The Misremembered Man (28 page)

After a few minutes of study, he said: “I’m terribly sorry but I cannot give a name to your birth mother.”

The priest had, in his wisdom, decided to spare Lydia the details. It was a decision he’d had to make before. He’d read that she’d been left on the steps of the Saint Agnes Orphanage, wrapped in newspaper and inside a bag, on November 4, 1934. She had been adopted one month later by Perseus Cuthbert Devine and his wife, Elizabeth.

“That’s all right, Father,” said Lydia, surprising him with her equanimity. “I was not expecting to get a name, but I needed to know, just to make sure.”

Father Finian looked down at the folder in sadness.

“Is there anything else you can give me though?” Lydia said. She managed to keep her voice even. She wanted suddenly to be gone and knew she would never return. It was now or never.

“A sample of her handwriting. Anything?”

“There is an envelope here.” It was not sealed. From it he extracted what looked like a newspaper.

“There is only this.” He handed it over, but avoided her look of bewilderment. Lydia’s hands trembled as she examined the flimsy, yellowed remnant. She read the masthead and date:
The Vindicator, Thursday, November 3, 1934.

“What…what…does it mean?”

She’d forced the words out, in a voice that seemed not to belong to her. Father Finian’s grave expression told her all she needed to know. She held his gaze. Waiting. But he did not answer. She saw his image blur as the tears came. Between them a silence spread, a silence that excused him explanation and forced her to confront what she could barely comprehend.

“I was…was…I was…” She held the paper out to him with trembling hands. “I was…wrapped in this, wasn’t I?”

And as she uttered the words, something in her heart loosed itself and began falling, a part of her she’d always known was there, but which she’d never wished to look at or get to know—the abandoned child within. The child who had always shadowed the woman she tried to be. All at once her disconnectedness, the isolation she’d felt from her “parents,” made sense. She’d entered the world to be merely discarded, like garbage, in a sheet of newspaper. How could her real mother, her birth mother, have done such a thing? Lydia’s despair turned to anger and she wiped her tears.

“You mustn’t blame her,” Father Finian said, trying to console. “She did what she felt was best for you at the time. We do not know the circumstances she found herself in.”

“Yes…I know.”

But Lydia knew as she uttered the words that in fact she knew nothing.

She studied the young man’s face, willing him to comprehend her need, but his mournful look confirmed for her what she’d known from the time she’d read the letter. No one could help her. She was hostage to the unfathomable decisions a young mother had made a long time ago. As she sat there in the musty room with its faded rug and dead flowers, she came to the conclusion that for the rest of her life, nothing or no one would ever release her from that knowledge, that haunting, perplexing, ungraspable knowledge.

The priest shuffled through the pages. He could not meet her eye, just kept focusing on the book. There was a prolonged silence which her voice dared not break. Then, knowing it was hopeless, she rose.

But the priest wasn’t paying her any mind. He was poring over the book with a frown of consternation. He was looking at a page of numbers.

“I think you should sit down, Miss Devine.”

She complied.

“When you were brought here the nuns gave you a number,” he said. “All children were given numbers. You were number Eighty-Five-F. F for female. But there is another number beside yours.”

“So?” Lydia’s pulse began to quicken. “What does that mean, Father?”

“It means that your mother left two of you here. It means that the child given the number Eighty-Six-M was your brother.”

I
t was while he’d sat in Dr. Brewster’s waiting room, with the young mother pacing the floor, that Jamie made the decision.

Thursday the twelfth would be the day, and seven o’clock in the evening would be the hour. He had been adopted by Mick and Alice on a Thursday and had arrived at their home and his new life at around 7
P.M.
Appropriate, then, to mark the date again, even if he knew that what he was about to do would change nothing. It would, however, finally solve the puzzle of his being, if what they said about a life hereafter was true. He had spent so many years of his adulthood trying to fit together the pieces, trying to make everything all right, but now he had reached the conclusion that his awful childhood ensured that there would always be segments missing. Nothing or nobody could make up for the love he’d been denied as a child.

Traveling from the orphanage to the farmhouse that day, so long ago, had enabled him to experience and understand the true nature of happiness for the very first time. The memory of it still shone like a vein of precious metal in the solid darkness of his early life.

He could recall every bend and incline of that wonder-filled journey.

When Uncle Mick’s car rattled off through the orphanage gates, it had carried him away from the pain and the loneliness, and on to a real home and the future he’d so often dreamed of.

There had been just one flaw in that momentous day, one wave of sadness that crashed against him for a moment and then was gone; it was the sight of the four boys he was leaving behind. As the car trundled off he saw their sad faces, hung like a row of pale moons, at the high window. He could only guess at what emotions choked and held them there, staring down forlornly on the departing vehicle.

He’d knelt up on the back seat, watching and waving eagerly, but only Eighty-Four had raised a hand. Then the high walls of the orphanage had wiped them from view, like a duster across a blackboard; they and the prison that held them were consigned to history.

