Things We Never Say (14 page)

What was the best thing to do? she wondered as she listened to Battle snoring contentedly. She couldn’t send a bald email saying what Ryan Gilligan had told her. Even if Ellen already knew about her adoption, it wasn’t something they could discuss by email. She’d have to make an arrangement to meet. But it normally took a few weeks between deciding she wanted to see her mother and actually coming face to face with her. Abbey reached for her iPad and opened a website. She clicked on one of the menus and frowned. Even if she sent an email tonight, it would be at least two weeks before Ellen would be able to reply. She finished her hot chocolate and put the cup on the side table. Best to wait until Ryan Gilligan spoke to his client. Ellen’s father. Abbey’s grandfather.

She slid her feet from beneath the dog and let him into the garden for his late-night run. When he’d finished, she shut him in the kitchen again and went upstairs to her bedroom. Although she was utterly exhausted, she wasn’t expecting to fall asleep. There was too much for her to think about. Too much information to process.

However, she dropped off almost at once. In her dreams she was a child again, packing her rucksack, getting ready to move on, trusting that Ellen knew where they were going, but sad that they were leaving the friends that they’d made. Ellen never seemed to mind starting over, but Abbey found it hard.

‘People are the same no matter where you are,’ Ellen would say. ‘You’ll make new friends.’

And she always had. But she’d always had to leave them too. Perhaps that was the real reason she didn’t travel any more.

When she woke the following morning, Abbey’s tongue was a little furry from the whiskey but her head was thankfully clear.

She went into the kitchen and poured herself a cranberry juice, which, like the previous morning, she took out on to the deck. She was very grateful that today was her day off, because she knew that she was still keyed up after her conversation with Ryan Gilligan and even the slightest tremor in her hand would mess up her nail art. She finished the juice and decided not to bother with coffee. Instead she walked down to the waterfront and retrieved Pete’s bike.

She wondered how soon it would be before she heard from Ryan Gilligan again. He seemed very clear that it was her mother he wanted to talk to, not her, but it would be unreasonable for him not to tell her more about her unknown family. He couldn’t simply waltz into her life, announce that the two people she’d always thought of as her grandparents weren’t her grandparents at all and leave it at that. Besides, she was still his only route to Ellen.

He probably thinks we’re nutters, she thought as she placed her helmet on the garage worktop. He probably lives a well-ordered life, knowing everything there is to know about everyone in his family. Although, she reminded herself, weren’t PIs supposed to be maverick loners struggling with some kind of addiction? In all the TV programmes she watched, they generally lived and worked by themselves and tried to overcome their problems with alcohol or gambling or whatever demon the writers had given them. Perhaps Ryan Gilligan had his own worries after all.

She’d left the garage and was making the coffee she hadn’t bothered with earlier when her phone rang.

‘It’s me,’ said Ryan. ‘Hope you’re feeling all right.’

‘Of course I’m all right,’ she said.

‘I’ve spoken to my client. I told him I’d met you and what you’d said. He’s extremely disappointed.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘Indeed. Especially as he’s spent a lot of money looking for Ellen.’

Abbey hadn’t thought of that before. Sending a PI across the Atlantic to find someone must be incredibly expensive. Did that mean that Ellen’s dad was rich? The thought startled her. Ellen wasn’t a materialistic person. Pete had confided in Abbey that he thought it was one of the reasons she’d refused to talk about marrying him. She’d known that he wanted to do well in his career, and had known, too, that success brought material rewards.

‘I can see why that might be a bit annoying for him,’ said Abbey.

‘So he’s asked me to talk to you some more instead.’

‘I’m happy to talk to you but I’m not sure what more I can tell you.’

‘Let’s meet anyway,’ said Ryan. ‘Um – at that bar again?’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Abbey.

‘The Holiday Inn.’

‘Columbus or Beach?’

‘Beach,’ he said.

The hotel was only a few blocks from one of the Mariposa salons.

‘I’ll meet you at Pier 39,’ she told him. ‘There are plenty of places there for coffee and a snack. About an hour?’

‘Perfect,’ said Ryan Gilligan. ‘I look forward to seeing you.’

He was standing at the entrance to the concourse when she arrived. Today he was dressed in a Gap T-shirt and shorts, with Aviator sunglasses on his face and deck shoes on his feet. This time he looked like a Hollywood star playing an American tourist.

