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- Herausgeber: Brandon
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Belfast, 1944: American soldier James McCann meets the beautiful and impetuous Rose Rafferty. They fall in love, but their romance is forbidden – and war separates them. Boston, present day: James's children are celebrating his life when they find a wartime letter that changes everything. They have a half-sister, born in an Irish mother and baby home, stolen by the nuns and exported to the US. Their search for justice will cross oceans and generations. It will uncover secrets and lies, revealing the abuse of the most innocent in society by the most powerful. It will pit them against Church and State and shine a light into the darkest corners of Irish history.
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‘Read this book and cry and never forget.’
Anna Corrigan, Tuam victim and justice campaigner
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother, Rosaleen.
‘Tá grá agam duit.’
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. While drawing on the historical events of the Tuam mother and baby home and the Boston clerical-abuse scandals, names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank a number of people who helped bring this story to publication. First and foremost, I would like to thank Michael O’Brien and The O’Brien Press for believing in this story from day one. My friend and comrade Gerry A for his encouragement and inspiration. That wonderful actress Geraldine Hughes, who loved the book and invited me into her artistic world. Trisha Ziff for her support and encouragement. Jo Spain for her sage advice. My family for listening to me and my many ideas and plot lines. Tess Tattersall, my editor, for her invaluable guidance, Emma Byrne for her powerful cover design, and Nicola Reddy for her help in getting the book over the finish line.
And especially two wonderful women, Joan McDermott and Anna Corrigan, for their support and their contributions at the end of this book. I, like them, hope that this novel reminds us all that every single woman or child who survived or perished in these horrible institutions was a real person, who was loved. The victims and survivors deserve the truth and that the world know that truth.
Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.‘The Stolen Child’ William Butler Yeats
Prologue
The body was pale white, almost translucent. It was as if her skin was drawn tight, stretched against her slight skeletal frame. As one nun washed the blood from her cold naked skin with a wet rag, another stood watching, inspecting and waiting.
The bloodstained water gathered in the shallows of her emaciated body and then spilled from the metal trolley onto the floor, forming large pools. The floor resembled that of an abattoir. It was as if the young woman had been drained of every drop of blood.
The watching nun stood with her hands behind her back, rigid. She looked at the gruesome scene before her, dispassionately, calmly, like a butcher appraising the carcass before he makes the first cut. Having washed the body, the other nun dried her and lifted her easily from the trolley and placed her on a white bed sheet that was draped over a large table in the middle of the room.
At just five foot and five inches in height, she weighed hardly more than a small child. She had clearly starved or been starved. As she was placed on the sheet, her long raven black hair spread out behind her head, silhouetting her chalk-white face.
It was the face of a beautiful young woman. No, it was the face of a young woman who had once been very beautiful, not even death could disguise that. She was eighteen years of age. She stared at the ceiling above her through still green eyes and long dark lashes. Her high cheekbones protruded in her gaunt face.
The skin around her waist lay stretched and partly folded against her pubic bone. There were signs of stretchmarks across her stomach and hips. Her stomach appeared to be distended.
The two nuns now wrapped the body tightly in the white bed sheet and secured it with two lengths of baling twine. One nun then lifted her from the table, while the other lit an oil lamp. The nun with the lamp led the way followed by the other carrying the body. The scene resembled a macabre little funeral procession. The building was quiet, except that in the distance the faint cries of several children could be heard. The lamplight threw ghostly flickering shadows along the walls of the deserted corridor. They exited through a door onto open ground at the back of the building. The oil lamp gave them just enough light to navigate their way across the field to a secluded part of the grounds.
When they reached the corner of the large perimeter wall, the nun carrying the lamp swept loose leaves and grass from a square metal door beneath her foot. The area was an abandoned space, covered in high grass, brambles and wildflowers. The nun had navigated a small trodden path to the door. She had been here many times before. She removed a large key from her pocket, knelt and unlocked a heavy padlock that held the trap door secure and lifted the lid to expose a gaping hole that appeared blacker than coal.
Without a word the other nun leaned over the hole and dropped the small body into the darkness below. A second later there was a gentle thud and the sound of rats scurrying away. No prayers were said. There was only silence as the door was closed and locked once again. Before they left, one of the nuns kicked leaves and grass back across the metal door.
Elsewhere in the building a baby lay swaddled in a cot. She had a head of thick black hair and huge round dark eyes. Her features were very fine and symmetrical, and her skin was blemish free like a delicately painted porcelain doll. She was a very beautiful child. The image of her mother. It was obvious she was only a few hours old.
