The Magdalen Girls Read online

  Advance praise for

  THE MAGDALEN GIRLS

  “A haunting novel that takes the reader into the cruel world of Ireland’s Magdalen laundries, The Magdalen Girls shines a light on yet another notorious institution that somehow survived into the late twentieth century. A real page-turner!”

  —Ellen Marie Wiseman, author of What She Left Behind

  The MAGDALEN GIRLS

  V. S. ALEXANDER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Advance praise for - THE MAGDALEN GIRLS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Meeske

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0613-3

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0613-7

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: January 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0612-6

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: January 2017

  PROLOGUE

  The nuns convened near the doorway like a swarm of black flies. Some giggled with nervous anxiety. Some clutched the crucifix that hung by their side and stared at the three young women who lay supine before them.

  Sister Anne, the Mother Superior, had arranged them in the manner of Golgotha, much like the crucifixion depicted in a Renaissance painting. A punishment should never leave a bruise or draw blood. To do so would defile the body and bring disgrace upon The Sisters of the Holy Redemption. No, it was better to make the penitents realize their mistake through the love of Christ.

  No crimson, royal purples, or azure blues adorned the three on the library floor. The composition was artfully arranged, the troublemaker with the most to regret, Teresa, pretty and blond, taking the place of Jesus. Her head was above the other two girls to the left and right, her compatriots in sin. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the room, catching the motes that swam in the air like beaded jewels in the convent’s old library. Seeing the girls in their plain uniforms, their arms spread in supplication, their bodies as stiff as the boards they were supposed to be nailed upon, gave Sister Anne modest pleasure. She didn’t want to hurt them; she wanted them to realize how much pain they had brought to the Order. She couldn’t tolerate insubordination and vain camaraderie from those who had sinned. Rehabilitation and penance were never far from her mind, nor was love.

  The nuns craned their necks through the doorway to get a better look. They had seen punishments before from Sister Anne, but this was a new twist. A few clucked in anticipation of the admonishment the three penitents deserved. The Mother Superior towered over them like the Holy Ghost and marveled at the thought of the love flowing through her to them.

  Sister Anne crossed herself. “Penance.” She pronounced the word slowly, accenting the two syllables distinctly, but barely loud enough for the girls to hear. She lowered her tall, thin body and knelt above Teresa’s face.

  The girl stared at the ceiling and then closed her eyes. Monica, the dark-haired one, to the right of Teresa, seethed with anger, her gaze full of hate. Lea, white and slender, to the left, was already in prayer. Sister Anne didn’t want to punish Lea, because, of the three, she was the good girl. However, she had to break the bond between them.

  “You know why you are here,” Sister Anne said. “Don’t speak. Just listen.” Her eyes flickered with irritation. “You have hurt us, damaged our Order with your words and deeds. You cannot defame the Lord, go against His will.” She wondered if the penitents were paying attention. Of the three, she judged Monica to be the most attentive, but that was only because she was angry. Why did these girls try her so?

  “You will lie here, in the position of the Cross, until you learn your lesson,” the Mother Superior said. “You must understand what Jesus suffered. You will not eat, nor drink, nor soil yourself.” She rose to her feet. “When the evil has been removed from your spirit, you’ll be able to join us. I do this out of love, so you will know Christ and His ways.”

  Teresa didn’t speak. Lea muttered silent prayer. Monica spat at the Mother Superior. The spittle fell on the hem of her habit. The nuns gasped. Sister Anne called for a towel. One of the obedient Sisters ran to her side and wiped away the offensive fluid.

  “You have much to learn.” Sister Anne’s jaws clenched. She knelt by Monica’s extended arm and withdrew a straight pin from her sash. The girl’s eyes flashed in terror as the metallic sliver descended toward her palm.

  Monica sat up. “Don’t you dare!”

  The Mother Superior called to Sister Mary-Elizabeth, who came to her aid. “Hold her hands against the floor.”

  Monica struggled, but the nun was as stout as the granite that made up the convent. She gave up, exhausted by her fight.

  The Mother Superior ran the pin over Monica’s palms, tracing the outline of the cross with its sharp point. “If I hated you, I would drive this into your flesh to show you what Christ knew,” she said. “His persecutors reviled Him. They wanted Him to suffer, and suffer He did. I don’t want you to die a sinner. I want you to be resurrected into heaven.” She clasped her crucifix. “Sister, stay with them. It’s almost time for prayers.”

  The nuns in the doorway dispersed. Sister Mary-Elizabeth sat in a chair near the window and watched over her three charges. Sister Anne called out, “Remember what I told you. I love you.” She turned and disappeared down the hall, her heels clicking against the stone tiles.

