The Ladies' Midnight Swimming Club(48)

Dan looked once more at the building, mostly boarded up, apart from the occasional window where the storms had blown away their covers, revealing stained glass that might have been striking once. He wondered for a moment if he came back again and broke in – would there be files? ‘And inside?’

‘No,’ Elizabeth said, almost reading his thoughts. ‘This is it. They cleared out everything. Every last bed sheet was sent off to some unfortunate Third World mission; every scrap of paper was burned on a bonfire that seemed to last for weeks before they closed the place up.’

‘God.’ Dan exhaled, hating the regime that had locked down answers so firmly and cruelly from so many.

‘God? I think they lost sight of him long ago.’ Elizabeth shook her head sadly.

‘So, where has everyone ended up? I mean twenty-six years ago? They can’t all be dead and buried already, can they?’

‘Scattered to the four winds mostly,’ Elizabeth said as they turned around the back of the building. ‘In the end, the girls who were left were taken into sheltered housing. Most of them wanted to get out of Ballycove – there was nothing for them here and the notion of starting afresh seemed like the best thing for them. There was only a handful in the end, women who’d gone in years earlier and never managed to make their way out again, until it was too late.’ She pointed towards a tall black railing topped off with neat white crosses and ending with a narrow gate – hardly wide enough for two people. She pushed it in and waited for him to follow. ‘I’ve kept in touch with one or two of them, but they won’t be a lot of help to you now.’

Dan realised they were standing in a graveyard – but not a graveyard like he’d ever seen before.

‘It’s been decommissioned, now of course; all of the nuns buried in some sister convent at the other end of the country,’ Elizabeth supplied. They walked the narrow path, between two rows of identical black-painted iron crosses. Each had the name of the nun it had stood over inscribed in neat white script across its middle. The crosses dated from 1876 and bore names like Concepta, Assumpta, Benedict and Deceline – all long gone out of fashion – if they’d ever been in vogue. Each name was followed by the same epitaph – humble servant of the daughters of hope. It sent a chill through Dan; of course, it reflected perfectly the lives led by these women. They had been in service, their every thought and action dictated by a regime that held them in a sort of ante-room from everyday living. It didn’t excuse the stories Dan had read since he began his search – terrible stories of women made to suffer for one mistake. Still, something of the loneliness of the place – there wasn’t a flower in sight – diluted some of his anger towards these women who until now, he’d seen only as his mother’s tormentors.

‘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.