Singing Bird by Roisin McAuley

Author:Roisin McAuley [McAuley, Roisin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Adoption, Catholicism, Suspense
ISBN: 9781909979178
Publisher: Crux Publishing
Published: 2015-04-21T05:00:00+00:00

Monagh Cottages was a misnomer. It was a small development of breeze-block built bungalows, adorned, but not rendered more beautiful, by stone-cladding along the bottom half of the front walls in various shades of brown. A line of leylandii, planted as a wind break, added to the overall effect of bleakness, softened only by the ascending puffs of smoke from a dozen chimneys, including the one on number twenty-three, at the end of a cul-de-sac.

The woman who answered the door had the enduringly youthful look of the genuine redhead. Only the crinkles around the eyes and mouth betrayed her age. She was carrying a toddler who had the same bright russet curls, and a baby’s bottle.

“Mrs Dolan?” I began, hesitantly. “I’m Lena Molloy. I met your daughter Maureen at Saint Joseph’s. She said it would be all right to call. She thinks you might be able to help me.”

“Come in,” she said. “Sorry I can’t shake hands because of this handful.” She kissed the tight red curls. “My grandson.”

“Maureen’s?” I ventured.

“No,” she laughed. “Maureen has no intention of getting married yet. She has more sense. This is my son’s child. They’re both working, so I mind him and the baby during the day. The baby’s asleep upstairs. Come in.”

I followed her to the kitchen. Chairs and table had been pushed against the wall to make space for a playpen. A sofa sat snugly under the window. A plastic drying rack draped with baby clothes occupied most of the remaining floor-space in front of the cream enamel cooker, which radiated heat and filled the room with the pungent smell of peat. A wisp of steam rose from the spout of a kettle half-sitting on the hot plate.

“I’m Orla. This is young Seamus. Sit down,” she said, indicating the sofa with a nod of her head. “What can I do for you?”

“Maureen says you worked in Saint Joseph’s when it was a home for unmarried mothers,” I said.

“I did,” she said. “Did you have a baby there?” She was straightforward and unembarrassed.

“No,” I said. “It’s more complicated than that.”

She sat on a chair against the wall and bounced her grandson on her knee while I told her I was trying to trace the natural mother of my adopted daughter. I kept my story simple. To be honest, I gave the distinct impression I was searching with Mary’s blessing. I was tired offering my own background as an explanation. I had come to see Sister Monica. She wasn’t there. I was disappointed. Could Orla help?

She lifted Seamus over the side of the playpen to sit among a pile of red and yellow plastic bricks before moving to the cooker to centre the kettle on the hot plate.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said. Would you like something to eat? I’m making something for Seamus and myself.” She took butter from the fridge, a sandwich loaf from a large, square, white enamel tin, and a banana from a bowl on the table.

“This is what I did in Saint Joseph’s,” she said.

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