  CHAPTER 1

  The red rose pinned to Teagan Tiernan’s dress looked out of place. She fussed with the closed bud, avoiding the thorny stubs her mother had clipped off the stem, and repositioned it on her left shoulder. It hung there for a moment, giving off its soft fragrance, but then drooped above her breast. After an hour at Father Matthew’s, the rose would be as wilted as her perspiring body, and it wasn’t even three o’clock yet.

  She was tempted to throw it on the bed with the sweater her mother wanted her to bring to the reception. There was no need for it on this unseasonably hot day.

  Teagan thought of a million things she’d rather be doing on a Sunday afternoon than gathering at the parish house to welcome a new priest. She could be taking a spin on Cullen Kirby’s motorbike, or spending the afternoon with him at the River Liffey, enjoying the cool breeze off the water.

  Her mother had picked out the white satin dress. Teagan protested, saying it made her look like a schoolgirl, too immature for a sixtee
n-year-old, but her mother insisted it was appropriate for a church gathering.

  “Come on, all of you, or we’ll be late.” Her father’s anxious footsteps echoed downstairs. His words were directed at Teagan, and at Shavon, her mother. “Me whiskey’s getting warm. The punch will be gone by the time we get there. When that crowd starts drinking, it disappears fast.”

  Teagan sighed. What did it matter? Her father always brought his own flask to social events, no matter the occasion. She grabbed her brush, swiped the bristles through her hair, and glanced in the mirror over her dresser. She fluffed the hair behind her ears.

  Outside, thick clouds drifted near the sun. Teagan squinted at the bright dot that hung like an incandescent bulb in the surrounding blue. If only she could turn it off and extinguish the heat—but she had no more power over the sun than she did getting out of this meeting. She gathered her sweater from the bed and opened the door.

  Her mother caught her by the arm in the hall. “Turn ’round and let me take a look.”

  Teagan swiveled on her low white heels and rolled her eyes.

  “No exasperated looks,” her mother cautioned, while brushing imaginary lint from her daughter’s shoulders. She inspected her from head to toe. “You look like a princess, love. Your father will be proud.”

  She wrested herself away from her mother. “I look like a fancy girl. Do I have to go? We went to Mass this morning. I’d rather take a walk by the river.”

  “No getting out of this one.” Her mother smoothed the lapels on her new dark suit. “And I know why you want to walk by the river. I imagine it has something to do with Cullen Kirby. He’ll just have to wait. Come on, now. It’s important to meet the new priest, and we don’t want to make your father mad.”

  Teagan looked down at her dress. She would die of embarrassment if Cullen or any of her school friends saw her in it. It looked as if she was off to a formal dance. There was only one good thing about it—it showed off her breasts. They were too small, she felt, and the tight fabric lifted them into pointed cones that accented her slim figure.

  She never felt she could compete with her mother, who always looked feminine, neat, and composed, whether she was going to the market or off to play bridge. Today was no exception. The suit fitted her mother’s form perfectly, contrasting with her fair skin. Her mother had pulled her black hair into a tight bun at the base of the neck to accommodate her hat.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Her father’s voice bleated up the stairs. “Do I have to come up there and drag you two to the car?”

  They started down the steps, Teagan first, her mother following. Cormac stared up, turning his fedora in circles. He took out a handkerchief and swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m sick of this heat wave. It’s hot as hell itself, and now we’ll be late. I can understand my daughter having no respect for manners, the way children are these days, but you, Mother, should know better.” He wore a blue suit, a bit too heavy for the day; however, it was his favorite, the one he wore most to work and church.

  Her mother looked sour. “There’ll be plenty of booze, don’t you worry. You’ll get your fill. Father Matthew makes sure it doesn’t run out. You could compliment your daughter.”

  Cormac grunted, then ushered his wife and Teagan out of the house with an agitated wave. He locked the door. They followed him to the small space where their black sedan sat in front of the row house. The car windows were rolled up, the seats baking in the sun.

  She climbed into the back, punched by the stifling heat. Her father seemed more than irritated by the hot day. She wondered whether her mother and father were happy, but quickly brushed the thought aside. She was lucky to live on the south side of Dublin, away from the poverty and tenements of the north side. Ballsbridge didn’t suit her mother, however. She always lamented that they lived too close to Donnybrook and its working-class neighborhoods.

  She didn’t have much contact with the outside world. Her father forbade most everything that was fun. He was a bureaucrat, a pencil pusher, and although Teagan had an idea what he did as an aide at Leinster House, the parliament, she had never been to his office. She always pictured his as an exciting life, dealing with important people, but he constantly complained about the job and how little money he made. But the nuns at parochial school always told her to count her blessings. A tidy home, food on the table, and a car awaited her, when many in Dublin had few luxuries.

