The Godforsaken Daughter (5 page)

“Sorry, John, would you mind if I had a word with Finbar?”

“Why you asking that? Eh? Eh? You winding me up, you divvy, ’cos if you are, I’ll clock you one. I will.”

“No, I’m not winding you up. John Lennon died four years ago. So, you are
not
John Lennon.”

Henry was sitting within easy reach of the alarm buzzer. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Balby had been correct in his diagnosis: D.I.D. Dissociative Identity Disorder. A rare condition seen more often in females than males—and all the more unpredictable for that.

“I know I died four years ago, you divvy. Shot four times in the back with a point thirty-eight revolver, ’cos I said the Beatles were more popular than Jesus. That gobshite Chapman
. . .
that’s why he did it: ’cos I spoke me bleeding mind and told the bleeding truth. Me spirit lives on in Finbar Flannagan.”

“May I speak to Finbar?”

“No way, ’cos I left him on Innisfree, didn’t I?”

“What’s he doing on Innisfree?”

“You wha’?”

“Why is Finbar on Innisfree?”

“Screaming his brains out with the other woollybacks. He went there ’cos of me. I thought I could scream me pain away. But singing’s easier than screaming. And writing songs is easier than talking bollocks to some bleeding therapist like
you
.”

Without warning, he stubbed out the cigarette, shot to his feet, and launched into song, playing air guitar as he circled the room.

Father, you left me, but I didn
’
t leave you.

I looked for you, but you’d gone away to sea.

So I just gotta ask you: oh why, oh why?

Just as abruptly, he stopped, and meekly returned to his chair.

“You sing very well,” Henry said.

“Of course I sing very well. I’m John Lennon, ain’t I?”

“Where’s Finbar’s father?”

“Don’t know. Me mam was killed in a car accident when I was eighteen. Left me with me aunt Mimi when I was six. Me dad didn’t want me neither. That’s why I wrote that song. Left me when I was five.” Finbar’s voice began to break.

Henry pushed the box of Kleenex across the table. Finbar removed his spectacles and dried his eyes.

“Tell me about Finbar’s parents.”

The patient said nothing. Pushed the tissue into his trouser pocket and put the glasses back on, taking care to loop the legs round each ear one at a time—inadvertently showing Henry the needle marks on his inner forearms. He laced his fingers in front of him, an elbow on each knee, and stared at the ashtray, left leg going like a piston.

“Finbar
. . 
. ?”

“They didn’t fecking want me,” he said in a broad Ulster accent. The air in the room tightened. “He took off when I was seven and she
. . .
She took up
. . .
with
. . .
with
him
.”

“Your stepfather?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t treat you well?”

“No.”

“What did he do to make you unhappy?”

“He beat me ’cos I wasn’t his. And he
. . .
he
. . .”

The pause said it all. It was rare for a victim to give voice to the sexual abuse he’d suffered in childhood. The shame was too great. Better keep it in the dark and suffer. The wound that couldn’t heal because it would never be exposed to the light of day.

“He had power over you once, Finbar, but not anymore.”

“She didn’t fecking keep me, me mam.”

With that comment he’d lost him, as Henry knew he would. Lennon was back. It was safer to be someone else than face the truth about his young self.

For the rest of the session, Henry listened to John Lennon’s ramblings. But he’d met Finbar, for a few moments. That was a start.

He could build on that.

Chapter five

M
onday morning, and Ruby was pinning sheets on the line. The weekend had been a disaster and she was still recovering from the fallout. May and June had come and gone but the memory of the upset they’d caused her still lingered. Getting their bedding laundered and done with was one way of dealing with the hurt. It was a household task she hated. Having to steep them in the bath, then scrub with a bar of Sunlight soap before putting them in the washing machine, meant an aching back and ragged cuticles for the rest of the day. But better now than have the chore hanging there in the future like a rain-fat cloud, ready to drench her every time she passed their bedroom door.

On Friday, they’d arrived at their usual time: the twins. Performed their customary inspection of the twin beds, then retired to the mother’s bedroom and shut the door.

