at the inserted photographs? She placed the note into the flap. The photograph of his daughter and son was similar to the one Dylan had taken. Seeing it again, she was reminded of the passion and fury that had driven her to Maoltrán. The second photograph, she figured, had to be his wife. The woman had short blonde hair and a heart-shaped face with wide-set blue eyes. The kitchen dresser was visible behind her and she was laughing, her hand raised in a startled gesture, as if warding off the photographer. Her other arm held a small bundle against her shoulder.

Pain shot through Carla’s forehead, sharp as ice against her teeth.

She was still holding his wallet when he returned. ‘Your wife?’ she said, pointing to the photograph.

He nodded and accepted the wallet from her. ‘I took that a long time ago,’ he said. ‘It was our happiest time.’

‘I know her face,’ said Carla. ‘What was her maiden name?’

She knew the answer but she needed to hear it from his lips.

‘Sheehan. She was originally from Dublin.’

Carla picked up her handbag and clutched it under her arm. David Dowling had sensed something between them. It had been an earthquake shuddering deep within her and now it had cracked wide open.

‘I have to go now.’

‘But your drink.’

‘I’ve something to do. It can’t wait any longer. Goodbye.’

‘I’ll walk you to your car.’ He shoved the wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket and attempted to rise.

‘No!’ She would collapse if he moved any closer…or smash a glass and then…and then…she spun around and walked rapidly away from him. Outside the pub she ran towards the car park, expecting at any moment to feel his hand on her arm, holding her back, pleading with her to think…think…The street lights danced in dizzying circles as she drove from the city centre back to her apartment block. But her apartment was no longer a refuge. Its walls would be unable to contain her anger.

She parked by the canal and walked along the bank. A swan emerged and glided silently in a circle before disappearing again. No ghostly transformation would be played out among the reeds tonight. The swan maiden was trapped in glass, forged from the heat of a furnace. Solid mass until a crack or splinter shattered the illusion.

Edward Carter…Sue Sheehan…silent, the two of them, silent as the grave. This time Carla would not be deceived by fake scans and the gold circle binding Joy Dowling to her father. She would return to Maoltrán and reclaim her stolen child.