  The car jerked away from the curb and turned north toward St. Eusebius Church. It was only a five-minute drive. The warm air streamed into the car, tugging at her hair. The elms lining the road provided patchy shade as they drove. Shavon fussed in the front seat, arranging her new pillbox hat, while her father lit a cigarette with a free hand.

  “Shit!” Her father pounded the steering wheel as they neared the church. “We have to park a field away—and in this heat. That’s what we get for being late. Who the hell holds a reception in July?”

  Teagan protected her hair with her hands and peered out the window. A row of vehicles, shimmering in the sun, lined the road. The church’s car park was already filled.

  “Watch your language, Cormac,” Shavon said as they pulled curbside, a few blocks from the church. “Teagan, take your jumper.”

  She scowled at her sweater. “It’s so hot. I’ll look like a dunce.”

  “Hang it over your arm. A lady should carry it just in case. Manners, you know.”

  Cormac snickered. “Oh, let it stay in the car. Manners won’t get you into heaven.”

  Her father rarely took her side, but in deference to her mother she would carry the sweater; after all, they had an understanding. It wasn’t that she hated her father, but for as long as she could remember, she and her mother had forged a bond. They kept each other afloat when her father was drunk, or when he made strict demands that strained the household. She picked up the sweater and placed it over her arm.

  Her stomach knotted as she stepped out of the car. She didn’t want to be here—few social situations with her parents were pleasant. She already knew how the afternoon would go. Her father would drink too much; her mother would criticize his drinking and throw disapproving looks his way. Teagan would have to make small talk with lots of people she hardly knew and really didn’t care about.

  Too bad Cullen wasn’t Catholic. As a Protestant, he wouldn’t be at this reception. Her parents didn’t approve of her boyfriend, but Teagan didn’t care. She saw him when she could, mostly on the sly. Cullen was her business and not her mother’s. If she could get through this excruciating gathering, maybe she could call him. They might be able to go for that walk after all.

  Two times at St. Eusebius in one day was enough—Mass and now this. The parish church loomed in the distance like a granite prison. Teagan had always thought it didn’t have much going for it, except for the tall belfry. In the afternoon sun, the church seemed forbidding and hot.

  Her father walked ahead of them, eager to get to the punch bowl. Teagan and her mother followed, fanning the heat away. He led them down a path on the north side of the church, through a garden sheltered by tall trees. Laughter spilled out of the open parish house door. Teagan took a deep breath before diving into the crowd. The room was so tightly packed she could barely move. Body heat washed over her like warm bathwater. Cormac waved to a group of men standing across the room and pushed his way to the drinks table. Her mother joined a group of ladies standing near the door.

  Teagan spotted Father Matthew, the parish priest, standing near a table holding the punch bowl and several open wine bottles. A framed photograph of Pope John XXIII hung above it. The Pope, attired in a white skullcap and crimson robes, smiled upon the festivities. Father Matthew’s face reddened as he joked with the parish men who lined up for drinks. Teagan heard her father ask for punch. After getting a glass, he shuffled off, keeping his back to the crowd. Teagan knew what he was doing. She saw his elbow bend after he reached into his pocket.

  Cathy, a girl she knew from scho
ol, shouted from across the room. Teagan thought of her satin dress and blushed, but waved back and took a glass of punch for herself. She had started to make her way through the throng when a man in the center of the room caught her attention. He had to be the new priest. He was dressed like one, wearing the clerical collar, dark shirt, and pants, but unlike Father Matthew, he was handsome and young, with solid arms and shoulders like some of the athletic boys at school. The parish women, young and old alike, circled around him like birds pecking at feed.

  The women hung on his every word. When he smiled, his cheeks folded into dimples. He laughed and swept back his wavy black hair with his fingers. His sky-blue eyes stopped Teagan in her tracks. Had she imagined it, or had he looked at her with more than an expression of interest? A few women eyed her. One in particular, Mrs. O’Brian, seemed to be taking notes on the new priest.

  But he was watching her walk toward him. She hadn’t imagined it.

  Mrs. O’Brian studied them both, her hawklike eyes beaded into dots.

  Teagan pushed into the inner circle, ignoring Cathy for the moment. The priest grinned as she snaked her way through the crowd. Was he smiling at her? A tingle washed over her body. She liked the feeling, particularly coming from so handsome a man. Something about him—she couldn’t put her finger on it—excited her. Was it the thrill of meeting someone important and new? Or was it his good looks? She stopped short of introducing herself, but stood close enough to hear him answer questions about his new duties. Someone accidentally nudged her from behind. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh as she brushed against the priest.

  “Excuse me,” she said, without looking directly at him. “Someone pushed me.”

  The priest’s eyes twinkled. Apparently, he was no stranger to adoring crowds. “No apology necessary,” he said, and resumed his conversation with the others.