‘They weren’t buried in the local cemetery?’ It wasn’t really a question, more a confirmation. ‘But what about women or children who died here? Some must have died in childbirth, back then the mortality rates were…’
‘Ah, yes,’ Elizabeth said sadly and she told him about the large plot for babies who died before they were baptised in the nearby cemetery. ‘The grave of the angels was opened for any stillborn baby, so even my own son was interred there.’ She smiled sadly. ‘There were no names on the grave, no mark that he’d ever been here – but that was the way. There was no other choice.’ She sniffed, perhaps keeping in the tears for the child she’d lost and who’d been cruelly rubbed away. ‘The mothers, as far as I know, were buried there too, but separate to the babies. I’m not even sure if they put permanent markers on those girls’ graves either.’
‘So, they’ve been forgotten.’
‘Oh, dear, Dan, they were brushed out of Ballycove as soon as they came here. Most of them were already dead as far as their families were concerned; it was only the lucky ones who managed to get away and make new lives for themselves. Not many were brave enough to come back and live in Ballycove – there was nothing for them here.’
‘And the nuns?’ He was looking at her now, hoping against all hope that maybe there might be one or two still living in the village.
‘Ah, the nuns – now that’s a different story altogether. Mostly they transferred into other convents, but they were already a dying breed. Vocations had petered off by the time they decided to close up here, so in many ways, even if the state hadn’t intervened, the convent would have died a natural death anyway.’
‘Would they help?’
‘Help?’
‘If I was trying to track down someone in particular?’ He couldn’t meet her eyes; instead he looked back at the narrow gate that led into that strange graveyard. This place had shaken something up in him, something that had been buried for far too long. And then suddenly he felt an unfamiliar well of emotion. He’d never actually told anyone this before. Tears began to well up in his eyes and he rubbed them fiercely.
‘It’s all right, Dan,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘I understand. You’re trying to find your mother, aren’t you?’ She turned over the engine and then smiled kindly. ‘Maybe Sister Berthilde would remember…’
*
At least, since he arrived in Ireland he had settled into a routine, that didn’t involve getting drunk or dawdling with his maudlin thoughts as he counted what was missing as opposed to what was not. That had been the problem with London, he thought now as he stood looking out into the Atlantic Ocean.
He’d take it as progress; anything was better than standing still. He looked back up the hill towards the village. It was the middle of the week and life was trundling on as normal for the people of Ballycove. Rising high up into the rock, he could hear the occasional car wind its way through the streets. Chimneys puffed out their blue grey smoke into the woollen grey sky and somewhere, across the way, a dog barked loudly, its demand to break free an unending chorus into the resolute sunshine. Dora was jumping energetically to catch a glimpse of life beyond the narrow boundary wall that was just a fraction too high to permit her unfettered liberty. She was ready for a walk and he was glad of the company. With everything else, he knew Lucy hardly had time to bless herself at the moment and a spaniel; well they are energetic little things, aren’t they?
Dan wondered about the scruples of walking to the spot where he knew he could settle himself comfortably for an hour to listen to the voices that were swiftly filling up his manuscript. It wasn’t as if he was watching them; actually, he did everything he could to make a comfortable spot with his back to the ladies so he never laid eyes on them after that first embarrassing time. But it was their voices, their stories, their gay abandon, which was what drew him here each night. Night fell quickly here, but over the last few evenings, he had seen the daylight stretch out a little longer across the uneven water.
Someone had told him that the sun set fifteen minutes later here than it did in London. He wondered what he’d do when the evenings became so bright there was no hiding in the cave. He was not a voyeur. There was nothing lurid in his desire to sit and listen to the giddy and sometimes poignant conversations of the Ladies’ Midnight Swimming Club. There had been nights when he had wept, hearing of Elizabeth’s life and the truth of what it was to be so naively trapped into a marriage that never had even the glimmer of a chance at fulfilment. He cried too when he heard Jo, whose only fear of dying was leaving the people she loved so much behind to fend for themselves. He’d written down her words, but on the page, they didn’t carry the same poignancy – how can a woman die, when there is so much more to be done? she’d railed, her tears only too obvious on her cracking voice.