The Delaney Woman (17 page)

M
aidenstone Prison, the women's high-security facility, was the stuff of gothic fiction, dark, brooding, lichen-covered, its lines thick and ugly, architecturally belonging to no particular period or style. It sat high on the edge of a Welsh moor, surrounded by forbidding gates, a ravine that was once a moat, and guard towers manned by high-powered lights and men with rifles who could pick a crow out of the sky at a thousand meters. Sixteen hundred inmates, all women, lived and worked and served their time within its walls.

Claire Whelan had called it home for seven years although she'd stopped counting long ago. Her sentence was life without parole. Because she had no reason to believe she would ever see the real world again, she'd retreated from the trappings that had once been so important to her: television, radio, newspapers, magazines. Books were the exception. She had not given up books. Books were her solace, her escape. She'd read her way through the prison's respectable library, taking comfort in fiction, in philosophy, history, psychology, ethics and theology. Within three years she'd earned the equivalent of a Leaving Certificate. It gave her pleasure to stretch her mind, even though she was reconciled to never using her knowledge for practical purposes. Humans, she reflected, were amazing creatures. They could adapt to anything. She was a prime example. She wasn't settled. She would never be settled in Maidenstone, but she had accepted her fate. Therefore, she was completely unprepared for her summons to the warden's office that Tuesday morning and even more unprepared for the news that followed.

Flanked by two female guards, Claire listened to her captor's incredulous pronouncement. Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, all political prisoners were scheduled for release. Her papers had been processed. Tomorrow, she would walk out of Maidenstone a free woman.

She slept less than usual on her last night. Catholic fatalism brought on her insomnia. Surely such good fortune would be coupled with a terrible price. Somewhere in the night she would be murdered in her bed or, even worse, her release would be a cruel joke perpetrated by even crueler prison guards.

But neither of the two occurred and in the bitter cold of an English dawn, she was sent on her way in the denims and leather jacket she'd exchanged for a prison jumpsuit seven years before. Twenty pounds in cash, and a check for another four hundred, gratis of Her Majesty's government, was her allotment for seven years of labor. The matron handed her a paper bag with her comb and a toothbrush. Then she unlocked the door and spat at Claire's feet.

A slow smile spread across Claire's face. “And a good life to you, too, Mrs. Metz,” she said. Stepping over the spittle, she walked across the courtyard and out the front gate, free to go home.

The signpost indicated the town of Warrington was three kilometers away. Claire bent her head and, keeping to the side of the road, covered the distance in less than an hour. Stepping into a phone booth, she punched in the number of the woman who had been her only friend for seven years. “Please, answer,” she whispered.

Susan Whelan's familiar voice picked up on the third double ring.

Claire cleared her throat “Hello, Susan. It's Claire.”

Silence and then, “Claire? Where are you?”

“I've been released, but I need some money to come home. I've got a government check but I can't cash it just yet. Can you help me?”

“Can you get to the ferry?”

Bless Susan, always so practical, no questions, no recriminations. “Aye. I'm near the coast. I've twenty pounds in cash. I'll catch a bus to Liverpool and another one to Banburren once I reach Ireland.”

“I'll reserve a ferry ticket with my credit card. Have you enough for bus fare when you reach Ireland?”

“I think so.”

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“I'll be waiting for you.”

Claire pressed her fingers against her eyelids to hold back the tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

* * *

Claire spent the night in a deck chair on the ferry, sleeping the thick, mind-drugged sleep of the unconscious. It was her first uninterrupted night in seven years. The ferry docked in Dublin Harbor in the morning. For three hours she walked the streets, listening to Irish voices, drinking Irish tea, feeling Irish soil beneath the soles of her shoes. Finally, when she'd absorbed enough of her homeland to move on, she found the bus station and asked about the route to Banburren.

There was a queue of three at the stop, a sure sign that the bus was about to arrive. She kept herself back, away from the man in front of her, wanting to discourage conversation. When the bus arrived, she paid her fare and sank, gratefully, into the first empty seat.