She went up to him and said hello and he gave her his bright smile and said it was good of her to come. She steered him through the crowds of tourists to a small coffee and doughnut place beside the restaurant where Cobey’s friend Mike worked. The restaurant hadn’t opened yet and there was no sign of Mike. She wondered if he was in touch with Cobey. If he’d told him that she’d come looking for him. And if Cobey had cared. She clenched and unclenched her fist and then realised that a waitress was standing by their table and that Ryan was looking at her expectantly.

‘Breakfast,’ she said as she ordered a ring doughnut and a black coffee.

Ryan asked for a black coffee too, but passed on the doughnut. ‘I had breakfast earlier,’ he said.

‘I need the sugar more than I don’t need the calories,’ she told him as she bit into the doughnut. ‘Sugar’s good for shock, isn’t it?’

‘I think so. Although shouldn’t it be in tea? Hot sweet tea with milk?’

Abbey made a face. ‘I
so
don’t drink tea like that.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Ryan. ‘But that’s how my mam makes it.’

She liked the way he pronounced it. Mam. Not mom. Kind of cute, she thought.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Down to business?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Mr Fitzpatrick is a retired businessman with a grown-up family. Your mother was born before he married.’

‘Fitzpatrick,’ said Abbey slowly. ‘My mom’s real name is Fitzpatrick.’

‘You mam’s name is Connolly,’ Ryan corrected her. ‘After James and Ellen Connolly adopted her—’

‘My grandmother was known as Mamie,’ Abbey interrupted him.

‘Oh. OK. Well, James and Mamie adopted Ellen when she was a few weeks old, and that made her a Connolly.’

‘What about her mother?’ asked Abbey. ‘Her birth mother, who died?’

‘Her name was Ita Dillon. My client knew her as Dilly. Ita was only sixteen when she got pregnant with your mother.’

‘Oh, wow. That must have been a shock.’

‘In Ireland, in the nineteen fifties, it was more than a shock. It was a disaster.’ Ryan’s voice was grim. ‘Unmarried mothers were – well, it was not a good situation to be in. Ita was sent away.’

‘Sent away?’ Abbey looked at him in astonishment.

‘It was a massive shame on the family to have a pregnant, unmarried daughter,’ explained Ryan. ‘I don’t know how it was looked on here either; I’m guessing America was more liberal, but even so, I’m sure being an unmarried mother wasn’t a great lifestyle choice.’

‘No,’ agreed Abbey.

‘But, like I said, in Ireland it was a complete disaster. Have you ever heard of the Magdalene laundries?’

Abbey shook her head.

‘Not a good chapter in our history,’ said Ryan. ‘Pregnant girls were sent to these institutions, which were run by religious orders. The nuns pretty much considered the girls to be fallen women, sinners who needed to be punished.’

Abbey looked startled. ‘
Nuns
thought that? They were judgemental?’

‘Back then, the Catholic Church had a very firm grip on Irish society. And its views on sexual matters were pretty … well, like you said, judgemental. A girl who got pregnant outside marriage was a fallen woman who deserved punishment.’

‘I understand how society might feel that way, but nuns? Nuns are supposed to be caring and charitable.’

‘And I’m sure most of them are,’ said Ryan. ‘But there are always exceptions. Many of the nuns in these institutions believed that the girls had to be punished for their sins. They treated them badly. Ita Dillon tried to run away.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘She was caught and beaten. She went into labour, and died soon after the baby was born.’

‘Oh my God.’ Abbey looked at Ryan in horror.

‘Her baby was given up for adoption. The couple who adopted her, James and Ellen, sorry, Mamie Connolly, were in their forties. Which back then was very old as far as having a child was concerned. After the adoption, they emigrated to the States.’

‘It was a big move at that time of their life too,’ observed Abbey.

‘James was an engineer. He had skills that were in demand.’

Abbey nodded. She knew that her grandfather had worked for an engineering company.

‘James and Mamie thought it would be a good move. They didn’t have family in Ireland. They thought that it would be better to bring their daughter up in America, where there was hope and opportunity.’

‘I understand. Did my mom’s actual father … Mr Fitzpatrick, you said, meet them before they went?’