At a nearby table an elderly nun dipped the nib of a pen into a little inkwell and began to fill out death certificates for a young woman and a baby. She recorded the baby’s name as Faith, the mother as recently deceased and the father unknown. She set the two death certificates to the side, dipped the nib of her pen into the ink again and began writing a new birth certificate.
CHAPTER 1
Belfast, 1944
James McCann leaned out over the bow of the ship. So, this is where the doomed Titanic was built, Belfast, Ireland? A year ago, he had only heard of the country, imagined it, the land of his grandparents. A mystical green island full of comely cailíní, rebels, windswept mountains and mischievous fairies or ‘little people’, as his grandfather would call them. Now he was about to disembark here along with two thousand other US marines.
The scene before him looked very different. Industrial chimneys belched black smoke into the sky, huge coal stacks were being deposited from ships moored nearby, and dozens of khaki-painted trucks lined the harbour. Dockers, hard-looking men, shouted instructions to the crew as the ship, the Angelique, slowly edged closer to the grey concrete shore.
Their accents were very different to the softer Cork lilt of his grandfather and grandmother. They sounded deeper, harder somehow. A get-to-the-point type of accent. He recognised these faces, if not the accents. These were the same faces he saw down in Boston Port, his home city, and Charlestown Navy Yard, where he had worked before joining up and shipping out. Tough faces.
James could see thick ropes being thrown ashore as the Angelique pressed against a line of massive rubber tractor tyres strung along the side of the dock. Within minutes the ship had settled into a calm resting state and two large exit ramps were swung into position along her starboard side.
James’s platoon was going to be one of the first to disembark. Their company sergeant yelled at the top of his lungs, ‘“A” COMPANY, MOOOOVE!’ The inevitable swear words that accompanied almost everything that Sergeant Lynch said were lost in a loud chorus of ‘Yes, Sarge’ that rolled along the side of the whole ship like a wave, as dozens of companies and hundreds of marines began to line up to leave.
The journey to the barracks was mercifully quick. The trucks raced through streets just awakening. Canvas covered the trucks as a downpour of rain lashed them and then suddenly stopped. James and everyone else strained to catch a glimpse of the city that would be their home for the next few weeks, or months maybe, who knew? This was the invasion of Europe for sure. Only the President and the generals knew where and when.
The streets were uniform rows of tiny red-brick houses with grey slate roofs. As the night began to lift, thin shafts of light appeared along the edges of some of the little square windows. Blackout curtains or old, black-painted newspapers curled away at the edges to release slivers of light. Smoke began to rise from numerous chimneys, a few at first and then dozens and when the trucks climbed towards the hills outside the city, they could see grey swirls rise in long lines above the streets. Not one apartment block or skyscraper. Now it was he who was landing in a strange new world.
Men hurried along the damp streets, collars up, cloth caps pulled down low across their faces and what seemed like thousands of women, thick high-heeled shoes and the hems of skirts showing below heavy coats and scarfs the only giveaway. Some of the guys closest to the back of the truck started shouting, ‘Hey ladies?’ ‘Hey honey?’ Others whistled.
They were not used to seeing so many women in one place at one time. After months of isolated basic training and a long claustrophobic journey across the Atlantic, excitement filled the truck. For a second, they were no longer soldiers en route to battle but young men, boys on a college football trip, at a big baseball game or a rare day out to the fair. The smell of pretty girls and popcorn, of hot dogs and beer. James was swept up in the excitement.
* * *
It was a week before they were allowed off base and were able to explore Belfast. It was May, and the sun came out. Flowers bloomed and trees blossomed along the avenues and streets. They put a smile on the face of the city. James stood, hands in pockets, facing the grand, ornate City Hall. The huge central dome capped what looked to him like a white Italian palace. It was imposing – he was impressed.
Scaffolding climbed up one side of the building. The signs of a direct hit by the German Luftwaffe three years earlier were visible in the shrapnel that had perforated its façade. She was elegant still, but she now looked as if she had a bad case of acne.
Groups of office workers sat together on the front lawn of City Hall, eating lunch, chatting, laughing and flirting. The war seemed a million miles away. James had left the rest of the guys in a nearby hotel having tea and sandwiches with some local girls who worked on the base. He had decided to take his camera and explore the city. He hopped on a random tram, paid his fair and decided to go wherever it might take him.
