A Second Life E-Book

Dermot Bolger

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Following a car crash, for several seconds Dublin photographer Sean Blake is clinically dead but finds his progress towards the afterworld blocked by a haunting face he only partially recognises. Restored to a miraculous second chance at life – he feels profoundly changed. He is haunted by not knowing who he truly is because this is not the first time he has been given A Second Life. At six weeks old he was taken from his birth mother, a young girl forced to give him up for adoption. Now he knows that until he unlocks the truth about his origins, he will be a stranger to his wife, to his children and to himself. Struggling against a wall of official silence and a complex sense of guilt, Sean determines to find his birth mother, embarking on an absorbing journey into archives, memories, dreams and startling confessions. The first modern novel to address the scandal of Irish Magdalene laundries when it was published in 1994, A Second Life continued to haunt Bolger's imagination. He has never allowed its republication until he felt ready to retell the story in a new and even more compelling way. This reimagined text is therefore neither an old novel nor a new one, but a completely 'renewed' novel, that grows towards a spelling-binding, profoundly moving conclusion.

Leseprobe

About the Author

Born in Dublin in 1959, the novelist, playwright and poet Dermot Bolger is one of Ireland’s best-known writers. His fourteen novels include The Journey Home, A Second Life, Tanglewood, The Lonely Sea and Sky and An Ark of Light. In 2020 he published his first collection of short stories, Secrets Never Told. His debut play, The Lament for Arthur Cleary, received the Samuel Beckett Award. His numerous other plays include The Ballymun Trilogy, charting forty years of life in a Dublin working-class suburb; and most recently, Last Orders at the Dockside and an adaptation of James Joyce’s Ulysses, both staged by the Abbey Theatre. His most recent poetry collection, Other People’s Lives, appeared in 2022. He devised the bestselling collaborative novels Finbar’s Hotel and Ladies’ Night at Finbar’s Hotel, and edited numerous anthologies, including The Picador Book of Contemporary Irish Fiction. A former Writer Fellow at Trinity College Dublin, Bolger writes for Ireland’s leading newspapers, and in 2012 was named Commentator of the Year at the NNI Journalism Awards. In 2021 he received The Lawrence O’Shaughnessy Award for Poetry.

dermotbolger.com

Praise for Dermot Bolger

‘A fierce and terrifyingly uncompromising talent … serious and provocative.’

Nick Hornby, The Sunday Times

‘Bolger does it masterfully, as always. He has been prying open the Irish ribcage since he was sixteen years old … Pound for pound, word for word, I’d have Bolger represent us in any literary Olympics.’

Colum McCann, Irish Independent

‘Bolger is to contemporary Dublin what Dickens was to Victorian London: archivist, reporter, sometimes infuriated lover. Certainly no understanding of Ireland’s capital at the close of the twentieth century is complete without an acquaintance with his magnificent writing.’

Joseph O’Connor, Books Quarterly

‘Joyce, O’Flaherty, Brian Moore, John McGahern, a fistful of O’Briens … Dermot Bolger is of the same ilk … an exceptional literary gift.’

Independent UK

‘Whether he’s capturing the slums of Dublin or the pain of a missed opportunity in love, Bolger’s writing simply sings.’

Sunday Business Post

‘Dermot Bolger creates a Dublin, a particular world, like no one else writing can … the urban landscape of the thriller that Bolger has made exclusively his own.’

Sunday Independent

‘A wild, frothing, poetic odyssey … a brilliant and ambitious piece of writing.’

Sunday Telegraph

‘The writing is so strong, so exact … triumphantly successful – bare, passionate, almost understating the almost unstatable.’

