The Godforsaken Daughter (36 page)

Chapter forty-six

H
enry parked his car in Lane H, Bay 22, at Belfast International Airport, leaving the keys in the ignition, as instructed.

He loaded his luggage onto a trolley and made his way to the check-in area. It was late afternoon and he was happy to see that the lines were not so long.

He went directly to the information station. There was a young man behind the desk. He checked his nametag.
Gerry.
He was attending to a large lady in a brightly colored dress, her hair built up into an elaborate pyramid of plaits.

“But this is pre
pos
terous,” the woman was saying. She spoke with a cultured English accent. “I’ll have you know I am Mimi in
La Boh
è
me
at the Grand Opera House tonight, and I simply
must
have
my gowns, young man. How could you possibly have lost my bag between London and here? We’re not in Outer Mongolia, you know. But you people in Belfast might as well be, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, madam, but we’re doing everything we can.”

“Well, your
everything
is not enough. The show
. . .
that is,
my
show,
must
go on, you understand. I simply
must
have those gowns.”

Henry caught Gerry’s eye.

Gerry nodded and lifted the phone.

“Why are you attending to
him
when you are still attending to
me
?” She gave Henry the once-over from her haughty perch. “Can’t you see I was here before you?”

“I’m in rather a hurry, madam; I do apologize,” Henry said. “My plane is leaving in twenty minutes. Good luck with Mimi.”

Gerry escorted Henry to a door marked Private, knocked politely, nodded, and set off back to his station.

Henry pushed the door open. He found Hanson and Webb seated at a desk in a brightly lit office.

“You made it, Henry,” Hanson said, getting up. “Good to see you. This can’t be easy for you.”

“No,” he said flatly.

Webb eyeballed him, and Henry met him with an equally glacial stare.

“Please
. . .
sit, Dr. Shevlin,” he said. “Except you’re no longer Dr. Henry Shevlin now.”

He slid a passport across the desk. “Pleased to meet you, Kenneth Marcus Lawson.”

Henry refused to inspect the passport. “May I be allowed to know where I’m going, please? And how do I know this isn’t another one of your games?”

“We don’t play games . . . Mr. Lawson.”

It was Hanson, back in her official role. He saw her sitting at the kitchen table in Hestia House over a year before, giving him a grilling. How could he have known back then that it would all end like this?

“No, we certainly don’t,” Webb added grimly. “You are still in danger until you alight from that plane at your destination. We’re not out of the woods yet, you know. We are doing everything to aid your safe passage out of here.” He leaned back in the chair. “Isn’t it a pity now that you didn’t know your wife a bit better? Then none of this would have been necessary.”

Henry lost his composure. The pent-up anger. He could contain it no longer. He glanced about the room, noted the tiny surveillance cameras spaced at intervals in the ceiling. He’d no doubt that this office was under constant scrutiny by the authorities. He didn’t care.

“How dare you?! My wife is an innocent bystander in all this! She got caught up in something murky. Something that
you
people set in train.”

Webb’s response was to slide a large envelope across the desk.

Hanson spoke again. “You may open that after takeoff. And I
mean
after takeoff. It contains important papers, birth and marriage certificates, details of your new identity.” She attempted a smile. To calm him, no doubt. There was a lot riding on Henry keeping calm.

“We will escort you to the plane. You will sit in row twenty-seven, seat A. You will talk to no one,
absolutely no one.
Not even during the flight. Is that understood?”

Henry nodded.

They all stood up.

It was time to go.

The plane climbed into the evening sky above Belfast, a setting sun making of the landscape a golden quilt of patchwork. Henry looked out one last time, allowing himself a pang of regret for all that was now lost: his identity, his career, his colleagues, his patients. But most of all: his father, his poor, dear father.

Oh, the irony! Terminating one life to gain another.

But his darling Connie was worth it.

Soon he’d be seeing
her
again.

And his father would be all right. He would have Matilda, the love of a good woman—a love perhaps more precious to a man than that of a father for a son.

Henry consoled himself with that.

He tore open the envelope.

It contained the items his handlers had listed, together with a smaller envelope. On the front:
FOR MY LOVE
,
written in Connie’s distinctive hand.

Inside: a photograph. Connie and he on the balcony of the Hyperion Hotel in Crete. She must have taken the snapshot with her when she left their home in Belfast. He recalled the kindly waiter who’d taken it and—just moments afterward—their little contretemps.

