The Painted Altar

Chapter Four

Plot reminder: Following her conversation with a local journalist, Mary is convinced that there is a link between her biological mother's death and the unearthing of her father's remains.

~~~~~

That first encounter with my mother back in April 2005 had been an intensely emotional experience, needless to say; in some ways, perhaps even more so for her than for myself. I remember the glint of the gas fire reflected in her moist eyes, these directed at the rivulets of drizzle running down the front window; remember too the cracked strain to her voice, the long reflective silences as she struggled to formulate the next sentence. The cat, Ginger, had jumped up into her lap; a liver-spotted hand had proceeded to sweep back and forth along its furry back, ever faster as the story progressed. I kept telling her that an explanation wasn't necessary. Wasn't what I'd traced her for. That I'd both understood her reasons for abandoning me and forgiven her many, many decades ago. But she'd insisted anyway; more for her own benefit, I believe, than for mine. The telling of her story seemed to represent a personal catharsis for her, a firm jet of water sprayed to the grubbiest corners of her conscience.

It had been early October 1943, four or five weeks after the last time she'd seen my father, that the bottom had fallen out of her world with the discovery of her pregnancy. Staunch Catholic that she was - her mother and paternal grandfather had both been Irish immigrants - the idea of an abortion was an anathema. With all of her immediate family having been swept away by the storm of war, and with only a few shillings of savings to her name, it was equally untenable that she would be able to bring the baby up herself. Mrs Harvey, the farmer's wife, had been an old hand at tending to pregnant ewes and heifers and bitches; wasn't afraid of a bit of blood, no, and the basic fundamentals, she'd felt sure, were similar to all mammals. It had been her suggestion that Irene continue to work for as long as she could, then when the birth neared they would set her up in the eldest son's room - he away at the front - where she would be both private yet only a hoarse cry away across the landing. And then, afterwards... Well, they would hand the baby over to some unfortunate couple. Respectable, well-to-do. The best thing all round, for the baby most of all.

Of the birth Irene remembered little; Mr Harvey's homemade sloe gin - a most powerful anaesthetic - had seen to that. She recalled only that I'd been a couple of weeks premature, that it had happened during a blackout and that the whole thing had been surprisingly quick. Upon discovering the baby's sex, she'd told Mrs Harvey that the name was Mary, like the Holy Mother. Mary. Unlike whatever sum of money it was which would change hands, this was non-negotiable.

The handover was effectuated two days later as Irene had been taking an afternoon recovery nap.

"The Harveys had thought it better that way."

At this point during the telling of her story Irene had finally turned her eyes from window, looked at me directly. Her gaze pleading, profoundly pained. The first of a subsequent flood of tears had spilled out onto cheek.

"Just woke up and you were gone. They didn't even let me kiss you goodbye."

*

My half-sister Agnes looked different to the photos I'd been shown. Maybe it was the shorter hairstyle she now sported. Or perhaps it was the sheer weight of her grief - a great compressing force pushing down on her and sideways at her, making her seem somehow slighter, much more frail, than I had imagined. Five years my junior, but as she struggled to find her voice there above us at the pine lectern, it was she who seemed the elder.

"My mother... She was such a... Such a..." Her voice rode some high, unsustainable octave, the tears a glistening smear across her face.

I'd registered her immediately upon entering the church - the forlorn figure aisle-side of the front right pew, her husband's arm around her, whispering something in her ear. Reassurance, encouragement. The pointless platitudes of those not bound by blood.