Her father had been a man of strong faith and
conviction. A conservative Catholic. Reared in the old way, his belief dominated by fear more than love. She hadn’t realized until she became pregnant with Mary. She’d thought his
sophistication, his education, his interest in books and music, the theatre and cinema meant something to him. They did, but not as much as his religion. When she’d told him about the baby
she’d thought he would forgive her, that he would understand, that after a period of anger and grief he would continue to love and support her. But she had been wrong. He had listened in
silence to her words. Then he had exploded with a fury she had never seen before. She wanted him to tell her that everything was all right, that he would look after her, but instead he had hit her
across the face, the full force of his body behind his hand. And when she reeled backwards, losing her step and falling to the floor, he had stood and stared at her. And when she reached up to him
and called to him for help, he had turned away.
She had prayed that night as she lay in bed. But the merciful God did not answer. And in the morning she left the house without speaking to her father. She never spoke to him again. She went to
London, to an abortion clinic, but something happened there. The merciful God intervened. As she was lying on the trolley, the IV already in the back of her hand He gave her the strength to say no.
That she would not have the abortion. That she would find another way.
But where had the other way led? She had been lulled into a false sense of security by all those years in New Zealand when she had been out of reach. She should never have left. She should never
have come back to Ireland. The old God was a vengeful God. He had lain in wait for her. And He had pounced and taken the only thing that mattered.
But still the words came. And she began to pray again, over and over, a repetitive drone that dulled the pain, closed down the senses so at first she didn’t hear the voice, a girl’s
voice: ‘Hi, sorry, I was wondering, do you know where I could get some water?’
She half turned. The girl had a bunch of bright marigolds in one hand and a glass vase in the other. She was small and slight with glossy brown hair that hung down her back. Her eyes were grey
and her skin was sallow with a faint blush of pink across her cheeks. A row of silver rings decorated her ears and a couple of heavy silver chains were looped around her neck. She was wearing a
long red skirt and a white blouse with an embroidered yoke and puffed sleeves. She might have stepped from the pages of a picture book.
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps if you ask the guy at the gate. He’d know.’ Margaret tried to smile as she spoke.
The girl frowned. ‘That’s a nuisance. I don’t feel like going all the way back over there.’ She looked for a moment as if she might cry.
‘Here.’ Margaret held out her bottle. ‘There’s a bit left in this. Take it if you like.’
The girl smiled and took it. ‘Thanks, that’s great.’ She opened the bottle and emptied it into the small glass vase. She pointed towards the flowers on Patrick’s grave.
‘They’re lovely, those lilies you brought. Except they make me sneeze. I’ve an allergy to the pollen.’
‘The flowers? Oh, they’re not mine.’ Margaret shook her head.
The girl looked at her in a puzzled way. ‘You didn’t put them on Uncle Patrick’s grave?’
‘Uncle Patrick?’ Margaret said. ‘He was your uncle, was he?’
‘Not my real uncle, not by birth, but he was a really good friend of my father and I always called him Uncle.’ The girl stared at her feet. She was wearing red leather clogs. The
kind that have a wooden sole. ‘My father died when I was little and he’s buried over there.’ She waved the bunch of flowers in the direction of the trees. ‘I thought
I’d come and see him today. It’s so nice here in the summer. It’s quiet and no
conviction. A conservative Catholic. Reared in the old way, his belief dominated by fear more than love. She hadn’t realized until she became pregnant with Mary. She’d thought his
sophistication, his education, his interest in books and music, the theatre and cinema meant something to him. They did, but not as much as his religion. When she’d told him about the baby
she’d thought he would forgive her, that he would understand, that after a period of anger and grief he would continue to love and support her. But she had been wrong. He had listened in
silence to her words. Then he had exploded with a fury she had never seen before. She wanted him to tell her that everything was all right, that he would look after her, but instead he had hit her
across the face, the full force of his body behind his hand. And when she reeled backwards, losing her step and falling to the floor, he had stood and stared at her. And when she reached up to him
and called to him for help, he had turned away.
She had prayed that night as she lay in bed. But the merciful God did not answer. And in the morning she left the house without speaking to her father. She never spoke to him again. She went to
London, to an abortion clinic, but something happened there. The merciful God intervened. As she was lying on the trolley, the IV already in the back of her hand He gave her the strength to say no.
That she would not have the abortion. That she would find another way.
But where had the other way led? She had been lulled into a false sense of security by all those years in New Zealand when she had been out of reach. She should never have left. She should never
have come back to Ireland. The old God was a vengeful God. He had lain in wait for her. And He had pounced and taken the only thing that mattered.
But still the words came. And she began to pray again, over and over, a repetitive drone that dulled the pain, closed down the senses so at first she didn’t hear the voice, a girl’s
voice: ‘Hi, sorry, I was wondering, do you know where I could get some water?’
She half turned. The girl had a bunch of bright marigolds in one hand and a glass vase in the other. She was small and slight with glossy brown hair that hung down her back. Her eyes were grey
and her skin was sallow with a faint blush of pink across her cheeks. A row of silver rings decorated her ears and a couple of heavy silver chains were looped around her neck. She was wearing a
long red skirt and a white blouse with an embroidered yoke and puffed sleeves. She might have stepped from the pages of a picture book.
‘Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps if you ask the guy at the gate. He’d know.’ Margaret tried to smile as she spoke.
The girl frowned. ‘That’s a nuisance. I don’t feel like going all the way back over there.’ She looked for a moment as if she might cry.
‘Here.’ Margaret held out her bottle. ‘There’s a bit left in this. Take it if you like.’
The girl smiled and took it. ‘Thanks, that’s great.’ She opened the bottle and emptied it into the small glass vase. She pointed towards the flowers on Patrick’s grave.
‘They’re lovely, those lilies you brought. Except they make me sneeze. I’ve an allergy to the pollen.’
‘The flowers? Oh, they’re not mine.’ Margaret shook her head.
The girl looked at her in a puzzled way. ‘You didn’t put them on Uncle Patrick’s grave?’
‘Uncle Patrick?’ Margaret said. ‘He was your uncle, was he?’
‘Not my real uncle, not by birth, but he was a really good friend of my father and I always called him Uncle.’ The girl stared at her feet. She was wearing red leather clogs. The
kind that have a wooden sole. ‘My father died when I was little and he’s buried over there.’ She waved the bunch of flowers in the direction of the trees. ‘I thought
I’d come and see him today. It’s so nice here in the summer. It’s quiet and no
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