He remembered sitting back down on the seat again and losing himself in the novelty of the car; that final vision of the faces of his comrades slowly fading in the feel of the vinyl upholstery, the moving, magical world waiting beyond the windshield, and the shiny, big steering wheel in the grip of his new father’s hands.

Back in the orphanage he’d painted pictures in his head of the house he’d wanted to live in, the parents he longed to have and the farm he wished to be a part of. When Uncle Mick’s Ford Popular had finally drawn up in the yard that day, and he glimpsed the cottage and the animals, he knew that his dreams had indeed come true. He had become part of the picture. Even the black dog on the step was his, come to life.

His new parents had given him everything, right down to his name: James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone. They had only given him “James” at first, but he begged for more. So Mick had added “Kevin Barry” and Alice “Michael,” after her husband and her father. He was no longer a number. No one would ever call him Eighty-Six again.

He remembered repeating the syllables of his new names over and over, balancing each precious bead of newfound selfhood on his tongue, feeling the satisfying shape of his new identity. Until then, he had been a nobody. Mick and Alice had given him meaning, made him a real person at last.

Memories of the first day with his new parents would never fade. He could not believe the wealth of the world he’d stepped into. He was given a bedroom all to himself: a blue and white room with bluebell drapes at the window and real sheets upon the bed. He could not get used to the silence at night; no whimpering or weeping roommates, and in the morning no clanging triangle, no punishing hands and belts, no nun inspecting if he’d wet the bed.

Alice had given him a new set of clothes: pants and a sweater that fit, socks that came up to his knees and a pair of brand-new shoes. He thought he’d never get used to the sensation of walking in them; for so many years he’d known only the feel of grass, gravel, mud and unyielding stone beneath his bare feet.

They had sat him down at a lace-covered table and during those extraordinary first days had fed him food he’d never known existed: meatballs in gravy, eggs, sausages, chicken and fresh vegetables.

For ten long years he’d been hungry. All he’d known in the orphanage was lumpy breakfast gruel, stale bread and dripping, cabbage water and potatoes with the maggots taken out. And in autumn, the crab apples from the orchard the nuns would throw to the children, and which always made him sick.

He remembered how Mick had taught him to use a knife and fork and how his untrained little fingers rebelled, the strange implements slipping from his grasp, his hands and mouth so used to the feel and fit of a spoon.

But the highlight of that first day—and the one he’d try endlessly to recapture and recreate in his adult life—was that afforded him by the cream bun and chocolate cookie Alice had given him on a willow-patterned plate, after his dinner. He would never forget the taste of this heavenly fare, the chocolate melting in his mouth, the sensation of the sweet textures on his tongue.

Oh, what joy! He was ten years old and his life had begun.

Jamie shifted uneasily as he sat there in the tattered armchair, staring into the debris of his life. It was now eleven thirty in the morning, just seven and a half hours to go. He had the first tea of the day by his elbow, the first cigarette in his hand. The sun was in the window and the dog was in the yard. This was the beginning of a day that would end with his release. He was happy it would soon be over. He was tired of interrogating a deaf-blind God. Tired of his thoughts tearing on the things he could never have. Tired of the same endless mornings that broke on the same endless days. He knew now that life only worked for the fearless and the beautiful.

He’d planned it thoroughly, had hidden a half-bottle of whiskey and a bag containing a chocolate square and a cream slice behind a bale in the hayshed. This fare, echoing as it did his first little joyful feast in the farmhouse, would be his last in the world. He wondered now where the willow-patterned plate might be—the one that dear Alice had given him with those heavenly treats all those years ago. She’d said the plate was precious; a family heirloom that had belonged to her grandmother. Wouldn’t it be fitting to use it again, Jamie thought, in honor of Alice and as part of his final farewell?

He drained the tea mug and crossed to the glass case to have a look. He had not seen it in a long time, but then, he never had cause to look for it. He took out a stack of plates and went through them one by one, but the heirloom was not among them. He checked the cluttered sink in the scullery, but even as he piled the crockery on the drainer he knew it was useless. Those were dishes recently acquired. How could it be there? He stood for a while gazing out the window at a rusted trough sunk deep in the nettles, and in his mind an image stirred, then unfolded: the image of the suitcase under Mick’s bed which held his aunt’s belongings. It was bound to be there.

He climbed the stairs, pushed into the bedroom and pulled out the case, eager to lay his hands on the trophy. The hasps sprang open freely, sending up small coughs of dust. Jamie was surprised to discover that there was very little inside.

He took out a framed wedding picture, a match for the one that hung on the bedroom wall, a satin-covered jewelry box containing a glass rosary, strings of pearls, earrings and a gold wedding band. He closed the lid carefully and put the box back. One of the only remaining items in the case was her white purse—the one she’d carried that day in the orphanage and from which she’d extracted the shamrock handkerchief. Jamie could not bring himself to open it, but knelt upright holding the purse between his hands and said a little prayer, before returning it to the case.