On the tram he was met with smiles and nods. By now almost 120,000 GIs had passed through Belfast en route to some front or other. First North Africa and now probably France. The US Navy regularly docked in Belfast and around the northwest coast, particularly in Derry City. The US Air Force flew regular sorties out across the Atlantic providing cover for convoys of troops and war material that travelled back and forth between the ports of New York and Boston and Britain. Thousands of US servicemen had made Ireland and Belfast their temporary home for several years now.
The tram conductor chatted away, asked him where he was going. James explained, nowhere in particular, just somewhere, and they both laughed. The conductor winked conspiratorially and tapped his nose.
‘A girl?’ he asked and then quickly answered his own question. ‘Say no more, young fella!’
James decided to jump off as they passed a pretty park. It was a good place to start his adventure. The conductor shook his hand, wished him well and told him that he would be on that route all day.
‘Come back here later and we’ll get you home to base safe and sound, son!’
The park was busy, like any park in any part of the world on a warm spring day. He could have been back in Charlestown, only the accents were different.
‘Hey mister, got any gum?’
‘Hey mister, got any chocolate?’
Kids swarmed around him, excited to see this exotic Yank in uniform. He reached into his pocket for the pack of gum.
‘Right, guys, ready?’
Before tossing the open pack into the little crowd of boys and girls, he quickly made his escape out of the park before they decided to follow him hoping for more.
The road was busy. Another tram passed the park. He took a photo as it stopped to collect passengers and allowed others to get off. Busy little shops fronting Victorian two-storey houses lined the road: a grocery store, then what looked like a hardware store with the sign ‘Hector’s’, above. Further along there was a butcher’s, then a pharmacy, or chemist, as they called them here. Then a bar, always a bar. This one was called the Rock Bar. Further on down the road was another, this one called the Beehive. Great names.
Further on he stopped for a smoke. He leaned against the wall of what looked like a convent. He peered in through the ornate front gates to a small courtyard, where he read above the double doors ‘The Little Church of Adoration to Our Lady’. Two nuns exited and passed him without greeting. They had stern middle-aged faces that seemed to give him a disapproving look as they went by. His ‘Good morning, Sisters’ was met with silence and suspicion.
He sat on a bench in the shade of the convent. He was lifting his camera to take a photo when he saw her. She was sitting on an upturned crate outside a store. The sign above the door read ‘Seamus Rafferty’s Hardware Shop’. She was beautiful, he could see that, even from this distance. She hadn’t noticed him from the other side of the road. He took several photos of her as she talked unselfconsciously to another girl fixing odds and ends in crates outside the store. Their laughter carried across the road. She smiled and he caught his breath. Her smile was dazzling, even from where he sat. She laughed a loud deep infectious laugh at whatever had been said.
He studied her for minutes. She had long, jet-black hair parted in the middle. She did not wear it in the formal style of the day. It was loose, occasionally blowing across her face. There was a quality about her. He did not know how to describe her. She had a freedom about her, a something, a je ne sais quoi, as the French would say. Thick dark eyebrows and long lashes shaded green eyes, cat’s eyes, a straight nose that sat between high cheekbones and above lush red lips. She did not look Irish, at least not in the popular understanding. She looked more like one of those Puerto Rican girls that went to nearby St Ann’s back home.
He sat for another few minutes watching her and then decided, What the hell, I’m going to go over and just say hello. He walked across the road towards her. He was only a few yards away when she turned and looked straight at him.
He said, ‘Hi,’ and she smiled. He stumbled as he stepped up onto the sidewalk.
She laughed. ‘You OK, soldier?’
His face reddened as he cursed to himself, Shit. He replied, ‘Fine, Miss, thank you!’ He said, ‘Hi,’ to the other girl, who looked a little older.
‘You lost, soldier?’ said the older girl.
‘No, Mam, just exploring the city and taking some photographs.’ He stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Private James McCann, US Marine Corps at your service, Mam.’
She looked at his hand, reluctantly shook it and muttered a ‘Huh’.
He turned to the girl sitting, who stood up and held out her hand.
‘Hello Private McCann, my name’s Rose, Rose Rafferty.’
Her grip was firm, strong and she looked him straight in the eye.
‘This is my big sister, Madge.’
With a mischievous smile on her face Rose curtsied slightly and Madge burst out laughing and shook her head.
‘You’re a terrible flirt. Stop it, Rose. Da will see us and we’ll get in trouble.’
James blurted out nervously, ‘I’m Irish!’