It had become commonplace, since her husband’s death, for Mrs. Clare to retreat to bed an hour prior to their arrival and prepare her martyr act. Box of Kleenex at the ready, rosary and novena leaflets to hand.

On this occasion, however, Ruby had made the mistake of tiptoeing up the stairs to eavesdrop. She knew for certain she was being talked about and decided to take the chance. But May had pulled the door open at the precise moment she’d gained the landing.

“What are you like? D’you think you couldn’t be heard creaking up them stairs? If you want to be a sneak, lose some weight, then you can tiptoe about all you like.”

“Some chance of that.” June’s face at her sister’s shoulder, giving the illusion of a two-headed fiend. “We weren’t talking about you anyway, Ruby.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Ruby said, wrong-footing the pair. Dinner wasn’t really ready, but she thought she’d risk it.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? We’ll be down in a minute when we help Mummy up.”

When they were growing up, Mrs. Clare had been simply referred to as “Mammy,” but Belfast had turned the twins snobby. So “Mammy” got swapped for the more pretentious-sounding “Mummy.”

At the dinner table they discussed their week at Boots department store, May holding forth as usual.

“Mr. Ross praised my work this morning.” She scooped a tiny portion of Ruby’s shepherd’s pie onto her plate and inspected it, fork poised. “I hope there’s no fat in this, Ruby. June and me are watching our figures, you know.” She raised an eyebrow, the unspoken “unlike you” implicit in the gesture. “Yes, he’s so impressed, Mr. Ross, with how I deal with customers. He took me into his office and said, ‘May, you’re a wonder, you are. I saw how you dealt with that lady.’”

“What lady was that?” asked the mother, mashing her dinner up, as if preparing it for a baby.

“Oh, she was hardly a lady, Mummy. A crude old bag from the Shankill, by the sound of her. She was returning a packet of laxatives.”

“That’s a Protestant area, isn’t it,” remarked Ruby.

June rolled her eyes. “Well, of
course
it’s a Prod area, Ruby. What a silly question!”

Ruby shrugged. “Just wondered how you knew she was Protestant just by lookin’ at her . . . That’s all.”

May left down her knife and fork with a resigned expression. “God, Ruby, you know nothing, do you? June and me know what part of Belfast they’re from by the way they speak. Don’t we, June?”

“Dear me.” Martha sighed.

“Anyway, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?” She looked pointedly at Ruby.

“Just askin’,” Ruby said.

“She was returning a packet of laxatives,” June put in.

“Thank you, June
. . . Y
es, she was returning a packet of laxatives with half of them gone,
and
she wanted her money back. Can you believe it? So I said, ‘What was wrong with them? You’ve used fifteen.’ And she said, ‘They’re good for bloody nathin’, so they’re nat. My husband hasn’t been to the toilet for a week and he’s been takin’ them every night and nat a dickey bird.’”

“And what did you say?” asked June, prompting like an understudy. She’d heard the story already on the bus home, knew what was expected of her.

“‘Well,’ I said. ‘They’re the strongest constipation pills we have, madam.’” She scoped the table. “Mr. Ross says we must all address customers as ‘madam’—even oul’ slappers like her—or ‘sir,’ to give a good impression. So I said: ‘In that case you’d best take him to the doctor. It could be serious. He might have a blockage.’ And d’you know what she said, right out in front of everybody? ’Cos there was quite a queue forming, with her keeping everybody back. She says, ‘Blockage, me arse, missus! Gimme me effin’ money back.’”

“Not much breeding in that one. God, there are some very crude people in Belfast. Is it any wonder they’re all killing each other?”

“Oh, Mummy, you don’t know the half of it. What I have to put up with!” She looked down at her plate. “This dinner’s cold.”

“Ruby, put that in the microwave for your sister.”

Any wonder it’s cold? You’ve been gabbing so much.
But Ruby did as she was told.

“You know, next Sunday is the blessing of the graves,” continued the mother. “Could you get another one of those angels for your father’s plinth?”

Ruby replaced May’s plate and took her seat again. She saw the twins exchange furtive looks.