Claire stared out the window at the Irish countryside, the tangle of bog-myrtle, the hills bright with gorse and golden fronds of bracken. It had rained recently and there were potholes in the road, silvery in the sun, lovely to look at, difficult for the bus to maintain a smooth ride. No one complained. One did not expect comfort while traveling on a bus through Ireland.

She would have slept but the stopping and starting of the vehicle prevented her. Near Ballybofey a large woman with a bag sat down beside her. Nodding at Claire, she pulled out a thermos, unscrewed the lid and poured out a measure of tea. Then she offered it to her.

Claire took the cup and drank. “Thank you,” she said, returning the lid.

“You're welcome. Would you like more?”

“Yes, please.”

The woman poured another cup and watched her drink it down.

“You look like you could use a bit of nourishment. I'm sorry I don't have anything more to offer you.”

Claire smiled. “That's very kind of you. The tea was wonderful.”

“I'm Maggie O'Hare,” the woman said conversationally. “My sister is in Ardara. I'll spend the week with her.”

Claire slid her tongue across her bottom lip. Her comment required a response. She held out her hand.

“Claire Whelan.”

The woman smiled and her eyes nearly disappeared in the crease between her forehead and cheeks. “People travel nowadays, don't they? It's a different world.”

Claire liked her immediately. “I'm not much of a traveler.”

“Are you visiting family?”

“Yes. I've family in Banburren.”

“Will you be there long?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Does your husband not mind your being away? Or maybe you're not married. Women don't always marry like they used to.”

Claire thought for a minute and then decided on a partial truth. “He doesn't mind my visiting family as long as I don't do it very often.”

Maggie nodded as if she understood. “Mine was the same way after the children left home. Before that, he wouldn't hear of my going away, not unless I brought them along and I could hardly bring seven children with me on the bus, now could I?”

Claire agreed that she couldn't.

“It was a relief when he passed on,” the woman confided. “I loved him dearly but he was ill for a long time. The cancer took him and at the end it was painful. He was in hospital for nearly thirty days. Took his time dying, he did. Poor soul. They gave him morphine to ease his pain, but it wasn't enough. Even the priest was praying for his release.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. He had a good life.” She smiled, and again her eyes disappeared. “And now I'm having one. It's restful to be alone and eat and sleep whenever I please. The children come, now and then. But I tell them I've raised them all up and I'm not about to do it again with my grandchildren. Love them I do, but not enough to take them in every time their parents have a mind to go on holiday. We never went on holiday without the children. Why should they?”

Claire acknowledged that they shouldn't.

“Would you like more tea, dear?”

“There will be none left for you.”

She patted her bag. “I've another thermos right here. I always bring an extra.”

“You're very kind, but I've had enough, thank you.”

“Do you have children, Claire Whelan?”

Claire lifted her chin. “I do,” she said, “a daughter. She's with her father.”

Maggie sighed. “My husband wasn't much of a father, God rest his soul. Fathers are different today, aren't they, with all the feeding and diapering they do. In my day, children were a mother's worry.”

Claire shuddered to think what would have become of Heather without Tom.

“Do you have only the one?”

“Yes, just the one.”

“It's better that way, I suppose. Large families aren't practical, what with everyone needing an education and wanting their own telephones.” She brightened. “We had grand times with all nine of us in the house at once. There was never a moment to spare.”

Claire laughed. “I can imagine.”

The woman pointed at a signpost in the distance.

“We're nearly at your stop. My goodness. It came quickly.”

Claire stood. “Thank you for the tea and the conversation.”

“I enjoyed the company,” the woman said. “Take care if I don't see you again.” Maggie settled her bag on the seat beside her and waved. Claire waved back. She stood at the stop and waited for the bus to disappear down the road.

