The Magdalen Girls Read online

  “I knew I’d find you here,” Pearse said.

  “You’re being smart.” She lit a cigarette and handed it to Pearse, who took a drag and sat down beside her.

  “Your ma’s in a foul mood today.”

  “She’s always a bitch, more so when she’s knackered.” Nora took the cigarette from him. “She wanted me to do all the housework and I told her it was too hot—and a Sunday to boot. It’s a day of rest, for God’s sake.” Nora laughed.

  Pearse rolled his eyes. “You’re so religious.”

  “I told her I was going for a walk to cool off. We don’t exactly live at a fancy hotel with air-conditioning.” Nora took a hair band from her pocket and swept up her dark brown locks in a long ponytail so the breeze could get to her neck.

  He stretched out beside her and took her hand. “So, we have a Sunday. What’ll we do?” He winked and crawled closer.

  She understood his not-so-subtle advance and said, “You know my answer. Not until we get away from here.”

  He let out a long sigh. “Be a good girl and give me a puff.”

  “Here, have your own.” She handed him the pack.

  Pearse sat up, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the tree. “I could use a drink to calm me nerves. I get all worked up, and you turn me down every time. As well you should, me being a gentleman, and you being a young lady.”

  Nora snickered, clenched her fist, and punched it against his arm playfully. “And I will until me and you can get out of this dump.” She softened a bit and stroked her hand up and down his leg. “I don’t care where we have to go, even if it’s to London. Just so we have a better life.”

  “I understand, darlin’, but I’ve got me little job here and me parents.”

  Nora batted her eyes. “Wouldn’t you give up that piddling job and your parents for me?”

  “I’m serious, Nora. I’d do it if I could. But starting over with everything new? We’d be lost. What kind of life would we have in London? I don’t know a soul there.”

  “This kind of life.” She leaned over and kissed him. Kissing Pearse was the same every time for her. Their lips melted together in a soft heat, their tongues encircled in passion.

  He moaned.

  Nora pulled away as the bulge below his belt tented into a mound. “That’s what you’ll get, and more.”

  Pearse pointed to his crotch. “Ah, me willy. You’re torture, Nora, sheer torture. You bring out the raging soldier.” He cupped her face in his hands, pulled her close, and kissed her hard. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and you know that. Give me a couple of days to get things together. Let me figure it out and then we’ll be off. Me brother in Cork might find us a cheap place to stay until we can get our feet on the ground. Maybe he can get me some work. He has a good job with the brewery there.” He rubbed his stomach. “A man can always use a stout!”

  Nora’s spirits lifted. “Pearse! You really mean it. We can leave Dublin? Start a new life?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  She leaned back against the tree and sighed. His promise had shattered the anxiety filling her. “Let’s walk, Pearse.” Nora got to her feet and pulled him up. “I’m so happy I could burst. There’s no one in the world but we two right now.”

  They walked toward the Wellington Monument obelisk, where the afternoon crowds had begun to gather. Although Nora had walked the spacious lawn where it stood a hundred times, the monument held new meaning today. Its sparkling granite spire jutted into the sky as if it were guiding her onward and heavenward. She was sure no one in the park felt the way she did—liberated from a life she could no longer abide.

  * * *

  Nora hovered by the phone the next few days expecting a call that didn’t come. Every time it rang she jumped, hoping to hear Pearse’s voice on the other end. Instead, it was the butcher, the grocer, or some ridiculous neighbor asking for her mother. Pearse didn’t visit the house, either.

  “What’s yer problem?” Agnes asked one afternoon. “I’m no eejit. Yer looking for a call from Pearse, aren’t yeh? Looks like yeh may have scared him off. That’s what happens when a girl gets too forward.”

  Nora scowled. “You don’t know a thing about it.”

  Her mother cupped her hand over her right ear. “What’s that, missy? I think yer getting right uppity for a Ballybough girl. Yer father thinks so, too.”

  She held her tongue, but her mother could surely see the flush rising in her cheeks. She swiped the sweat from her brow and went back to ironing. How long would she have to endure this craziness called a home? She was sixteen after all, almost an adult. All she needed was a fresh start. Pearse’s call couldn’t come soon enough.

  Her father opened the door a few hours later looking for tea. Agnes and Nora had finished eating, knowing he’d make a late-afternoon stop at the pub before coming home. He took off his sweat-soaked shirt and threw it on top of the wringer washer. Clad in his undershirt and work pants, he plopped in a kitchen table chair, his ample stomach and beefy arms propped against the dinette. Nora hoped her father had doffed a couple of brews to take the edge off. He was happier after a few drinks.

  Her mother set a plate of cold chicken in front of him. He grunted and said, “Hauling lumber isn’t for pansies.”

  Nora took dirty dishes to the sink. She could feel her father’s eyes following her across the room. She grabbed a brush and scraped bits of food from the plates into the wastebasket.

  “What’s that boy of yers do?” her father asked between bites.

  She put in the sink stopper, turned on the hot water, and poured in green dish-washing liquid, purposely keeping to her task. “You know what he does—takes tickets at the car park. He’s learning to fix cars, wants to go on to a garage.”