“Oh, we’ll not be coming home next weekend, Mummy,” May said, avoiding her mother’s eye. “We’re going to—”

“Manchester,” June blurted out, and winced at once. Ruby knew by May’s peeved face that she’d just kicked her sister under the table.

Martha stared at the pair of them. “Manchester! And what’s in Manchester that could be more important than the blessing of your poor father’s grave?”

Ruby saw May hesitate. “Well, it’s
. . .
Alistair in work. He’s
. . .
a—”

“He’s a cousin of George Best’s,” said June, coming to the rescue. “And George will be playing at Old Trafford next Saturday, so he got us tickets for the match.”

The mother set her cutlery down and glared at them. “So a hairy-faced, womanizing Protestant who kicks a ball about a field is more important to you pair than Cemetery Sunday. I must say I’m very disappointed in you, May.”

“Och, Mummy, don’t be like that. The tickets were really expensive and it might be the only chance we’ll ever get to—”

“I thought George Best retired last year,” Ruby cut in, risking May’s wrath again.

May glared at her then busied herself with the food plate. “He did. But this is one of those
. . .
What’s it called, June?”

“A friendly,” June said, but she was looking daggers at Ruby, too.

“That’s the one: a friendly.”

“Could you get me his autograph?” George was a heartthrob for the entire female population of Northern Ireland, and Ruby was immediately envious that her sisters were going to actually see him at such close quarters.

May said nothing.

“Well, we’ll see, Ruby,” June said, finally. “But we can’t promise.”

“We’ll bring you home the angel the following weekend,” May added, covertly eyeing her sister. “Now, tell Mummy about that new nail polish you were telling me about.”

Martha took up her cutlery again. She shook her head. “I don’t know what your poor father would say.”

“Yes, Mummy, we launched a new color—Spice Romance—last Tuesday,” June began. She splayed a hand of perfectly painted nails. The twins were blessed with slim, tapered hands. Fingers made for rings, nails made for painting. “Isn’t it lovely? What do you think, Ruby?”

Ruby put down her knife and fork, and dropped her hands into her lap, conscious of her bitten nails.

May smirked. “What a daft question! How could
she
wear nail polish? She’s got no nails. They’re all chewed off her.”

“They’re not chewed off me, May!” Ruby had had enough. The twin had been itching for a fight from the moment she’d stepped over the threshold. Well, now she was going to get one. “I can’t keep them long like youse two, ’cos I wash and cook and clean here every day. It’s easy for youse, standing behind counters, doin’ next to—”

“How dare you speak to us like that!” May jumped up.

Mrs. Clare whacked the table with the serving spoon, staining t
he white tablecloth Ruby had so painstakingly starched that morn
ing.

“Stop bickering this minute!” The room filled up with a stunned silence. But not for long. “Your sisters work hard all week. They need peace when they come home.”

Ruby, close to tears, but using her anger to buttress herself, took aim at the mother. “Oh, and
I
don’t work hard all week, too. Why do you always take
their
side?”

When her father was alive, he’d kept the peace at the dinner table, always supporting Ruby. Since his death, it was as if all three of them were taking their revenge. Pent-up vitriol held in check for years, erupting like a Yellowstone geyser.

“Oh my good God! What have I reared at all?” Mrs. Clare’s beseeching whine heralded the onset of one of her “turns,” a devotional spectacle of theatrical proportions, guaranteed to make Lady Macbeth look like Bo Peep. She slid to her knees, clutching her heart, directing her entreaty to a picture of Dymphna, patron saint of the mentally afflicted, which hung above the kitchen door.

May caught her wrist, trying to placate. “Mummy, Mummy, get up! Get up. Don’t listen to her. Don’t upset yourself.”

But, too late, Mrs. Clare was already in character, gripping the table edge, face twisted in a show of agonized supplication. “Oh Holy Mother of God. And your poor father gone. Oh, my heart
. . .
my heart, my—”

May turned on Ruby. “Now look what you’ve started! You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

“
I
didn’t start anything.
You
did. You said I chewed me nails.”

“And you
do
chew your bloody nails. I was only stating a fact!”