This time Rose burst out laughing and said, ‘You don’t sound Irish, Private, you sound A-mer-i-can,’ in a very convincing East Coast accent. Both the girls laughed again.
James went even redder. ‘I mean, my grandparents are Irish, from Cork.’
Madge straightened her dress and said, ‘Rose, we’ve work to do, inside? Good day to you, Private!’
Rose smiled a broad warm smile and said, ‘Bye, James, take care of yourself over there!’
Both disappeared inside the store. Never expecting to see him again.
* * *
The next few days James couldn’t stop thinking and even dreaming about Rose Rafferty. He was counting the minutes, the hours, until his next furlough. He spoke to Captain Walsh, the photographer who was attached to the company, and asked him if he would develop his film. The next day he handed James the photographs and laughed.
‘I can see why you wanted these ones developed. Quite a find, James. She’s a gorgeous girl.’
James headed straight back to his company hut and his bunk. He took the photos out and quickly discarded every one except those of Rose. He pinned his favourite photo of her to the bottom of the bunk above him, put his hands behind his head and just stared. The rest of the guys drifted in a few at a time. There was the usual ruckus, some guys trying to wind others up, jokes, some funny, others hurtful. A bout of wrestling broke out in one corner of the hut that soon turned nasty.
Just as it was getting out of hand Sergeant Lynch slammed the door to the hut open and shouted at the top of his lungs, ‘LIGHTS OUT, GIRLS! DE AUGUSTINO, MCEVOY, YOU BETTER BREAK IT UP AND GET INTO THOSE BUNKS, NOW!’
Within minutes everyone, including the wrestlers, had stripped down to their boxers and vests and got into their bunks. James stared at the photograph of Rose until the hut was plunged into blackness. He drifted off to sleep with her the very last thought on his mind.
Furlough finally arrived and James took the same tram that travelled past Rose’s father’s store. There was no sign of her outside as he passed, but when he got off a block ahead and started back towards the store she appeared. She carried a metal bucket in one hand and a brush in the other. Her hair was drawn into a ponytail and piled haphazardly on top of her head. Two or three loose strands hung down either side of her face, framing it. Even slightly dishevelled, wearing a plain white blouse and a wrinkled skirt, she still looked stunning. ‘A real knockout gal’ his dad would say.
‘Hi Rose, remember me?’
She looked up and smiled. ‘Well, Private McCann! Still with us, I see.’
She seemed pleased to see him and she had remembered his name – he was delighted.
‘You’re staying with us a little while longer then, Private?’
‘Please, call me James, Rose? Yeah, I think we will be here for another few weeks at least. Maybe months. Sergeant Lynch says it will take a hell of a lot more ships to get us all to France.’
‘OK, James McCann, what has you back in these parts? I see you’ve no camera with you this time!’
James reddened and said hesitantly, ‘Do you mind that I came to see you again? Would you like to go on a date, Rose?’
Rose stopped her work. She leaned upon the brush, looked James straight in the eye and said, ‘Hmm, is that so?’
Rose had had no shortage of potential suitors, both local lads as well as English and American servicemen. She knew they found her attractive – some had even called her beautiful, though she often laughed at the thought. She was just herself, Rose Rafferty. She didn’t care what boys thought of her, or what anyone else thought for that matter. She had a mind of her own, her own thoughts and opinions. She didn’t need anyone else to tell her what they were or what they should be.
Father Dillon, the parish priest, and Sister Celestine, who ran St Comgall’s, her old school, had often chastised her, and occasionally punished her, for what they called her ‘wilfulness’. To this day Father Dillon would cast her disapproving looks when she attended mass in nearby St Paul’s. There were other times when she could feel his eyes on her, looking her up and down from head to toe, lingering on her chest. He made her skin crawl. When she did catch him staring at her, she would stare right back, until he would glance away in a mixture of embarrassment and obvious anger. She could just imagine him complaining to the sisters about ‘that brazen little hussy, Rose Rafferty’. The thought always made her smile.
She looked into James’s blue eyes and saw what she was sure was kindness there. He seemed shy and polite, not cocky or loud like some of the Yanks. He was neither in awe of her nor exhibited any sense of entitlement. He seemed genuinely humble. He was also quite handsome. She noticed for the first time, as she now examined his face, that he had a slightly crooked nose, broken probably. She decided it was cute. She liked this face. She would give this one a chance.