‘Not at all.’ Ryan sounded apologetic. ‘Back then, the father’s rights were pretty negligible. Besides, Fred Fitzpatrick was equally horrified by Ita’s pregnancy and was relieved when she was sent away.’

‘No!’

‘It was another time,’ Ryan said patiently. ‘You’ve got to understand that. I know it seems callous, and it was, but people’s attitudes were very different back then. Fred put it all behind him.’

‘Did he even know that Ita had died?’ demanded Abbey.

‘Yes, but – well, there was nothing he could do at that point, even if he’d wanted to. Obviously Ita’s parents wanted nothing to do with him. Mind you, they hadn’t wanted anything to do with her either, even though she was their only child. Anyway, Fred got on with his life. Married Ros. Had three children. Built up his business. Didn’t think any more about it until he saw a documentary on TV about the Magdalene laundries. A lot of information has emerged over the last few years. People are appalled at how the girls were treated. Fred feels guilty about what happened to Ita. He blames himself for not doing more to help her. He wants to meet her daughter – his daughter – and apologise.’

‘Like I said, my mom will forgive him.’

‘He wants to apologise in person.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Abbey. ‘But it’s not possible.’

‘That’s what I told him,’ said Ryan. ‘And he’s decided that he’d like to meet you instead. He thinks that if you hear what he has to say, you’ll understand that he’s a genuine person and will put us in touch with your mother, his daughter, and persuade her to come to Ireland.’

‘So is he going to come here to see me?’ asked Abbey.

‘No,’ Ryan said. ‘He wants you to visit him.’

‘But …’ Abbey was dumbfounded.

‘He doesn’t want to travel to the States,’ said Ryan. ‘He doesn’t want his family to know about Ita yet.’

‘They’re going to find out, surely, if I turn up on the doorstep.’

‘Of course. But that can be managed at a time and in a way of Fred’s own choosing,’ said Ryan.

‘I can’t leave everything here to go to Ireland,’ Abbey protested. ‘I don’t travel much any more. I like staying put. Besides, I have a job. I have commitments …’

‘Mr Fitzpatrick will pay all your travel and other expenses,’ said Ryan.

‘It’s not about the money,’ said Abbey.

‘Look, Abbey. Mr Fitzpatrick is an old man. He wants to meet your mam, of course, but at least if he meets you he’ll feel as though he’s made some progress. It’s the least you can do.’

Abbey didn’t know what to say.

‘You don’t have to decide right now,’ Ryan said. ‘But in the next day or two.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s not a bad person,’ Ryan told her.

She said nothing.

‘Think about it.’

‘I will,’ she said as she stared out across the bay. Alcatraz, silent, unmovable, brooding, looked back silently at her.

Suzanne Fitzpatrick was sitting in the boardroom of the bank. Her friend and accountant, Petra Summers, was with her, along with the two other businesswomen, Beatriz and Concha, who made up the consortium interested in buying the Mirador Hotel. The four women were seated on the opposite side of the table from the bank’s representatives, four middle-aged men in navy business suits. Although they were also wearing business clothes, Suzanne’s skirt and jacket were bright red, Concha’s floral dress was teamed with a canary-yellow jacket, Beatriz was striking in emerald green and, while Petra’s trousers were mocha brown, her own jacket was orange. Walking into the boardroom, Suzanne had remarked that they looked like a packet of Starbursts, which gave Petra a fit of the giggles and caused Concha to look sternly at her.

Perhaps we should’ve consulted about our wardrobes, though, Suzanne said to herself as she listened to the lending manager picking holes in Petra’s financial plan for the purchase, renovation and reopening of the Mirador. Perhaps boring blue is good when it comes to bankers. She continued to allow her mind to wander. She knew the bank wasn’t going to lend them the money, even though the plan was a good one. Picking holes in it was simply an excuse. Ever since the financial crisis more than five years earlier, the banks had become ultra-cautious about lending. A joke, in Suzanne’s view, given that most of the people looking to borrow had already propped up the institutions through taxpayer-funded rescue plans. She wanted to scream this at the boring bankers, but there wasn’t any point. They wouldn’t care. They were going through the motions. And they were wrong to be cautious about the Mirador. Suzanne knew she could make it work. Petra, Concha and Beatriz thought so too. That was why Concha and Beatriz were prepared to put money into the venture. They were expecting a profit. And Suzanne would give it to them. If only they could get the project off the ground.