“
Only trees stay in one place all their lives, Henry. And we’re not trees.
”

Well, now their uprooting was complete. Not in the way Connie had envisaged, perhaps, but they’d make the most of it. Change is growth. Isn’t that what he told his patients sometimes?

But where was he headed? There was no clue in the envelope and he’d been given strict instructions to talk to no one. He’d only his intuition to guide him. Through the porthole he could make out the Irish Sea. But that gave no clue; most flights out of Belfast followed the contours of that stretch of water. Who knew but he might be bound for some distant continent, to change planes in London.

The snapshot. Was that the hint? Greece?

“Is this seat free?” He looked up to see a stewardess. Beside her a woman, dark hair in bubble curls, thick glasses, baggy clothes.

He nodded. Quickly stuffed the papers back in the envelope, as the stranger sat down.

Henry really would have preferred if the woman had chosen another seat. He could no longer peruse the contents of the envelope with her in such close proximity.

She sat with her hands in her lap, not moving, her head bowed. Perhaps she’d connected from a long-haul flight and simply wanted to sleep. Well, that was all right with him.

He pulled his table down and found John Lennon’s
In His Own Write.
The writings of the former Beatle might prove a worthwhile distraction.

But when he flipped idly through the slim volume, he saw it was full of unorthodox drawings, crazy cartoons, with not much reading to speak of.

The inflight magazine it would have to be. It fell open at a feature: “Things to do in Istanbul.” Attracted by the beautiful photos, he began to read.

Istanbul, an ancient and magnificent city, bridging the continents of Asia and Europe, is a destination as no other. Its rich history, stretching back thousands of years, is a heady mix of many civilizations and cultures.

Henry was aware of the woman beside him bending down to her handbag. She freed the table in front of her.

You may begin your Istanbul tour in the Grand Bazaar, which will enchant you with its glittering treasures and curious delights, while a sense of peace and quietude will envelop you as you enter glorious Hagia Sophia, close by.

The woman passenger had taken out a pen and was writing something.

A tour of the pearls of the Bosphorus, Ortakoy, Bestiktas, and Kabatas will let you enjoy the splendid views along the deep blue coast. With the Black Sea in the north, the Marmara Sea in the south and the Istanbul Strait running in all its glory through the middle of the city, you will experience the distinctive combination of Mediterranean and Black Sea—

Henry gave a start as the seat in front of him was jerked back. God knows how long he was going to be on the aircraft. He would much prefer to have the little space that had been allotted to him for himself.

“The rudeness of some people,” he muttered under his breath, shut the magazine, and got up.

He leaned forward to speak with the offender.

“Excuse me. D’you mind?”

A gangly teenager looked into his face.

“Do I mind wha . . . ?” he said with apparent innocence.

“You have just pushed your seat back into my space. It is cramped enough here. Now I would ask you kindly to return it to the upright position.”

“Och, you! Keep yer hair on, mister.” He spoke with a thick Scottish accent, but refused to budge.

“Please . . . I’d much appreciate it.”

Finally, with a show of reluctance, the teenager relented. The seat was jerked upright again.

Henry sat down.

He returned to his magazine.

Strange!

He saw now what looked like a folded sheet of paper wedged between its pages.

He glanced at the woman, but she didn’t look his way. He saw the notebook and pen in front of her. Perhaps she was dumb: a mute who needed him to ask the stewardess for something.

He opened it.

Henry, it’s me, Connie. I’m sorry for everything.
We cannot speak until we land
.
I love you so much.

“What on earth . . . ?”

He turned. Stared at the woman. Stared in disbelief.

“
Conn
—”

She put a finger to her lips, but kept looking straight ahead.

Could it be
her?
The hair was different, the face more gaunt. But that profile . . . that beautiful profile
. . .

“What—”

He felt a hand go into his.

A tear escaped from under her glasses and rolled down her cheek. Under cover of the table, the grip on his hand grew tighter.

There was only one way to know for certain.

He eased back the right cuff of her sweater.

And there it was.

The butterfly. Holly Blue.

His
butterfly.

It
was
Connie—his beloved Connie—at last.

He turned to her again, tears in his eyes.

The urge to hold her, strong.

“Tea? Coffee?” a stewardess asked.

They looked up, shook their heads as one.

The stewardess passed on, the drinks trolley trundling farther up the aisle.