Financial Times

A SECOND LIFE

Also by Dermot Bolger

Poetry

The Habit of Flesh

Finglas Lilies

No Waiting America

Internal Exiles

Leinster Street Ghosts

Taking My Letters back

The Chosen Moment

External Affairs

The Venice Suite

That Which is Suddenly Precious

Other People’s Lives

Novels

Night Shift

The Woman’s Daughter

The Journey Home

Emily’s Shoes

Father’s Music

Temptation

The Valparaiso Voyage

The Family on Paradise Pier

The Fall of Ireland

Tanglewood

The Lonely Sea and Sky

An Ark of Light

Young Adult Novel

New Town Soul

Short Stories

Secrets Never Told

Collaborative Novels

Finbar’s Hotel

Ladies’ Night at Finbar’s Hotel

Plays

The Lament for Arthur Cleary

Blinded by the Light

In High Germany

The Holy Ground

One Last White Horse

April Bright

The Passion of Jerome

Consenting Adults

The Ballymun Trilogy

1: From These Green Heights

2: The Townlands of Brazil

3: The Consequences of Lightning

Walking the Road

The Parting Glass

Tea Chests and Dreams

Ulysses (a stage adaptation of the novel by James Joyce)

Bang Bang

Last Orders at the Dockside

The Messenger

A SECOND LIFE

First published in London in 1994 by Viking/Penguin Books. This revised edition first published in 2022 by

New Island Books

Glenshesk House

10 Richview Office Park

Clonskeagh

Dublin D14 V8C4

Republic of Ireland

www.newisland.ie

Copyright © Dermot Bolger, 1994, 2022

The author has asserted his moral rights.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-852-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-84840-853-1

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

British Library Cataloguing Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Front cover photograph David Allan/Millennium Images, UK

Cover Design by Fiachra McCarthy, fiachramccarthy.com

New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.

New Island Books is a member of Publishing Ireland.

In loving memory of Bernie

Contents

Chapter One: 28 December 1991, Dublin

Chapter Three: 28 December 1991, Coventry

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

28 December 1991, Dublin

Whoever had repainted the ambulance missed the top rim of the doors. From above, the flaky cracks in the original paintwork looked like a dried-up riverbed. The top of the paramedic’s hat was speckled with flecks of dandruff and when he lifted his head from my chest I could see my own face staring upwards, crisscrossed with streaks of blood. The two ancient trees that overshadowed the main gates of the National Botanic Gardens were bare. Yet from somewhere within their depths a blackbird was calling.

How long was it since I’d felt this serene? It seemed hard to remember the usual petty agitations at breakfast time, the newspaper photo-desk ringing about a deadline, my three-year-old son Benedict refusing to eat, slowly becoming bored of his Christmas toys. All of this had occurred only minutes ago, but I no longer felt a connection to my former life. I was surprised to feel no pain either or any sense of grief or loss. Instead I observed the scene of the crash below me with casual disinterest.

Moss clogged the gutters of the house in flats on the corner. Cracked roof slates there would cause problems during heavy rain. A young student peered out through lace curtains at an attic window. I could see Christmas decorations sellotaped to the window pane and the top of her hair, still wet from the shower, as she leaned forward to stare at the backlog of cars now stalled in both directions. Those drivers looked so stressed as they stared out through their windscreens. Where were they all travelling to, in this limbo between Christmas and New Year, when most offices and factories were closed? I felt sorry for them being forced to stare at my dead body being attended to. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. Indeed I felt no particular emotion towards my body, lying half in and half out of my crushed car.

The bus driver who had collided with me appeared to be in shock. He lay on the pavement beside the gates into the Botanic Gardens, his face white, tufts of black hair in his nostrils. His legs kept twitching involuntarily. It had not been his fault. It was my fault, late as usual for a photo shoot, taking the corner too wide to avoid the cars parked outside the Addison Lodge pub.

