The Magdalen Girls Read online

  She broke free of the circle as embarrassment rose in her chest. Cathy grabbed her by the arm when she came within reach. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” she gushed. “You got close to him! What did he say to you?” Cathy pushed back her glasses so she could focus on the priest. “Father Mark,” she said languorously. “I’d love to share my confessions with him.”

  Teagan scoffed. “You can hardly get to him for all the swooning women. All we need are the other Apostles—Father Luke and Father John—to complete the set.”

  Laughter erupted from the corner where her father had joined his pals. He was probably on his second whiskey by now.

  “I think Father Mark fancies you,” Cathy said. “I saw the way he was looking at you.” Her friend stared at her. “My, you look dolled up today.”

  “My mother made me wear this dress—and carry my jumper.” Teagan sighed. “I told her it was ridiculous, but she wouldn’t listen. And you’re daft. Father Mark is old enough to be my da—at least thirty.” Her shoulders drooped at the thought. “And even if he did fancy me, what future is there with a priest? None.” She was happy Cathy thought she was attractive enough to capture a look from Father Mark.

  Cathy squinted at the young priest. “Maybe you could convince him to give up his vows of celibacy.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Teagan fanned her face with her hand. “My God, it’s hot. I wish we could get air-conditioning here like my aunt Florence has in America. She tells my mother about all the luxuries they have in New York City.”

  “Let’s go to the table and stand by the stairs,” Cathy said.

  “Stairs?”

  “Father Matthew has a wine cellar. I helped him and Father Mark bring up some bottles. It’s cooler by the steps.” They made their way to the table and the stairs that led below.

  Her mother walked to the group of ladies gathered around Father Mark. In the corner, her father leaned on one of his friends, sharing the contents of the flask.

  They had only been at the stairs a few minutes when Father Mark broke through the crowd and started toward them. Cathy nudged Teagan in the ribs. “Get ready. Here he comes.”

  Teagan slapped her friend’s hand. “Quit it! I don’t want him to look at me.”

  He stopped in front of them and extended his hand to her. “I’ve met Cathy, but we haven’t had the pleasure.” He had no Irish accent and Teagan wondered where he was from. She took his hand, warm to the touch, and shook it. A thrill shot through her, and she pulled her fingers away. She stared at the priest. He filled out his clothes like no other priest she had met. A question popped into her head: Why would such a good-looking man become a priest?

  “It’s very hot and I’m looking for a particular bottle of wine,” he said. “I think a drop or two would do me good.”

  “Teagan will help you,” Cathy offered.

  She shot her friend the evil eye. “I’m sure Father Mark can manage by himself.”

  “No, go ahead,” Cathy said.

  “I don’t mind company,” the priest said, as he breezed by Cathy. He started down the stairs. Cathy shoved Teagan after him.

  She scowled at her friend, grasped her sweater, and clung to the wall as she felt her way down. It was like being a child again, she thought, struggling against the feeling that she was doing something forbidden by following this handsome man. He was so different from Cullen. His maturity and charm captivated her.

  Father Mark disappeared for a few moments. A flash of light flooded the stairs. She saw the priest halfway across the room standing under the glare of a naked bulb. The room smelled of must and generations of damp walls. Several dilapidated chairs sat in a corner near a writing desk with a broken leg. A large travel trunk with old books piled upon it filled another. Father Mark scrutinized the wine bottles laid out in a wooden rack against the wall.

  He lifted one, read the label, and without looking back, asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Teagan Tiernan.”

  “A pretty name.” He turned and studied her. His blue eyes bored through her in the close quarters. “Your parents are parish members?”

  “Yes. They have been for many years.” The intensity of his gaze made her nervous, but she found it hard to look away.

  Something like sorrow flitted across the priest’s face and then vanished. He flipped the wine bottle in the air and caught it in his hand. “This is what I’m looking for. A nice claret. It’s almost a sin to drink it on so warm a day.” He reached for her with his free hand.