But still he could not believe his eyes. He leaned closer and whispered. “Connie
. . .
Connie, darling, is it really you?”

She lowered the pebble-thick glasses. Those blue eyes misted up with tears, unmistakable. “I love you,” she mouthed.

And clasped his hand more tightly.

That touch: the fleeting language for the words they could not speak.

That was how they traveled, all the way to Greece.

Chapter forty-seven

P
addy and Rose had to be enlisted to help Ruby with the delivery of her gift. She had no idea where Jamie lived.

“But I don’t want Jamie to know it came from
me
,” she said to Rose on the phone.

“That’s no bother atall, Ruby. God, Jamie’ll be delighted with that. I’d love to be there to see his face, ’cos he’s been very lonely without Shep, so he has. I’ll get my Paddy to do that surely.”

“But it has to be a surprise, Rose. Could Paddy slip in and just leave it on the doorstep?”

“Aye, he’ll go in round the back. That way, Jamie won’t see him. His sitting room’s at the front anyway.”

Paddy McFadden played his part to the letter. He saw Jamie on his tractor in one of his fields, and let the little puppy in his front door. It would be warmer for the wee critter to be near the hearth fire than sitting out on the cold doorstep in a box.

An hour later, Jamie was on the phone to Rose.

“God, Rose, it’s the loveliest wee thing, and divil do I know where it came outta.”

“That’s the best I ever heard, Jamie. And where did you say you found it again?” She held out the phone so Paddy could also join in the excitement.

“.
 . .
curled up in me bed no less, and me sittin’ down to take me boots off. Could’a set on the wee thing.”

“Heaven’s above, that’s the best I ever heard! And you only after losin’ Shep. It’s a merickle, so it is.”

“A miracle is right, Rose.”

“You know who I was talking to today, and who was asking about you, Jamie?”

“Naw, Rose, who was that?”

“Ruby, no less.”

“Oh, Ruby
. . .
and how is she?”

“Well, you know, Jamie, you’ll be able to find that out for yourself, for she ast me to ask you would you go over to Oaktree for a cuppa tea this evening.”

It was a little white lie. But a little white lie in the service of romance was no bad thing in Rose’s world.

“She didn’t!”

“She did indeed, Jamie. Now, me and my Paddy will drop you off, ’cos we’re going in to do the flowers for the church, so we are.”

Jamie hesitated. He’d have to change out of his farm clothes.

Rose read his mind. “And don’t bother changin’, Jamie. Sure Ruby’s a farmer, too, so she won’t notice.”

Ruby walked the green field, past the memorial patch of flowers under a sky of windblown clouds, down again to Beldam.

She was happy. Oh, so very happy!

The evening sun was putting an edge to things. Birdcalls bright in the air. The world alive with possibilities.

She stopped near the jetty and gazed about. Saw the spot where she’d placed the stool. Smiled at the thought of her naked self, dancing under the moonlight in the name of the Goddess Dana.

The Goddess and
The Book of Light
had given her one valuable insight: a renewed appreciation of the natural world and the energy—the life force—that drives and runs it all. She thought of the many little winged creatures busy in the wood, the soil, the grass. Felt bad now that she might be crushing some, and looked down at her feet.

It was then that she spotted it. A piece of pink paper wedged in a slat of the jetty. She bent down and picked it up.

Her three wishes, charred a bit at one end. She read.

“‘I want to see
. . .
’” The word
Daddy
was gone. “Daddy,” she said aloud. “Yes, Daddy . . . and no, I didn’t see you, but I will in the next life.”

The second wish: “‘I want to have lots of money.’ With Oaktree now in my name I
do
have lots of money.”

Third wish
. . .

The sound of a car, slowing for the gate, distracted her.

It couldn’t be May and June. She wasn’t expecting to see them anytime soon. The twins could hold a grudge in “perpetuity”: an important new word Ruby had learned from the solicitor, Mr. Cosgrove, and now knew the meaning of. They’d come eventually, though. Their mother’s jewelry bequest had to be collected.

She started back up the field. Looked down at the piece of paper again. Third wish: “‘I want to meet someone nice and be happy.’”

Footsteps in the lane.

She turned. Incredible. For
there
was her third wish: Jamie McCloone, a bunch of flowers in one hand, a small bundle in the hook of his arm, making his way toward her.

“Hello, there
. . .
Ruby,” he said.