There was no sign of the willow-patterned plate. The last remaining item was an old newspaper, rolled up and secured with a blue ribbon.

“An oul’ newspaper,” Jamie said to himself.

He slid off the ribbon, wondering why Alice would have wanted to keep such an ancient, yellowed thing. He could barely make out the title and date:
The Vindicator, Thursday, November 3, 1934
. He knew then that the paper had followed him from the orphanage and had been kept for that reason. He resolved to burn it right away. He was about to throw it aside, when his eye lighted on what looked like handwriting in the top corner of the inside back page. He peered closely at the almost illegible script.

Jamie ran his finger over what could only be his mother’s handwriting and sat back on his heels. So he’d been given a name. The nuns simply would not let him keep it. The baby sister he’d never known had also had a name. He replaced the ribbon on the newspaper and returned it to the case.

“Lily!” he said the name aloud.

And as he came slowly down the stairs, he realized that he did not have the plate, but, for the first time, he did have his sister’s name.

“Lily,” he said again. “This evening I’ll be with you, Lily, as sure as I’m standing here.”

Lydia drove back from the Mount Carmel Retirement Home, torn between elation and sadness. She would go straight home first; she needed to get distance, needed time to think.

The address Father Finian had given her was terribly familiar. The surname of the people who had adopted her brother was definitely the same. How could she forget a name like McCloone? All the way home, Madame Calinda’s words kept echoing in her head.

But de two of you will be close, whether you like it or not.

When she finally pulled the car into the driveway at Elmwood she was exhausted, and could hardly bring herself to open the front door and step inside.

On the mat she noticed a small white envelope. “Lydia” was scrawled across it in a hurried hand. Another condolence card, she thought wearily, and ripped it open. It was not a card, however, but a short note.

The good doctor. Lydia smiled to herself. The ring is of the telephonic kind obviously, she mused. How interesting; not the cold fish I thought he was. And dinner? Even more interesting!

She stowed the note carefully in her purse and brought her mind back to the present and that other man—the much more important man—who had written to her.

The kettle could wait. She rushed upstairs to find his letters. She only needed to look at one to confirm what she’d already suspected. The addresses were the same:
The Farmhouse, Duntybutt, Tailorstown.

James McCloone was her very own brother. There could be no mistake.

She thought she might cry, but instead she found herself laughing—laughing uproariously.

She knew now why she’d felt a certain kinship with him, how when she had first seen him, ambling up the avenue of the Ocean Spray in those ludicrous yellow shoes, all those weeks before, she’d somehow wanted to protect him from the awful Gladys. Again on the promenade, she knew that he’d been weeping and had felt moved to console him. Then that fateful meeting in the Royal Neptune Hotel. The meeting she had regretted so much. How strange life is, she thought. In being absent from my mother’s deathbed I found my brother. It was as if some divine bargain had been struck behind the scenes. A divine bargain that her father, or rather, adoptive father would have fully approved of.

She sat down on the bed and was amazed at how much she knew about James—her brother James—already. Even though she had only actually met him once. He had a dog called Shep. He played the accordion. He could drive a tractor, but not the car. He drank whiskey and smoked way too many cigarettes. He could bake rock buns without margarine, could spend two hours in the toilet, and had £3,129 and five pence in a post office savings account.

James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone was her brother. She loved the notion, and felt certain she’d love him too. She was not alone in the world after all. Dazzled by all this proof, she danced down the stairs. It was five o’clock. She would have a cup of tea, change and go to see him that very day.

The phone rang as she was filling the teapot.

“It’s Rose McFadden here. Would that be Miss Lydeea Devine?”

“Yes.” She did not recognize the woman’s voice, although the broad accent seemed familiar. “Sorry, but do I know you?”

“Oh, thank heavens for that! I’d a feelin’ James dialed the wrong number. Yes, Miss Devine, we met in the Royal Neptune Hotel not more than three weeks ago. I’m James McCloone’s friend.”

“Oh,
Rose
! How good to hear from you.”

Lydia decided that it was best not to confess that her Aunt Gladys had rebuffed James. She also decided that the time was not right to allude to her mother’s death.

“I’m ringin’ on behalf of James, Lydeea. He asked me to ring you, because d’you know he’s very disappointed. He rang you but he must a dialed the wrong number because some other woman answered and took the nose clean off him. And I knew, Lydeea, that a lady like yourself wouldn’t be at the like a that.”

Rose halted her breathless discourse and Lydia seized her chance.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Rose. I was just about to visit James myself. I really need to see him. I’ve got some great news.”

“My goodness, Lydeea, is that so? James’ll be so pleased. He could do with a bit a good news at the minute, so he could. But would you do me a favor, Lydeea, and come to my house first? We live very close to James, because y’know I don’t think James would be wantin’ you to be seein’ his house without notice of a day or two, so that he could tidy up a bit, if y’know what I mean, Lydeea.”