‘OK, James, I’ll meet you at the front of City Hall tomorrow at 12 noon. Does that suit you?’
‘Yeah, of course, Rose.’
‘Shoo, then, I’ve work to do.’ She laughed before looking over her shoulder back into the store. ‘B’fore m’Da sees us talking.’
The next few days and weeks flew by. They met every day James was off base and travelled to the north side of the city, away from ‘prying eyes and nosey noses’, as Rose would explain. One day, one moment that day, she reached out and took his hand. To her own amazement, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.
She fell in love first with his gentleness, with the way he looked at her. She would catch him smiling at her for no reason and he would simply shrug his shoulders, smile, a little embarrassed and say, ‘I like the way you look; I like to look at your face, your smile. So, sue me!’ She would laugh.
Then she fell in love with the way he talked about his family, the stories he would tell her about each of them. The love and respect he had for them showed on his face and in the words he used when he spoke about them. There was a tenderness in the way he expressed himself. She envied that closeness.
At home her father and her older brother, Frank, barked orders, gave instructions. Her father was a strict disciplinarian. Children were to be seen and not heard, especially girls. Daughters were to be strictly chaperoned and their virginity closely guarded until marriage. He seemed to her to be a hard and unyielding man. Her mother, Bernadette, was the opposite. She was a soft and kindly soul, who spent her time keeping the peace between father and daughter.
One afternoon, Rose and James sat on the grass at the zoo having lunch and he was telling her something about the other guys in his platoon. She looked across at his face and could see the depth of love there, even in his expression.
This boy is going to war, and is willing to die for his friends, and probably will. The thought terrified her. She suddenly realised, I’m falling in love with him.
She leaned over close to his face, gently held him in her two hands and kissed him tenderly. He drew back in surprise, but then kissed her in return.
* * *
Things back at base were getting busier. More ships and trucks were arriving each day with more troops. The number of troop ships in the harbour had almost doubled since James’s arrival. Speculation, rumour and gossip about shipping out was rife. One thing they all agreed upon was that it was very close, probably days rather than weeks.
There was a big band dance night in the Floral Hall up beside the zoo on Saturday. All the guys were going and bringing their girlfriends, or at least those who had one. James asked Rose would she go and she said yes, and she would get Madge to come with her. There was a céilí that night in St Mary’s Hall. They would tell her father they were going there. Father Dillon frequently attended the céilí to supervise and to make sure there was no inappropriate behaviour or contact between the boys and girls. They would be allowed to go if he believed Father Dillon would be there.
It was a glorious summer night. Two or three hundred boys, many of them in smart US uniforms, and girls wearing their finest dresses stretched back from the entrance to the Floral Hall. The brilliant white hall nestled among green trees and lush vegetation like a pearl. The long queue wrapped itself around the circular Art Deco building like a colourful sweet-scented garland. As James and his friends waited to get into the dance hall, it was impossible to see very far back or forward in the line. He could not make out any sign of Rose or Madge.
Eventually they reached the entrance and paid for their tickets. Once inside, their group dashed to secure themselves tables and chairs close to the dance floor and then staked their claim. No one would move until the hall was full and then only a few at a time. Standing groups would frequently occupy someone else’s tables and chairs and occasionally a brawl would break out.
James stood anxiously watching the entrance for Rose. As the minutes passed, he became more and more worried that she might not turn up. He scanned the room, turning a full 360 degrees, thinking to himself, Maybe I missed her coming in? As he swung his attention back to the entrance, he stopped in his tracks. She stood there looking intently towards him. She was stunning. He almost ran around the hall to reach her and swept her up in his arms. They held each other in a tight grip and looked into each other’s eyes. Everyone else disappeared as they kissed. It was Madge’s voice that finally broke the spell.
‘Rose, Rose, Jesus, stop that! Someone might know us here?!’
‘Ah, for Christ’s sake, Madge, would you calm down! No one will know us here; the place is full of Protestants. Let’s sit down.’
James took Rose’s hand and led her and Madge to their table, where he had closely guarded two seats for them.
‘James, will you get me and Madge a drink? Two gins and tonics please!’ She handed him a one-pound note and when James refused to take the money, she said firmly, ‘I insist, James!’
‘Jesus, Holy Mary and Joseph, Rose, you’re going to get us both slaughtered when we get home,’ said Madge.
Rose just laughed and smiled that smile back at her and said, ‘Wise up, Madge. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow might never come.’
James and Rose danced most of the night and when they were not dancing, they held hands and talked and talked. Rose was a woman with ideas and James loved that.