“Jamie
. . .
my goodness
. . .
I’m so glad to see you
. . .
didn’t expect you at all.”

“You didn’t?” Jamie frowned. “Rose
. . .
Rose said you wanted me over for a drop of tea.”

Ruby smiled. She just
knew
Rose had to be involved.

“That’s right
. . .
now I remember. I forgot
. . .
yesterday with the readin’ of the will and all . . .”

“Aye
. . .
a lot on your mind, Ruby, this past while
. . .
I know.”

Out on the road, Rose McFadden, hunkered down behind the hedge, was giving her husband a running commentary on proceedings.

“God, he’s giving her the wee bunch of flowers now, Paddy . . .”

“Aye, so,” said the ever-patient Paddy through the rolled down window of the driver’s seat.

“Now I hope he minds the right name for them flowers this time,” Rose said.

“There’s some
. . .
some
. . .
of them flowers for you, Ruby. They’re called
. . .”
Jamie inspected his toecaps, trying to remember the name. “Begod now, what are they called? Aye, I mind now: swan’s babies breath and—”

“They’re lovely, Jamie. Swan-river daisies with false—”

“False goat’s beards and baby’s breath,” they chorused together, and laughed.

“Is that a wee dog you’ve got there?”

Jamie, his mind so taken up with the presentation of the bouquet and getting the names correct, had forgotten about the sleeping furry miracle he was carrying.

“God, Ruby, that’s my wee miracle. I found her curled up in me bed only a couple of hours ago.”

He off-loaded it into Ruby’s arms while he held the bouquet.

“Ah
. . .
what a lovely wee thing! What do you call it?”

The puppy opened its little eyes and yawned widely in Ruby’s face.

“Paddy, Paddy! Jamie is putting the wee pup in Ruby’s arms now.”

“Hope
. . .
hope it doesn’t wet on her, Rose. Them wee pups have to be toilet trained, you know.”

“Och, away with you, Paddy . . .”

“Haven’t thought of a name,” Jamie was saying. He looked at the sky. “God must’a sent her down from heaven.”

Or the Goddess, thought Ruby briefly, but didn’t say.

Jamie shifted from foot to foot. “Sorry
. . .
sorry I’m not better dressed. Didn’t have much time tae change.”

“You
. . . you look grand, Jamie . . .
just grand, so you do. And it’s
. . .
really good to see you, so it is.”

“Aye
. . .
Rose and Paddy dropped me off there. They’re goin’ to St. Timothy’s to do the flowers for the morrow’s Mass.” He studied the patch of flowers. “That’s where your father
. . .”

“Aye
. . .
but he’s in a better place now,” Ruby said. “Mammy, too.”

“Aye, so
. . .
that’s the way it goes.” The farmer gazed about him. “Big place you’ve got here, Ruby. How many acres would she be?”

“Sixty-three and three-quarters
. . .
about.”

“Very big right enough. Suppose
. . .
suppose you’ll want to be startin’ things up again, now that you’re
. . .”

“I’d love to. Maybe you could help me
. . .
couldn’t manage it on me own.”

“I’d love to help you, Ruby, surely.”

“Come on to the house
. . .
sure we’ll talk about it over a cuppa tea.”

Jamie pulled on his ear, righted his cap. The puppy in Ruby’s arms yawned again. She gazed across at Beldam.

“I know what we’ll call this wee thing, Jamie,” she said.

“You do?”

“Aye
. . .
Dana. We’ll call her Dana.”

“Dana
. . .
oh, you mean like that actor? What’s he called . . . Dana, Dana Andrews.”

“Aye, but this Dana was a goddess. She . . . she was the Mother of the Little People.”

“The fairies? God, I never knowed that. Niver seen a fairy meself, but me Uncle Mick now, he said he did.”

They turned to go. Unseen by Jamie, Ruby looked over her shoulder and gave Rose a covert wave.

Rose popped her head above the hedge, and waved back excitedly, before getting back in the car.

Paddy reengaged the engine.

“God, Paddy, it’s all gonna work out. And you’ll have to get yourself a new suit with Mr. Harvey, so you will.”

“A new suit? Why’s that?”

“Och, Paddy, for Jamie and Ruby’s wedding! What else would it be for?”

“Not a wee bit soon to be talkin’ about a waddin’, Rose?”

“They’ll be married within the year. Now, I’m no fortune-teller, like that Madame Calinda
. . .
but I can see that for sure.”