The Magdalen by Marita Conlon-McKenna

Author:Marita Conlon-McKenna
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-08-09T16:00:00+00:00

She’d been sick on the train, the constant jolting making her stomach heave and her skin clammy. An old man had been kind to her, fetching her a drink of water, her aunt fussing and wiping her forehead with a handkerchief she’d doused in lavender water, and opening the window to let her get a bit of air. She had dozed as they passed through one country town after another, each forgotten in an instant blur. She’d forced herself to waken and sit up, curious and alert, as they approached Dublin city, narrow street after street of cottages and brick terraces, sooty grey smoke streaming from their chimneys, pale-faced children playing hopscotch on the road. It was her first time visiting the city. Her Aunt Patsy barely glanced up, she was so engrossed in a romantic novelette she was reading.

The metal carriage began shuddering and shaking as the heavy brakes were applied and they came into Kingsbridge Station, whistles blowing as they reached their journey’s end. The sky looked dull and grey, as if it was sullenly trying to hold the rain back. They had no umbrella with them, and ran for cover among the crowd of people milling around the front of the station.

“Taxi!”

“Excuse me!”

People shoved and pushed past her, her Aunt Patsy standing tall and trying to manage her luggage. Outside a large bus idled its engine as passengers thronged up on to the step, asking directions. “City centre! O’Connell Street!” shouted the red-faced conductor. The rain making up their minds, they shoved on too, paying their fares.

Esther wrinkled her nose at the smell of sweat and wet that came from the crowd of passengers. Despite the dull day she wiped the steamed-up windows as they drove, wanting to get a glimpse of the streets and the river and all the places she’d heard about.

The air smelt funny, sour and burning. “It’s the hops from the Guinness brewery up the road,” chuckled a stout Dublin woman, who was obviously pleased to be home.

Along the quayside they passed the courts and some small hotels, all perched overlooking the River Liffey. Hundreds of people seemed to be walking in the same direction, crossing the bridges that linked one side of the river to the other. The bus came to a shuddering halt, its passengers spilling out on to one of the widest streets in the world, Esther following her aunt and getting off near Nelson’s Pillar, the GPO, Clery’s. Imagine, she was standing right in the middle of the city, able to see them all, all those places that she had learnt about in school, read about in the newspapers! There in the distance was the Gresham Hotel: all the film stars stayed there when they visited Dublin. The GPO, where the Republicans had fought the might of the British Empire in 1916. Sister O’Higgins’ eyes used to fill with tears when she spoke of Padraig Pearse, James Connolly, Sean McDermott, and the brave young men who fought with them.

“I could murder a cup of tea, Esther! How about you? That stuff on the train isn’t drinkable.

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