Two gatekeepers from the Botanic Gardens came to the ornate gates to watch. One was prematurely bald, a ridge of greying hair circling the freckles on his skull. The ambulance men had now managed to get my body onto a stretcher. They worked frantically, thumping at my chest. I could not understand all that futile effort and concern: why could they not just let my corpse be? Already I was moving away from them, the morning light darkening and then dissolving into night. I felt my body glow, like before a sexual climax, the intense heat becoming all-consuming. I had drifted high above the gates of the Botanic Gardens. There were gnarled trees below me, Victorian glasshouses to my left, the white glint of water beyond. I saw Glasnevin Cemetery to my right and thought of all the people I knew who were buried there. Then it became too dark to see; the old trees became shapes, then their shapes turned into faces. The moon had risen suddenly, cold and brilliantly bright in the blackest of skies and, as I was gradually drawn towards it, I began to recognise those faces.

I was only three years old when my grandfather died, yet I knew him at once, along with other faces that I had never imagined I would see again. They crowded towards me, growing more numerous. Bizarrely, my two children seemed to be present among them also, except that they now had the faces of adults, faces older than mine that smiled in welcome. I felt no need to question their incongruous presence because I was possessed by a sense of total well-being, as if I were a traveller finally arriving home. What had I been afraid of before now? Why had I waited this long to die?

‘You’ll like it here, son.’ I recognised my father’s whisper and sensed myself smiling. The white moon was no longer cold. It dazzled and spun, radiating even more heat as its gravity drew me in. I had only to pass through the moon and my hands would be able to touch those faces. The faces began to spin: merging together like a vibrant whirlpool. But one young man’s face stood out from among the others. I could not put a name on him. Yet I knew his features intimately, his surly, almost menacing sneer, so out of kilter with that joyous welcoming throng. Then the others faces were suddenly gone and there was just that single stubborn face, blocking my path, telling me I did not belong there. He seemed to suck all the brightness from the moon and turn everything dark.

‘Ding, dong, dell: pussy’s in the well.’ It was Benedict’s voice I heard, reciting his favourite nursery rhyme. How far did I have to fall down this dark well-shaft, catching glimpses of the life I had once known, flecks of disconnected memories like on a television being flicked between stations. I had a wife and two children whom I loved: responsibilities summoning me back down inside that smashed-up body. I had pain to face and tasks to finish. I needed to get back to who I once was: a man who took photographs for a living. From somewhere I heard the click of a shutter and pictured myself lying face up on a stretcher. I tried to frame that image, in the same way that I have always used photography to focus in on one thing and block out everything beyond that composition. I zoomed in on that stretcher, despite the fact that I really wanted to sweep back up towards the weightless freedom I had felt when clinically dead. But I could not float upwards, because that one unfriendly face was blocking my path. Where do I know his face from? Go back to your own life. Was I saying those words to him or was he saying them to me? If it was my own voice, then why did it sound so strange? I tried one last time to soar up and reach that moon made up of shimmering faces, but the moon now kept retreating ever further from me, as if this stranger was spitefully pushing me away, making me fall down through this dark well-shaft.

As I plummeted downwards, the moon also seemed to now fall from that vast height. It spun towards me, brilliantly luminous. Then it struck my face and splintered apart, turning everything white and then grey. I could see a grey pavement with cracks, a grey morning with grey mist, and a paramedic with greying hair thumping on my chest. I experienced the same awful thud as when you fall in your sleep and jerk awake. I was screaming and now I recognised my voice, though it was barely audible. I was screaming so loud that the sound filled up my head, yet still it couldn’t expel the pain. My vision began to darken as the paramedic placed his ear down over my mouth to listen. His voice in the darkness said, ‘This man’s breathing again. His heart was stopped for so long. How the hell can he suddenly start to breathe again?’

*

I’m breathing. The curse of God on these interfering paramedics who got me breathing again. I don’t want to breathe; I want to fly to the moon. I want those welcoming faces back, I want to feel weightless and regain that sense of overwhelming bliss. The ambulance keeps jigging from side to side. I imagine the lines of traffic that we are hurtling through; harassed drivers with lists of appointments, deliveries, deadlines, all chasing their own tails. Briefly I had been free of all that responsibility and stress. Two figures lean across me, adjusting straps. Why had these bastards brought me back?