  Teagan instinctively raised her sweater.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to look at the red rose on your dress. I love roses. They’re symbols of purity, you know, especially white ones.”

  She nodded and cupped her hand over the flower, which had flopped forward. The rose was close to her left breast, which the dress accentuated. Her nerves got the better of her. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”

  Father Mark smiled. “In a minute. I’m tired of shaking hands and answering questions. Let me ask a few.” He leaned against the wine rack. “It’s awfully hot to be carrying a jumper.”

  “My mother made me bring it. She thinks a young lady should always carry one no matter how hot it is.”

  “Do you know anything about wine?”

  Teagan shook her head. “My da drinks it once in a while, but he prefers whiskey.”

  “Take a look.” Father Mark held out the bottle.

  She placed her sweater over the books on the trunk, took the bottle, and examined it. “It doesn’t mean much to me.” She handed the wine back to him.

  Raucous voices and laughter poured down the stairs. She wondered if her mother might be looking for her. The thought of being alone with the priest made her stomach flutter, although she wasn’t doing anything wrong. So what if she was caught in the wine cellar with him? He didn’t seem to be too concerned about their meeting.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Ballsbridge, near Donnybrook,” she replied, and found herself embarrassed to say so.

  “I’m from Dublin—north side,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t sound it.” she said. “At least not like any north-sider I’ve ever heard.”

  “I was educated in London. I worked very hard to get rid of my accent and speech patterns. I was ashamed of where I grew up. . . .” He leaned against the wine rack.

  She had only met a few people who lived north of the River Liffey, but she knew life was different there. “You shouldn’t be. You’ve done well for yourself.”

  He tilted his head. “I’ve learned you can’t erase the past no matter how hard you try.” He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t expected.

  She lowered her gaze.

  “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It’s almost blond, special in Ireland.”

  Teagan fought back a blush. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was German. I don’t remember her. She died shortly after I was born—”

  “Teagan . . . Teagan?” Their conversation was interrupted by the slurred speech of her father. He called her name successively, each “Teagan” louder than the next.

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Miss Tiernan. I suppose we’d better go up.” Father Mark pulled the string hanging from the lamp and the cellar plunged into darkness.

  Her father’s calls came in violent outbursts, sending a shiver through her.

  “Let me go up first.” He brushed past her, the wine bottle in his hand. Teagan followed. The priest stopped in front of her father, who stood surrounded by his friends.

  Her father’s eyes shone red in a drunken rage. He reached past the priest and grabbed her arm. The room grew quiet.

  “I’ve been lookin’ for yeh,” her father said, his words slurred. She knew he was angry when his accent burst forth from too much drink.

  Her mother put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop it, Cormac. Don’t make a scene.”

  “A scene? I was looking for me daughter.” He knocked he
r mother’s hand away and bellowed, “What’s to be done when you can’t find your own flesh and blood?”

  Father Mark put the bottle on the table and extended his hand to Cormac, but the friendly gesture wasn’t returned. Her father glared at the priest.

  Father Mark lowered his hand. “I’m afraid I’m to blame, Mr. Tiernan. I asked Teagan to read the titles on some of the holy books in the cellar. I’m not much good without my glasses.”

  Her father shook as the priest smiled at him. He pointed a finger at Teagan. “She’s good at reading, but slow at other things, such as learnin’ about life.”

  “Da, please,” Teagan said. She used the only term of affection she knew that might cool her father’s anger.

  “Yes, daughter, please your ‘da.’” He spit out the words and then slumped against the table.

  Father Mark caught him before he could knock over the punch bowl and the wine.

  “Get your hands—” Her father shook the priest off and grabbed the edge of the table. Father Mark backed away.

  Shavon clutched her purse and stared at her husband. “I think we should go.”

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” the young priest said to her mother. Father Matthew, who had been entertaining a group of older parishioners across the room, walked with wide eyes toward the new priest.

  “Yes, let’s go,” her father said. “But not before I’ve had another spot of whiskey.” He held up his thumb and forefinger in a pinch.