‘You know we make a great couple, James?’
He leaned closer, took her two hands in his and said, ‘I love you, Rose Rafferty. If I survive this war, will you marry me and come home with me to Boston?’
‘Yes, I will, James, in a heartbeat!’ she replied, and then she hugged him until his bones cracked.
They talked and laughed and made crazy plans. He described Boston to her, the tall buildings and apartment blocks. The beautiful triple-deck houses with their open verandas. The game of baseball and the Red Sox. She told him she wanted to work, to earn her own money. He asked her what she wanted to do. Rose laughed and exclaimed, ‘Anything, everything. What about movie star!’
At the end of the evening the crowd spilled out of the Floral Hall. They were greeted by a huge moon in the sky. Rose kicked her shoes off one by one and ran to the top of the hill. She pointed to the moon that sat on the horizon behind her, balanced it on the end of her finger and shouted, ‘Come on, James. It’s our moon tonight!’
Madge shouted, ‘Rose, where are you going? We have to be getting home?’
As James ran up the hill after her, Rose shouted back, ‘Tell Mum I’ll be home soon.’
He followed her and they both disappeared into the trees.
She led him deeper into the trees until they found a clearing. James took off his jacket and laid it on the ground for them to sit on. They sat together in silence for a minute or two. Belfast Lough lay before them illuminated by the red moon.
‘Do you know, Rose, that some Native American tribes called this moon the Rose moon? This is your moon, Rose!’
Her smile seemed to brighten the space between them. The moon was huge. Its reflection ran across the lough and lit up the whole mountain behind them.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ said Rose.
‘Beautiful! Did you know that some people say the mountain resembles Napoleon’s nose?’
Rose giggled. ‘You don’t say, James McCann. And how might you know that?’
‘Well, Miss Rafferty, you might be surprised at just how much I know about Belfast and Ireland. In fact, it so impressed one famous visitor, a Mr Jonathan Swift, who believed its silhouette resembled a sleeping giant, that it inspired him to write Gulliver’s Travels.’
‘Oh, so you’re not just a pretty face, then?’ And they both laughed.
Then for a few quiet moments they simply held hands and looked at the glorious moon.
‘Some things are just meant to be, James. We are meant to be here together, this night, below this moon. It’s a special night, don’t you feel it? I can feel it.’
She pushed him onto his back and lay herself on top of him. She clasped his hands in hers, finger by finger, until they were locked and circled them around above his head in the grass. Before kissing him, she looked into his eyes and said, ‘Tonight, James, I am yours, mind, body and soul, and you are mine. Forever!’
* * *
The next day all leave was cancelled at base and James’s company was told to kit up and get ready to ship out within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. No one was getting on or off base unless they had orders to do so. James, along with every other GI who had a girl in town, was told to write her a letter and do it damn quick. He lay on his bunk, pen and paper in hand.
June 4, 1944
My darling Rose,
We are shipping out. I can tell you no more than that. I will not be allowed to see you before I leave. Last night was the most perfect night of my life. I love you with all my heart and all my soul.
If I survive this war, I will come back to Belfast and if you still want me, I will marry you. I’ll take you back to Boston and my family will love you as much as I do. Boston is just about big enough for you, my love, and your big ideas, just about! I’m smiling here.
I will do my best to write to you every single day, circumstances permitting. I will post my letters where and when I get the opportunity.
You were always the one who believed, you were always the one who went on feelings, heart, instinct. Well, this time I believe. I believe in you, in us, in our life together.
I believe we met for a reason, and I believe because of you I will survive this war. Every time you see a full moon, especially a Rose moon, think of me, as I will think of you.
Your loving fiancé
James
PS I owe you a ring. x
Within a few hours, the mail was rounded up and the troops, including Private James McCann, were boarding ships on their way to England and France.
A few days later Seamus Rafferty was opening the store when the postman handed him a letter addressed to Rose. He stepped back inside and opened the letter. He went into a rage when he read it and muttered to himself, ‘That little whore!’
He would kill her, he thought, as he rushed towards the stairs. Then he stopped. He knew she would simply defy him. He could beat her black and blue and she would still defy him. If she was pregnant and word got out, he would be shamed before the whole world. He would not be able to hold his head up in mass. People would pass the shop by and take their business elsewhere.
He sat down on a chair in the back parlour and stared at last night’s embers in the hearth. After a few minutes he stood up and approached the fire. He took the letter from his pocket and tossed it in. The letter smouldered before eventually bursting into flames.