“Oh God. Why can’t I have peace at this time of my life?” Mrs. Clare hung her head and beat her breast. She was working herself up to a grand finale, a set piece that would see her helped up the stairs like Jesus climbing Calvary, followed by the rosary, a cup of Horlicks, a Mogadon, and finally, mercifully: sleep.

But no, this time the set piece was to have a very different ending.

Suddenly, she shot to her feet and flew at Ruby, slapping her hard across the face. Ruby stumbled, shocked.

“Get up them stairs to your room!” the mother wailed. “And if I see your face down here again I’ll—”

“Do as she says, Ruby,” June frightened, pulling her mother back. “Go on, Ruby. Go on. If Mummy has a heart attack it’ll be your fault.”

Ruby held her smarting cheek, staring down at the table. In a heartbeat she’d been returned to childhood: a childhood of beatings and insults at the hands of her mother. Why did she hate Ruby so much? Ruby the punching bag.

Silently she turned away from them, straining to yell, to scream, to rend the air with all the injustice she felt. But she kept her mouth shut, kept the tears at bay until she reached the safety of her bedroom.

Once inside, she collapsed on the bed and surrendered to the luxury of weeping, using her pillow to stifle the sobs.

“Daddy, Daddy, why did you leave me? Why, oh why did you leave me with
them
?”

Exhausted, she fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed.

A lucid dream, full of mystery and foreboding.

Ruby, a little girl again.

It was her First Communion, and she was standing in front of the mirror in her parents’ bedroom in her white frock. Her mother was tying a ribbon in her hair, pulling the ribbon so tight it was hurting the sides of her head. But little Ruby didn’t complain. She felt so special in her “bride’s” frock, her stiff patent shoes and frilled socks.

Task completed. The mother straightened. She was wearing a blue two-piece in shiny satin. A white pillbox with spotted net that came down to her eyebrows and matching gloves up to her elbows.

“That’s you,” she said, looking down at Ruby. “Now I’m Father Cardy.” She mimed, holding a chalice and extracting the host. “Body of Christ.”

Ruby obediently shut her eyes and stuck out her tongue—only to be rewarded with her ear being twisted so tightly that she cried.

“How many times do you have to be told? Say ‘Amen’ before you put out your tongue.”

“A-A-Amen,” Ruby repeated, tearful.

“Stop that this minute or I’ll pull the other one.”

Ruby dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Now, when you’re coming down from the altar, what must you remember?”

“Not tae
. . .
Not tae chew.”

“Why not?”

“’Cos
. . .
’Cos it’s
. . .
it’s the, the b-b-body of C-C-Christ, so it is.”

Next she was being pushed into a candlelit room, still in her white frock. There were elderly people huddled on chairs around the walls, murmuring the rosary. The smell of candle wax, heavy on the air.

At the back of the room sat a coffin on a bier.

Her mother was behind her.

“Go and say a prayer there, for your granny.”

Ruby was terrified. She wanted to run away, but her mother was behind her. She didn’t want to look in the coffin. She wanted to scream.

“Her first death, the wee critter,” she heard a woman say.

“Aye, and the sooner she gets used to it, the better.”

Seven-year-old Ruby shut her eyes tight. Her mother’s hand was on the nape of her neck, forcing her to look at the corpse.

“
Look,
for heaven’s sake!” The mother’s grip grew tighter. “
Look!
”

Ruby opened her eyes. But the corpse was no old lady. It was the present-day Ruby, lying there in her old gingham dress, arms stiff by her sides. A pendant gleamed on her chest. A flat circle of red flanked by two half-moons: one white, one black.

“
A
NEW BEGINNING,
R
UBY.
A
NEW BEGINNING.
”

She woke with a start.

The voice—a woman’s—low and soft, had been right there in the room.

Ruby’s heart was pounding. She sat up, fearful, saw that the window, with drapes undrawn, was murky with night. The dressing table, the closet, the old armchair with her stuffed toys shouldering out of the gloom, all reassured her. The clock read 11:00 p.m. She’d slept a whole three hours.