  Father Matthew’s cheeks turned a bright red. “I think you’ve had enough for one afternoon, Cormac.”

  “All right, then.” He hiccupped and his feet shifted unsteadily beneath him.

  “I’m sorry,” Teagan whispered to Father Mark. “Sometimes he drinks too much.”

  “No, I must apologize,” he replied. “Get home safely.”

  Her father muttered incoherently and leaned on her mother as they trudged toward the door.

  Her mother offered to drive, but her father would have none of it, declaring that he was “sober as a church during Mass.” The ride home was quiet except for a sniffle now and then from Teagan’s mother. Every time she blew her nose, her father pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He did seem remarkably sober despite the number of drinks he’d had. She had heard one of her friends talk about “functioning drunks.” He was one, on many occasions.

  When they arrived home, her father exploded. “How dare you embarrass us like that—disappearing with a priest! In the name of all that is holy, what were you thinking?” He swaggered, red-faced and sputtering, toward her. The sour whiskey smell on his breath burned her nostrils and she wished she was anywhere but home. Why couldn’t she be with Cullen walking along the river? Her father was so angry she felt as if she would never get out of the house again.

  His hand came up, as if he was going to strike her. He had spanked her when she was a child, but had never threatened anything as brutal as a slap.

  Her mother shivered on the couch.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Da,” Teagan pleaded. “It was like Father Mark said.” But she knew the priest had lied about the holy books and wondered why. Perhaps he didn’t want her father to know they had gone to the cellar to pick out wine; after all, she wasn’t old enough to drink. She suspected he was covering for her so she wouldn’t get in trouble.

  Her father leaned toward her, the saliva from his angry words splashing across her cheek. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you were thinking. Your slutty behavior will get you into trouble, mark my words. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded her head in shame, and tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Ma, tell him!”

  He raised his hand again.

  Her mother screamed, “Stop!”

  The shrill sound startled her father. Teagan raced up the stairs to her bedroom.

  “And don’t come down until you can apologize,” he shouted after her. “For Christ’s sake, me own daughter tempting a man of God.”

  She collapsed on her bed, crushed a pillow against her, and cried until she gasped for breath. The room, hot from the sun, swam around her. She hadn’t done anything but be nice to a priest. What was so wrong about that? She threw the pillow across the room, sat up, and looked out the window. If only she were with Cullen, instead of banished to her room. The floral curtains barely moved in the heat.

  After about an hour of thinking about what she should do, she decided an apology to her father was in order—not because she was wrong, but to keep peace in the family. To give in was easier than fighting. His drinking seemed to be getting worse each year, his thinking more irrational under the influence of alcohol. She knew how much there was to lose. A few vague memories came back to her—ones she didn’t care to remember—shouting matches that ended with her mother in tears. She had been aware of it when she was young, but had managed to shove the hurt aside. Her mother had never been able to stand up to her father when he was drunk. At least today she had screamed rather than sit like a lump on the couch. Her mother was as frightened as she was that a confrontation might tear the family apart.

  She also thought about Father Mark. Was he thinking about her?

  She got up and looked in the mirror. Her eyes were red and puffy, her coiffed hair a frazzled mess. The rose had withered, the stem broken. She reached behind her neck to unclasp the hooks of her white dress and then sank again on the bed. Her jumper! She had left it in Father Matthew’s cellar. Her mother would be furious about her carelessness, not to mention the expense of replacing it. How could she get it back? She’d have to ask Father Mark to return it, and that would require a phone call. She would have to be cautious about approaching the priest. But she wanted to see him again, if only to find out why he had lied to her father.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pearse McClure jiggled the door at Nora Craven’s small apartment. He found it odd that it was bolted. Usually it was unlocked, because Nora’s mother, Agnes, was always at home washing, mending, or cooking.

  “Who is it?” The question from inside was followed by a round of hacking coughs.

  He recognized Agnes’s gravelly voice on the other side of the door. Her greeting was like a suspicious interrogation rather than a pleasant salutation.