The next morning he waited outside the store to catch the postman. He handed him a twenty-pound note, a considerable sum of money, and said, ‘Any letter addressed to our Rose is to be returned to sender, understand?’
‘Of course, Mr Rafferty, of course.’
‘Good morning to yah.’ He tipped his head towards the road as if to say ‘On your way’ and turned back into the store.
‘Good morning, Mr Rafferty,’ said the postman, as he scurried away, tucking the twenty-pound note deep into his pocket.
CHAPTER 2
Belfast, 1944
Rose watched and waited for a letter every day, but none came. Each day she walked to the docks and watched the ships depart, hoping to catch a glimpse of James. She knew there could be any number of reasons why she had not received a letter yet. But she was sure she would. She continued to wait and to hope. She missed her period. She was normally as regular as clockwork. She knew her body well. She was pregnant. This baby is a blessing, she said to herself. She did not give a damn what anyone would think or say. James would return from France; they would marry and move to Boston. They would have a fantastic life together. Theirs would be a family and a home full of love.
Weeks passed and still no letter came. The child began to grow inside her and she grew bigger. She began to worry that someone else might notice. When she examined her tummy at night, it appeared huge to her, though rationally she realised it couldn’t be, not in such a few short months. She thought she detected a new sullenness about her father. Was she simply imagining things? Whatever the case, she knew she would have to tell her parents sometime, but when?
One week later they were sitting having dinner together in a dining room off the back parlour. Her father stared at her malevolently. At that moment, she knew he knew. It was written across his face. Rose looked straight at him and said, ‘I’m having a baby!’
There was a shocked silence before her father sprung to his feet in a rage, tipping the table and its contents everywhere. He lifted his hand to strike her.
‘You dare, just you dare!’ Rose stood facing him with her fists clenched at her side. ‘I swear, I swear to God, if you hurt me or hurt this child, I will kill you. As God is my witness, I will kill you.’
Her mother was pale and shaking as she stepped between the two of them.
‘Please, Seamus, please don’t hit her. She’s having a baby. It’s not right, Seamus!’
Her father stood glaring at her for a few moments before he stormed out of the room.
* * *
Seamus grabbed his jacket from the end of the staircase and left. He walked across the road to the public house, stood at the bar and ordered a whiskey. His presence caused some surprise and quite a few of the regulars glanced in his direction and whispered. Seamus Rafferty had long frowned upon alcohol and such establishments. He was a Catholic Pioneer and wore his abstinence pin with pride. In all his years living just across the road, he had never once set foot in there.
‘A whiskey, Mr Rafferty,’ said the barman and sat the glass on the counter in front of him.
Seamus gulped it down, slammed the glass on the counter and threw a handful of coins beside it before turning and walking out. He strode up the road, brimming with anger, until he came to the parochial house. He rang the bell and waited.
The housekeeper answered the door and in a surprised tone said, ‘Why, Mr Rafferty, is something wrong?’
‘I’d like to speak to Father Dillon, if he is at home?’
‘He is, indeed, Mr Rafferty. Let me tell him you have called.’
He was led into a sitting room where he was joined by Father Dillon. They shook hands.
‘Sit down, Seamus. Are you OK? You seem upset?’
‘Father, I’m ashamed to tell you, deeply ashamed, but my youngest daughter Rose is having a baby. A bastard!’ He spat the word as if there were a nasty vile taste in his mouth. ‘I don’t know what to do, Father. What shall I do?’
Father Dillon rose and crossed the room, and he placed his hand on Seamus’s shoulder.
‘She has shamed you deeply, and she has sinned against God and the Holy Church, but hers is the sin, not yours. We must send her away before she shames you in front of the whole parish.
‘The sisters have a mother and baby home in Tuam, Galway. Far away from here. We can send her there to have the child. That way you and your family can avoid any shame, Seamus. No one need know!’
‘Yes, Father, of course.’
‘Have her ready to travel the day after tomorrow at 8am with her belongings. I will arrange for one of the sisters to travel with her to Tuam.’
As they walked towards the door of the parochial house, Father Dillon stopped, leaned closer and said, ‘You know, Seamus, she cannot be allowed to keep the child. It must be put up for adoption. She cannot return here with a bastard, to shame you in front of the whole parish.’
‘No, of course not, Father, and I can’t thank you enough.’
