‘My dear Mary, it may or may not come as a surprise to you that I had an inkling of the situation you had got yourself into. Especially during that last year. You were living under my very roof, remember?’
I had the grace to blush. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Ambrose. But this ring...’ I held up my hand for Jack to see. ‘You told me that the seven points around the diamond were for each of us seven sisters and brothers, with our mother sitting in the centre.’
‘I did, but sadly, Mary, and to my eternal shame, it was a lie. Or more accurately, I invented a story about its design that I knew would appeal to you, because of your fascination with the Seven Sisters myths and the fact you were one of seven siblings.’
I stared at him, shocked to the core that this man whom I had so adored and trusted above any other had lied to me.
‘So’ – I swallowed hard – ‘where is the ring from?’
‘Before I tell you both how I came by it, I should set the scene. Perhaps the first thing that you need to understand, Jack, is that even though the Irish were victorious in achieving their dream of independence, it was on the British government’s terms. They partitioned the country into the British-run North and the Irish Republic in the South. Not a lot had improved for the poor on either side of the border. By the time you were born in 1949, Mary, Ireland had just become a republic, but the levels of poverty here were more or less the same as they had been in the 1920s. Many had immigrated to America, but those who stayed were suffering from the effects of another depression, which hung across Europe after the Second World War. They were dark times in Ireland; as you experienced, families like yours lived on subsistence levels only – in other words, using what they grew to feed and clothe their families. And for Irish women in particular, almost nothing had changed.’
‘You’re saying that Ireland was stuck in the past, even though things had changed politically,’ said Jack.
‘It was certainly true of rural areas such as West Cork,’ Ambrose nodded. ‘At the time of your birth, Mary, I’d just completed my DPhil here at Trinity and had only just been promoted to Research Fellow. As you heard yesterday, I regularly travelled down to Timoleague to see my dear friend James – Father O’Brien – who had recently taken his first position as priest of a parish that encompassed Timoleague, Clogagh and Ballinascarthy. I had few friends and even less family, and James was my closest friend and confidant.’
‘It was a long drive for you, wasn’t it?’ I put in.
‘Even longer before you were born, my dear, as I didn’t have my red Beetle then. I took the train down, and I remember Mrs Cavanagh, the housekeeper at the priest’s house, greeting me as if I was a stinking bundle of seaweed washed up on the shore,’ he chuckled.
‘Mrs Cavanagh didn’t like anyone,’ I said with feeling.
‘Indeed not. Now, Mary, it was on one such visit to see James that my life changed. So, let me take you back to West Cork and the time that was then, to the moment of your birth in November 1949...’
November 1949
Father James O’Brien jumped awake and sat upright. A crying baby had filled his dreams and, as he listened, he realised he could still hear it. Pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t still asleep, and realising he wasn’t, he stepped out of the warmth of his bed, walked to the window which faced the front of the house, and pulled back the curtains. He could see no one on the path or in the garden – he’d been expecting a young mother with an already big brood to look after, who had come to him for comfort because she was finding it difficult to cope. Pulling up the sash, he leant out and looked down in order to make sure there was no one at the front door, and then let out a gasp of surprise. Lying in what seemed to be a wicker shopping basket was a wriggling bundle of blanket. Which was most definitely where the crying was coming from.
James crossed himself. Babies had sporadically been left on the presbytery doorstep in Dublin, but Father O’Donovan, his priest there when he’d been a deacon, had always dealt with them. When James had asked him where they were taken, he had shrugged.
‘Down to the local convent orphanage. The Lord help them all once they’re there,’ he’d added.
With Dublin being the size it was, it was hardly uncommon for such things to happen when young ladies got themselves into trouble, but here in such a tight-knit community, where James had learnt in the six months he’d been here that everyone knew everyone’s business better than they did their own, he was surprised. He dressed hurriedly, pulling on a thick Aran jumper to ward off the West Cork winter, then did a mental check of his parishioners. Yes, there were a number of young women expecting, but they were all married and resigned to the prospect of their new arrivals. As he opened his bedroom door, walked along the corridor and then downstairs, his mind ran through any teenage daughters in the parish.
‘Dear Lord! Where is that squalling coming from?’
James looked behind him and saw his friend Ambrose standing at the top of the stairs, wearing a pair of checked pyjamas.
‘There’s a baby been left on the doorstep outside. I’m just about to bring it inside.’
‘I’ll collect my robe and be down in a jiffy,’ Ambrose said as James unlocked the bolts and drew the front door open.
The good news was that at least he already knew from the screeching that he would not pull the blankets from a child already blue and lifeless. Shivering in the chill wind, he picked up the wicker handle and lifted the basket inside.
‘My, my. Now, this package might be even more interesting than the parcels of books I’m sent from Hatchards,’ Ambrose said as the two of them stood over the basket.
‘Right then,’ James said as he took a deep breath and prepared to uncover the baby, only hoping the poor creature was not so disfigured that the mother had abandoned it.
‘There’s a thing indeed,’ Ambrose said as they both stared down at what looked like – even to two amateurs – a perfectly formed, if rather red in the face, newborn infant.
‘Girl or boy, I wonder?’ mused Ambrose, pointing to the piece of cloth covering the child’s genitals.
‘We shall find out, but before we do, let’s take it into my study and light the fire. Its tiny fingertips look blue.’
As James laid the basket on the mat in front of the hearth and lit the fire, Ambrose continued to stare down at the baby, whose screaming had now abated to the odd yelp of displeasure.
‘There seems to be something rather wrong with its belly button,’ said Ambrose. ‘There’s a bloody grey stalk sticking out of it.’
‘Don’t you remember your biology classes?’ James clucked. ‘That is what remains of the umbilical cord which attaches the mother to the baby.’ He knelt down by the basket. ‘From the look of it, this little dote is no more than a few hours old. Let’s see whether it’s a girl or a boy.’