  “Pearse.” He braced himself for the reply he suspected would come.

  “Off with yeh. She’s not here. And if yeh see her, don’t send her crawling back to me. I’ve no use for her unless she mends her ways. She needs to pull her weight in this house.”

  He knew better than to argue with Nora’s mother. A peace offering would be much better. “I brought a pack of fags for you. The brand you like.” He held the Player’s cigarettes up to the window.

  The curtains split and a worn face peered through the wavy glass. Pearse, who had seen Nora’s mother at her worst, was still shocked by her appearance. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was disheveled, her face bloated and devoid of color. “What’s the matter? You look like death warmed over.”

  Agnes opened the door a crack and stuck a bony hand out for the cigarettes. “I’m less than chipper, but I suppose these will cheer me up.” She grabbed the Player’s and closed the door. The curtains fell across the glass.

  “That’s the thanks I get?” Pearse asked.

  “I don’t know where Nora is. Try the alley. And keep your nob away from her. She’s in enough trouble as it is.”

  He headed down the walk littered with paper and broken beer bottles. “Thanks for nothing, old crone. How did you manage to squeeze out your beautiful daughter?” He flipped two fingers toward the house and set off to look for Nora. He had a good idea where she would be.

  * * *

  Nora Craven sat in her favorite spot on the north side of Dublin, along a wooded trail in Phoenix Park. She never tired of leaving the tenement behind. She escaped to the park as often as she could, where her only distraction was the sound of the breeze curling through the trees. The shade of a large elm comforted her on this hot July morning.
She’d had enough of her mother’s nagging. Nora, hang out the wash. Nora, stitch this. Nora, mend that. Nora, scrub the floor.

  Her home life was worse than being in a prison camp. She wondered if her mother had ever been sixteen and pretty like she was. The pictures in the family album had been snapped in happier days, before her mother got married and became a drudge. They showed her stretched across the couch, a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, or at a party, leaning on friends, smiling like a goof. Why couldn’t she be as relaxed now? Nora understood life was hard and work could be harder, but wasn’t there time for play?

  Her blood boiled every time her mother barked an order, and there had been plenty of them lately. She tried to brush them off, but they made her angry, like the ones this morning that caused her to storm out of the house. It wasn’t the first time, and she doubted it would be the last. Nothing could be worse than a life lived like her mother’s. Little money and hours of housework weren’t part of her future. Thank God she didn’t have to go to church today. Her mother was sick and her father was working an odd job to bring in a few extra pounds.

  Nora reached for the cigarettes she had carried on her bus ride to the park and then reconsidered. She didn’t want to become old and wrinkled before her time; however, life was for the young and now was the time to smoke. If she didn’t live now, what memories would she have when she was old? She pounded the pack against her fist, took one out, and then reconsidered lighting it.

  She leaned against the wrinkled bark of the tree. The dappled lawn, the warm breeze, tempted her to doze off and forget her troubles. The air smelled clean, free of the exhaust fumes that swirled on the road in front of her home. She was in a peaceful netherworld, half-awake and half-asleep, when she heard her name.

  Pearse walked toward her, his hands stuffed in his jean pockets. At eighteen and of sturdy body, he had no right to be so damn sexy, she thought. He embraced the “Teddy Boy” look with his slicked-back pompadour and Elvis style. His white T-shirt showed off his broad chest and strong arms. Nora had actually swooned when they’d met at a girlfriend’s house on a cold January night. She hadn’t fallen on the floor, but Pearse’s eyes, with the hint of the devil in them, had made her legs wobbly and taken her breath away. The party turned into more than a Saturday night “steal-a-kiss.” They had fitted themselves into a tight corner and petted their way to oblivion, and by the time they broke apart, Nora felt as if she had made love for the first time, at fifteen going on sixteen. He had pressed against her and instinctively commenced a sexy bump-and-grind, which Nora welcomed. That evening was bliss like no other. Since then, they had seen each other when they could—going on six months—and Nora was ready for more.