‘We will make sure no one knows about this, Seamus; you have my solemn word on that.’
When Father Dillon returned to his sitting room, he poured himself a glass of Jameson’s whiskey and sat in his favourite chair. He looked at the glass, swirled the whiskey and smiled.
The next day Seamus explained the situation to Rose in very blunt terms: she was to pack her bag and leave or be thrown out onto the street with nowhere to go and no money to look after herself and the baby. She was eighteen, with no job – she had worked in the shop all her life – and she had little or no money and nowhere else to turn. She packed her bag.
That evening Father Dillon called to the house along with an elderly nun, Sister Theresa, who would travel with Rose by train the next day, first to Dublin, then to Galway. As he left the house Father Dillon was handed an envelope by Seamus with one hundred pounds inside.
‘Thank you, Father, for all your help. It’s a small donation to help towards her keep.’
Father Dillon quickly pocketed the money and left.
* * *
Rose had still received no word from James. She was worried, anxious. Had he been wounded? Had he been killed? If he lived, she had no doubt that he would eventually come and find her. That night she wrote a letter to him and left it with Madge in case he arrived back in Belfast searching for her.
Father Dillon had given her a short handwritten note and said, ‘Present this to the Mother Superior when you arrive and you will be admitted.’ She had opened it and read it.
Children’s Home, Tuam, County Galway
Please admit Rose Rafferty, eighteen years of age, of St Paul’s parish, Belfast.
She expects to be confined immediately upon arrival.
Signed: Father C. Dillon
St Paul’s parish priest, Belfast
Admitted? Imprisoned more like, she thought.
Rose woke early the next morning, washed and dressed. Madge brought her tea and toast in her room. When she had finished, Madge carried her small case down the stairs in front of her in tears. Her mother handed her a packed lunch for the journey and slipped some money into her hand. The three of them hugged and cried. The nun waited quietly.
‘Take care, my love, and we will see you soon,’ said her mother.
Madge sobbed, ‘I’m going to miss you so much, Rose.’
‘I’ll be grand, don’t you worry. I’ll be back before you know it and on my way to Boston. Just you wait and see.’
Her father and her older brother were nowhere to be seen. Da was a cold bastard and Frank was no better, she thought. She and the nun crossed the road and boarded a tram to the city centre and to Dublin.
They travelled all day and arrived in Tuam late into the night. They were collected at the train station and taken by taxi to the home. The nun accompanying her knocked on a large heavy door. Another nun greeted them warmly and beckoned them in. Rose handed her the note from Father Dillon. Having read the note, the nun led Rose down a long corridor to the mothers’ sleeping quarters.
It was a large dormitory with a dozen single beds along both sides of the room. She could see they were occupied but nothing more. She could hear the sound of breathing, of snoring. The room smelled of sweat, damp and disinfectant.
She was shown to her bed. A shaky metal bed with a skinny mattress and thin blankets. The autumn cold was beginning to bite already, and the room felt chilly and damp. There was no sign of a fire, a fireplace or heating of any sort. She undressed quickly and got into bed, hugged her tummy, thought of James and eventually drifted into a restless sleep.
* * *
At 6am they were woken by the nuns. Rose could see other women emerge from below the dark blankets. This would become a daily routine for her and dozens of other girls – there were no exceptions and no excuses accepted. Some of the other young mothers in the dormitory left to look after their babies, who slept elsewhere. Rose was told by a young nun, Sister Bridget, that she should come with her to see the Head Sister. She was chatty, and she lifted Rose’s spirits as they walked along. It was a relief to see a friendly face. She hoped there were more like her. Sister Bridget opened the door and informed the Head Sister that Rose Rafferty was here. She winked at Rose as if to say good luck as she left her waiting.
Rose stood there alone for at least ten minutes before hearing a voice within.
‘Come in, Miss Rafferty.’
She entered a spacious office. It was spartan and austere, like the woman before her, seated behind a very large, ornate mahogany desk. It was hard to define her exact age. The nuns’ black and white habits hid much and made them all seem older than they were. Rose guessed she was in her early fifties. She had thin eyebrows and lips that seemed to be set in a permanent frown. Round tortoiseshell spectacles rested on a sharp nose. She stared unblinking at Rose for what seemed to be ages before speaking.
‘My name is Sister Marie; I am the head of the Bon Secours order here in Tuam and the sister in charge of this home. It is very important, Miss Rafferty, that you understand our rules here. They are applied strictly, with no exceptions.’ She paused.