My body feels numb now. The painkilling injections have done their work. But can they not give me a drug to stop my frantic thoughts? How do they honestly expect me to fit back into my old life? Maybe I’m paralysed and I face forty years of vegetating in a hospital ward. Give me back my death, I try to scream at them. We sway sharply left. There is the sound of another siren, a police escort. I am filled with inconsolable grief, though my tears lack the strength to run down my face. They lie on my eyes like coins. Just moments ago I had felt wrapped up inside a blanket of love. Now I am crying for myself, forced back to face this pain.

The ambulance stops. The doors open and there is grey, lacklustre daylight. A nurse leans over me and says something. I do not remember being carried from the ambulance.

*

My hospital bed was besieged by flowers. Bizarrely I seemed to know their Latin names during the moments when I drifted towards consciousness, despite never having any interest in horticulture. During one moment of clarity I recognised my wife, Geraldine, sitting alone beside me. In another moment, Benedict was hesitantly touching my bandaged hand. I sensed his fear of the tubes and mask. I knew he was torn between wanting to be with me and desperately wanting to get away from this frightening sight. He would block this bad memory from his mind as soon as he left the hospital. If I did not survive, would he have any real recollection of me when he grew up? I would not even be a photograph on the mantelpiece because I had never let myself be photographed. ‘You’re so lucky,’ Geraldine whispered during the conscious seconds when I recognised her. I could have tried to reply, but it was too much effort. I felt her kiss on my lips long after she had left.

I woke again to find it was night. Nurses tended to me. I was suddenly suffused with absolute pain. I had possessed a life once in which I fitted. I could remember how on Christmas morning we had knelt by the lit tree: Sinéad in her rocker, Benedict almost as mesmerised by the sparkly wrapping paper as by the presents inside it. But I couldn’t tell if that had that been three days or ten days ago. I no longer had any concept of time, no notion of how I could ever leave this bed and resume that life.

When I moved my head I could see a drip feeding down into my arm. I had stopped cursing the medics who brought me back to life. I knew whose fault it was: that surly-faced young man who blocked my path. His face now came between me and every waking thought. I knew his features, but could not remember from where. Was he a schoolmate or somebody I once photographed in a crowd, somebody who found their image stolen and printed in a newspaper? How far back did I have to go to find him?

On one occasion I awoke to full consciousness. I could see my body, not indifferently from a height, but by just tilting my bandaged head to glimpse my smashed shoulder and plastered arm. I am using his face, I thought, as a shield to keep reality at bay. I need to focus on my responsibilities, on the three people I loved who need me. But my mind was already scavenging through the past in search of him. I blacked out into sleep and woke again to hear sounds outside the hospital: fireworks, church bells, the New Year being rung in. I felt his name about to come to my lips. I passed the short eternity until my next blackout like a man choking on a forgotten word that was obstructing my throat.

*

Mostly I did not know the difference between day and night. I knew only a limbo of white ceiling and faces passing across my vision like clouds. Or else I slept, experiencing the most vivid dreams. There was no year in my life I did not relive. Communion on my tongue, prayers being offering up for the souls in purgatory. Winter light through stained-glass windows as I knelt at Mass. The taste of an ice-cream cone purchased from a van parked outside Tolka Park and later being held aloft on my father’s shoulders among the Shelbourne fans inside that ground as they celebrated a goal.

Often I returned to my two earliest memories. In the first one I sit on a ridge of mud, hungrily staring at half a worm wriggling in my hand, with a sickly feeling on my tongue as if I had just swallowed something vile. In the second memory I stand in a cramped Wexford cottage where my parents once holidayed. The cottage stinks of mildewed thatch and I’m terrified of a local woman staring spitefully at me. I tried to think further back in time, but stopped myself because, even when unconscious, there were parts of my past where I refused to go. Those early months belonged to someone else whose name I don’t know, a stranger whose pain I refused to bear.

