The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

to him. On the other side of Ivor stood his mother, her eyes bloodshot, her expression congested with grief. A woman was talking to her, head nodding sadly, yet Joan’s mother suddenly turned, as if Ali had called her name, and looked straight into her eyes, then down to where Ivor’s fingers were entwined with hers. Mrs Dempsey’s mouth opened and it seemed some accusation was about to come, but no noise came from her throat.

Ali tried to pull her hand from Ivor’s, but he wouldn’t let go. The old man finally moved on and Ivor bent his head to her ear.

‘I couldn’t find her,’ he said, his voice cracking.

He released her hand and she sank back into the crowd. She had no right to be upsetting these people. No right to push herself into their lives. If she hadn’t agreed to take Joan on that stupid picnic … hadn’t brought up the lost baby … Tears blurred her view as she hurried down the wet path to the cemetery gate.

She walked away from the town, over the bridge and out towards Caherbawn. The rain blew off. She didn’t want to go back to the farm, she wanted to go somewhere she could be alone, where she could try to forgive herself. A beam of sun caught the tops of the trees beyond the farm and she remembered the ruined cottage, the place where Joan had been full of hope and Ivor had smiled his gold-flecked smile.

28

There wasn’t a living creature to be seen on the streets of Buleen. Swan finally spotted the blue Garda sign over one of the doors on the main street. The station was locked. A handwritten note said that Garda Fitzmaurice would be back after the funeral.

He walked along the wide pavement, peering at the few sad shops until he came to the doctor’s surgery. Dr Nolan was not in residence – another door locked against him. It must be a popular funeral. Then Swan remembered the Hogan girl becoming distressed about the woman who had drowned herself. That must be it. A tragedy would always fetch a crowd.

Patience, he told himself. Garda Fitzmaurice had confirmed by phone that Peggy Nolan was in Buleen with her family. Where else would she be? – there was no reason to think she’d fly the nest. And, no, there was no sign of a baby.

Swan walked all the way down one side of the street and up the other. He noted the press of cars around the ugly pink church.

That was all the patience he could tolerate. He needed a phone. In the comfortable-looking hotel, he asked for the use of a room. The German proprietor showed no particular surprise, just walked him upstairs to a high, simple bedroom whose two windows overlooked the main street. With this view, he’d be able to see Garda Fitzmaurice return. Swan picked up the telephone and leaned against the window casing.

Barrett was in the office. He said Sister Bernadette had not been located yet. He also said that Considine was on her way, that she would arrive at two o’clock at Birdhill.

‘Birdhill?’

‘There wasn’t a car to spare. Kavanagh’s on an efficiency drive – he told her to get a train and you could pick her up from the station …’

‘How the hell would that be efficient?’ Swan said.

‘It wasn’t me who told her!’

‘Just tell me how to get to this Birdhill place. Never heard of it.’

Swan hung on the line while Barrett consulted a map. Down in the street, men in sombre clothes gathered outside a pub. The funeral aftermath. He leaned closer to the glass, looked sideways. The cars were leaving from outside the church. Below him, a dark-clad figure appeared around the corner, arms wrapped around herself, hair bedraggled.

Swan cursed, hung up and ran downstairs. He arrived on the pavement in time to touch her shoulder as she passed.

Ali Hogan jumped at the contact, and the face she turned to him was full of fear.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Dublin?’ he said.

‘Have you come to get me?’

‘Get you for what?’

‘I don’t know …’

Clots of cobweb adhered to the sleeves of her cardigan, and the front of her skirt was streaked with mud and grass stains.

‘Are you all right?’

She looked down at herself, started to wipe ineffectually at the stains on her skirt.

‘I – I was in the woods. There’s an old cottage – I think I found something. Will you come with me?’

‘I’m waiting to meet up with someone.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t seem curious about what had brought him there, caught up in her own drama.

‘What was it you found?’

She shortened the distance between them, looked full into his face and said, ‘I think it’s a grave.’

The Garda station was still closed, Considine wasn’t due for an hour and a half.

‘Is it far, this place?’

‘Not very.’

‘I’ve a car near here.’

‘It’s just a walk.’

Swan followed the girl over an old bridge and out of the town, towards scattered houses and patches of woodland. He should have insisted on the car.

‘Does your mother know you’re here?’

An impatient nod. He took in her black clothing. A car came towards them and they stepped onto the grass verge.

‘Were you at the funeral?’

‘Yeah.’ She stepped back onto the tarmac and walked off at a lick. Swan hurried after, regretful now about this country detour, unsure how to manage the girl.

She led him up a rough track that cut through pine woods, then along a path to where the remains of a cottage stood in a mossy clearing. It looked like it had been abandoned long ago. A few jagged stubs of beam were all that was left of the roof, and the walls were starting to fall in.

Swan followed Ali across the derelict threshold. The girl stood in the middle of the space and started to talk.

‘This was where Joan brought me the day she got out – so I came back to remember her, because we were happy that day, and