  Her father sniggered. “Hardly enough to buy a sandwich, isn’t it? But I guess there’ll be more money in the automotive line.”

  Nora turned, glowering. “He’s going to make a lot of money—you wait and see—enough to take us away from here.”

  Her parents burst into laughter. “What makes yer think yeh can pull yourself out of here, Miss High-and-Mighty?” her father asked.

  Agnes said, “Yeh make me laugh, Gordon,” and then broke into a sidesplitting cackle.

  “It takes money to leave yer home,” her father added, as if to pound the point like a stake into Nora’s heart. “Yer ma and I have never been able to do it. What makes yeh think yer so special?”

  “I’m not special.” Anger rose inside her. She looked at the butcher knife on the counter and considered grabbing it because she wanted to do something awful. Her hands shook at the thought. The bloody scene she had in mind disgusted her, and she fought back the hate filling her head.

  “What good are yeh?” her father goaded. “Have yeh thought about leaving yer home and what that means, or is there only one thing yeh care about?”

  “Stop it! You’ve no right to talk to me that way!”

  He rose like a rumbling giant, halfway out of his chair, and pillared his beefy arms to the table. “I’ll talk any way I like as long as I’m paying the bills.”

  Nora turned back to the dishes and plunged her hands into the soapy water. The warmth and bubbles felt good against her skin. She wished she could immerse herself in a tub of bubbles in a fancy hotel far away from Dublin.

  Nora saw her parents’ reflection in the window over the sink. Agnes touched Gordon’s arm, as if to say “enough for one night.” Did they truly think that obliterating her dreams would make it easier to live with them? Was this their way of letting her down, lowering her expectations, berating her into submission?

  Her father sat down. “I deserve some respect, Nora. I never get drunk because I promised me wife that. A couple of spots now and then, but that’s all. . . .” He spoke in a softer tone.

  He was fishing for a compliment, and Nora knew he spoke the truth. She had never seen him drunk. “So?”

  “Some men spend a pretty penny on drink and it loosens th
eir lips. They should learn to keep their traps shut.”

  She turned, suds dripping from her hands, and stared at her father. She hated the glint in his eye. Was he talking about Pearse and her dream of leaving Ballybough?

  * * *

  The following Monday, the telephone rang. Her mother had gone off to the Moore Street markets to buy fruit and vegetables. Her father was at work.

  Nora dropped her dust rag and answered quickly. Her heart pounded as she listened for the voice she wanted to hear. Finally, Pearse responded sheepishly.

  “Where are you?” Nora said. “You could have called or come by. I’ve been waiting more than a week. It’s been hell here.”

  Nora fidgeted with the cord, pacing as far as the line would let her go. “Well? What’s wrong? I thought several times of coming to your flat.”

  “Is your ma home?” he asked.

  “No. She’s shopping.” Nora looked at the small clock on the end table. It was after 2 p.m. “She always catches the three-thirty bus.”

  “I’ll be over in a few minutes.” The phone clicked.

  She didn’t even get a chance to ask him why he wanted to come over. Should she start packing for Cork, or was his call a sign of bad news to come? She sat on the couch and looked at the dingy walls that felt like a prison. They never seemed to come clean, no matter how much she scrubbed. Her mood had already been darkened by a leaden sky and a steady rain that splashed against the windows. She picked up a magazine and tried to leaf through it, but couldn’t concentrate. She got up, walked to her room, and looked in the mirror. Her hair needed a good brushing, her face a touch of makeup. She fussed for a few minutes with lipstick and powder and then returned to the living room, where she peered through the window.

  She spotted him a few houses away, sprinting through the rain. He looked sad. Not a good sign. He knocked on the door. Politely, she thought. She pulled him into the living room and, like a wounded child, threw her arms around him.

  “Me jacket’s a mess,” he said and broke away from her grip. He brushed the damp from his hair and then stood stiffly against the door.

  “I don’t care if you’re wet. I won’t melt.” Nora pointed to the couch.

  Pearse shuffled to it and positioned himself as close to one arm as he could get. She snuggled next to him.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “I’ve been burning up inside.”

  He looked at his hands and sighed. “I should be out with it—I’ve got some bad news. Me brother in Cork won’t have us.” He looked at the floor. “I tried, Nora, I really did, but nothing seems to work out for me. His wife’s expecting, and he doesn’t have room for us for even a day. There’re no jobs at the brewery.”

  She felt as if she had run into a stone wall, but decided to downplay her feelings for his sake. She straightened and said, “We can go later, or find someone else to stay with. It doesn’t have to be today. After all, we’re in love and we’ve got each other. Just as long as we make it work. We’ll get out of here someday . . . soon.”

  Pearse stared at her, his eyes as dull as the day. “That’s what I want to talk about. I’ve been thinking about us the past week. Are you sure you’re in love with me? It’s only been six months.”

  She crashed into another wall and her heart crumbled. She took a deep breath and shivered against him. “What’re you saying? Of course I love you. Don’t you love me?”