I jolted awake to find Geraldine seated by my bed. Standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder, I recognised Donal, my closest friend and the journalist the newspaper most frequently paired me with. His hospital visiting attire was the same as what he wore when reporting on state summits: an open-neck shirt and the same scruffy tweed jacket he had been wearing for twenty years. But his usual sardonic smile was gone. I sensed his concern and Geraldine’s overwhelming anxiety and I tried to say something reassuring. But instead I drifted back asleep and dreamed that I was seventeen again. It is a summer’s evening. I stand with a girl beneath the bridge over the Tolka beside the Botanic Gardens, both of us hidden from view of the road overhead. ‘How did it feel when you found out you were adopted?’ The girl can sense my resentment at her question, at how, like everyone in my neighbourhood, she knows about my past. I retreat emotionally into a protective shell, destroying any intimacy by kissing her so roughly that I know she will be relieved when I don’t ask her for a second date.

My dreams pitch me forward in years to when our first child is being born. They have taken Geraldine away and I am alone in a filthy waiting room that stinks of trapped smoke. It is an hour since her waters broke and I ran down the frosted street in the middle of the night to find a taxi. The driver had joked about having never seen me anywhere before without my camera. I want to be with Geraldine so I can share her pain in whatever way possible. I have never felt so sick with nerves. My body feels like glass which any movement could shatter. I am filled with intense love for our child to be. I try to pray but am too scared to remember any words.

Then, as the midwife summons me in to join Geraldine in time for the birth, I suddenly think of the anonymous woman whose features may echo my own: my birth mother who once experienced the same labour pain I am about to witness. Nobody would have been there for her in whatever isolated rural convent where I was born. There would only have been other girls in the same predicament: young mothers allowed to hold their children for a few seconds before the nuns took us away. In the delivery suite Geraldine tries to smile. I want to be strong for her sake, but I am haunted by something I have not thought about in years, my ignorance about the facts of my own birth. I try to imagine my birth mother’s face, her conflicting emotions during my birth. Had she been frightened to feel any love for the child she would be forced to give up? How could I know what she felt? Maybe she had cursed me at birth as an unwanted ball of flesh that the nuns would dispose of for her? The only facts I knew about her was that she was from Laois and she had been nineteen when I was born. My wife gasps at a quickening contraction and I hold her hand and forget everything else, caught up in the miracle of seeing Benedict being born.

My wife’s face is replaced in my dreams by the face of that unknown young man. He looks to be around twenty-three, with black hair and sallow skin. He is my real father, I think suddenly, the nameless bastard who must have run away. I feel a quivering excitement, the exhilaration of release. I have placed him now: the man who still may not even know that I exist. Perhaps this was how he looked on the night I was conceived; sly and boorish, deceit in his heart and lust in his balls. Maybe he only looks familiar, because it is an echo of my own features that I was staring at, borne forward by genetics.

But as I stare at him in my sleep his sneer broadens. He is not my father, I realise. I will not be rid of him so easily. Who are you? I try to ask, but he turns away, his hair becoming a blur that ensnares me in unconsciousness.

*

I am being lifted on to a trolley by two men. I know I have just had an injection. There are lights overhead. Try to stop breathing, I think to myself.

‘We cannot put you out fully,’ a male voice says.

Then there is a more dense and luxuriant darkness than I could have ever conceived of. Slowly I begin to traverse that darkness, towards extraordinary arrays of colours emerging in the distance. But I no longer feel like a person. I am merely an observing eye, an unleashed pupil cruising inside my own brain. It feels like I am floating through outer space, yet I know that I am travelling inwards, through the magnified layers of a patchwork universe of blood cells and infinitesimal fibres.