She hiked the back way, across the turned-over peat bog to Susan's house. The earth was dark and rich, the thick slabs of peat still wet and oozing from an eternity spent hidden from the day. Claire stooped down and dug her fingers into the turf, bending her head, kneading the earth, inhaling the unique, familiar smell of bog. Never again would she take a peat fire for granted.

She stood and faced west, toward the Whelan Bed-and-Breakfast, squinting her eyes. It wouldn't do to go directly home. Heather would be there. Maybe Tom would have guests. He would need time to adjust to her return. Tom wasn't good with surprises.

Susan's porch light was on and a flickering candle sat on the window ledge. Claire smiled and recognized the gesture for what it was, a welcome home, the only one she could reasonably expect. Tentatively, she knocked on the door and stepped inside. Susan would be in the kitchen. Claire followed the delicious smell of afternoon tea prepared as only Susan Whelan could prepare it.

Her mother-in-law's eyes warmed when Claire walked into the kitchen. Susan Whelan wasn't normally demonstrative but the embrace she gave Claire was no less satisfactory than if it had been offered by a more effusive woman.

“You're too thin,” she said, pulling away and running her hands up and down the younger woman's arms.

Claire laughed. “You always say that.”

“This time I mean it. Do you work at it or don't they feed people in that place?”

Claire shrugged. “I ate enough to survive. The food wasn't the best.”

“Are you hungry, lass? I've enough to feed the village.”

Claire breathed in the delicious meaty smell in Susan's kitchen. “I am,” she said, surprised that it was true.

Susan led her to the table and pulled out a chair. “Sit down. I'll have it served up in a minute.”

“Are you expecting anyone else?” Claire asked.

“No, love. I thought you might want some time alone.”

Claire nodded. “I want to see Tom and then Heather.”

Susan pulled a roasting pan out of the oven. “You'll do that soon enough, but first fill your stomach. There's no rush. You've been away seven years. One more night won't change anything.”

“Tell me about Heather.”

“You'll see her soon enough.”

Claire frowned. Susan wasn't looking at her. Was it her imagination or was she trying to keep her away from Tom and Heather? “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

Susan ladled soup into a bowl and set it in front of Claire. “Seven years is a long time, Claire. People change.”

“What are you saying?”

Susan hesitated. “This isn't easy for me.”

“Say it.”

“Tom has someone else.”

Claire stirred her soup and concentrated on breathing evenly. “I see.”

“You refused to see him. Did you expect him to wait?”

Claire didn't answer. What had she expected? A forgiving husband waiting for her with open arms? No. That was what she wanted. It was not what she expected. It wouldn't be that simple. She didn't deserve for it to be that simple. She wet her lips. “Who is she?”

“No one you know. She's a teacher from England, born in Belfast.”

“What is she doing here?”

“She came for a holiday and ended up staying.”

Claire's eyebrows rose. “A holiday? Here in Banburren?”

“Does it matter?” Susan asked softly.

“I suppose not.” Claire stood. “I'm going home, Susan. I'm not hungry after all.”

“Does Tom know you're coming?”

“No.”

“Do you think it's wise to simply show up?”

Claire's lips tightened. “I don't care.”

Susan shook her head. “I wish you would stay here tonight. You'll look at this with a clearer head in the morning.”

“Thank you for your help, Susan. I don't know what I would have done without you for all these years.”

“You always were stubborn, Claire Donovan,” her mother-in-law said fiercely. “I loved your mother and I love you, but I wish you had left my son alone.”

“We have a daughter together,” Claire reminded her. “Whatever we've done, there is that. She deserves to have a mother.”

Susan turned away, defeated. “Take care,” she said.

* * *

Claire quietly opened the back door of the house that had once been hers, stepped inside and walked down the hall into the kitchen. A woman sat at the table reading a newspaper. No one else was in sight. It was late. Heather would be in bed, but where was Tom? Claire took a moment to really look at her competition. Her eyes widened. She couldn't help the expletive that burst from her lips. “Holy shyte. Wherever did he find you?”