  Pearse took too long to think of an answer. He turned away, unable to look her in the eyes. “Yeah, I love you, but I’m a man and I need to find me own way. You’re young and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  Nora could barely move. After a few moments, she crept away and found herself halfway down the couch. The last thing she wanted to be was scared and bitter, but how could she be any other way? “That sounds like something a boy would say, not a man.” Her hands trembled, and her eyes grew hot with tears.

  “For God’s sake, I’m only eighteen, and you’re sixteen,” Pearse said. “What would you have us do, Nora? Run away to nothing? Your parents wouldn’t buy it and neither would mine.” He turned and faced her straight-on. “Look, the truth is, I met another girl and I want to see her, too. She’s older.”

  She swung her hand toward him, but he caught her wrist before she struck his face. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Too? There’s no room for two. When did you meet this girl?” She lowered her hand in resignation.

  “At the pub. It doesn’t matter when.”

  “The pub?” She dug her fingers into the couch, ready to pounce. “I’ve been waiting here all week, and you spend your nights boozing with some tramp? Was that all it took to dump me?”

  “She’s not a tramp.” His jaw stiffened. “I don’t like how you’re talking. It’s not fair. I better go.” He started toward the door, blurting out, “And you’ve got some nerve, the way you threw yourself at me. Look in the mirror!”

  Nora caught him by the arm and pulled him back. She grabbed his belt buckle and he struggled against her in surprise. “Is this what you want? Is this what she gives you?”

  He shoved her away. “Keep your hands off me. You make me crazy for sex, but so do other women. You scare men. Did you ever think of that?”

  “I’ll show you crazy.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him toward her. She tightened her grip as he fought to wrench free. Nora positioned her right leg under his left and pulled with all her might. They tumbled over the tea table onto the couch. Her hands clawed at his back, as he landed on top of her. There was more than one way to get a man to change his mind, she thought. Sex was as good as any.

  Nora didn’t hear the door open.

  An umbrella popped inside and shook. “It was raining too hard, most of the vendors . . .” Agnes gasped at the sight before her. “Oh me, Christ!”

  Nora kicked Pearse off and he tumbled to the floor.

  “Get out of here, yeh pervert!” Agnes brought her umbrella down on his shoulders with a few whacks.

  Pearse wrenched it out of her hands and tossed it across the room. “You better look to your daughter before you go thumpin’ me.” He got up and faced Agnes. “I’m too much of a gentleman to say what happened. Let’s just say it’s over. I hope you’re happy, Nora.” He brushed past Agnes and out the door without looking back.

  Agnes threw her wet things on a chair and sneered at her daughter. “What the hell have yeh done, you little bitch? I’d believe that boy before I’d believe yeh. Yer father warned you about throwing yerself on men. Now see what yeh did? When yer father finds out—oh, I don’t want to see it with me eyes. Get out of me sight!”

  She wanted to run out the door after Pearse, but she knew it was useless to pursue him. Instead she howled in pain, ran to her room, and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Nora cried on her bed for hours, until she could cry no more, her stomach knotted in anger. She’d heard the apartment door open with a rough call from her father about an hour before, but the house had been mostly silent since then. Her room, at the back of the flat, was as dark as a moonless night because it had no windows. A sliver of light from the living room glowed under her door. She smelled her mother’s cooking, a slab of meat being fried. The odor made her realize how hungry she was.

  Something scraped against the knob, like metal jangling. Her father called out, “Yer not going anywhere. What a disgrace. Tumbling in our house with a man! If you have to go to the toilet say so, but yer mother will take you. I don’t want to look at yer divil face.”

  Nora ran to the door, fear strafing her chest. The door gave a little and she saw the glint of a chain and lock connected to a small linen closet nearby. She shook the door but it wouldn’t budge. “You can’t do this,” she yelled. “I’m not evil. You can’t cage me like an animal!” She pounded against the wood, but no one seemed to hear. Sobbing, she collapsed to the floor.

  Her father’s shadow shifted in the hall. “Yer going away, where they’ll teach yeh right from wrong. It won’t
be long ’til we’re rid of yeh. No more of yer laziness, yer tricks, and draining our money.”

  The shadow evaporated. When she stopped crying, the house was quiet. She wanted to die—if only she could kill herself. That would teach her parents; she hated them so much. But were they really sending her away? Perhaps a new home would be better. What could be worse than living with them?

  CHAPTER 3

  Teagan called the parish house and Father Matthew answered. He hesitated when she asked to speak to Father Mark.

  “He’s not here at the moment,” Father Matthew said. He volunteered to find the new priest and have him call her back.

  “Please don’t bother,” Teagan answered. “It’s a private matter.”

  Father Matthew responded with a tepid, “Oh, I see.”

  “If you can you get him to the phone, I’ll call back in a half hour,” Teagan said. Her father was at work and her mother was playing bridge with friends a few blocks away.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the priest said.

  Father Matthew sounded suspicious and his tone concerned her.

  She walked to the living room and looked at the objects that had been part of her life for so many years. The firescreen was set in place for July. Her grandmother’s antique clock ticked on the mantle. Books were shelved in alphabetical order by author. The Chinese lacquered cups, the export porcelain her mother collected, were artfully arranged around the room. Red and blue dragons and yellow chrysanthemums burst forth from the white plates—animals and flowers that had captivated her as a child.