This time I know that I am not dead and I will meet no waiting faces. I am trapped inside the power of some drug. Any euphoria fades. This journey is inescapable and impersonal; a dog, given the same drug, would experience these same wonders. This makes the experience more frightening than dying. Because I am no longer even a soul: I am a speck free-floating through a chemical fantasy landscape. I can sense that masked surgeons are working at my skull, yet I cannot think of myself in proportion to them. Palpitating coils of colour interlope around me, waterwheels of dazzling sparks, rings of arid planets majestically turning. It is impossible to fathom how quickly or slowly they rotate and then dissolve before my eyes. If I could think in human terms I would feel utterly lonely, but this landscape is bereft of emotion. I can only drift impetuously past each imploding star, straining to connect back to the body I once lived inside.

I try to focus on a memory of my wife’s face, on Sinéad’s birth, on carrying Benedict up a flight of darkened stairs, on unlocking the back door to fetch coal on a frost-sparkled night. But I feel so removed from those memories that they are meaningless. It seems impossible that I will ever fit back into my body again. I begin to sense a cold white light. I am lifted on to a trolley, but it cannot be the same trolley as before because I now feel that I am the size of Gulliver: a blubbery giant who dwarfs everyone. I cling to the trolley, terrified that if I fall I will crush the passers-by in the hospital corridor; strangers who stop to stare at me and then scatter in fear of getting crushed by the tyres of the trolley that revolve like huge Ferris-wheels.

*

I woke at night in a new room in another hospital. I could not tell how much time had passed. The pain in my head was fierce but bearable. My mind was clearer than any time since the accident. I could see my injured shoulder and arm. My body ached. A mobile touch-pad beside the bed had a red button embossed with the outline of a nurse’s head. I tried to reach out with my good arm but the effort was too much. I opened my mouth, thinking that I would need to strain to make the faintest sound. To my surprise a cry emerged. Footsteps came and the door opened.

‘You’re back with us, Mr Blake,’ the night sister said. ‘Rest yourself; you’re after a serious operation. They had to drain fluid from your brain.’

My mouth was parched. I realised how blurred my voice sounded.

‘What else did they do to me?’

‘The doctor will see you in the morning.’

‘Can you tell me now, please?’ My words were tentative, as if I was carefully trying out my voice, unsure how long it was since I last held a conversation.

‘You mightn’t feel this way now, but you got off lightly. Any scars will be above the hairline. Nobody will see them unless baldness runs in your family. Some ribs are cracked, you have a fractured arm and a fracture of the shoulder. It will take time for your body to recover, but you’re going to be fine.’

There was a television and a crucifix on the wood-panelled wall of the room. A plastic bottle of holy water with a blue cap looked incongruous among the drips near the bed. The lights of North Dublin were below. I recognised the blazing floodlights of Dalymount Park.

‘It must be January the fifth,’ I said, speaking more confidently now, although everything still had a certain dreamlike quality.

‘How do you know?’

‘The Leinster Senior Cup Final. I was scheduled to cover it. A couple of action shots. Bohemians are playing at home. I’ve always hated Bohs.’

‘Why is that?’

‘My father was a die-hard Shelbourne fan.’

She smiled. ‘I’m not sure I ever met one of those.’

‘They’re a particularly obscure small tribe of eternally disappointed men.’

She laughed as she turned to leave. ‘Somehow I think you’re going to recover. Try to go back to sleep.’

‘Sister …?’

I needed to talk to someone but I didn’t know what to say. She turned.

‘I was clinically dead, wasn’t I?’

‘Your chart says that your heart stopped briefly. It’s not so uncommon.’

‘How do people feel … afterwards?’

‘There was a priest here earlier. I think he hasn’t left if you’d like to talk to him.’

‘I’ve never had much time for priests. But surely you’ve met people like me before.’

She looked behind her. The corridor was empty. I could see the desk where she had been sitting.

‘There’s proper counselling you should get,’ she said quietly. ‘We can begin to arrange it tomorrow.’

‘Talk to me now, please.’

‘I’m not trained to …’ She hesitated, and then shook her head as if slightly baffled. Her low voice was almost conspiratorial. ‘Some patients initially seem to feel cheated to be alive. Don’t ask me why, I hate the thought of death, but when the brain gets starved of oxygen it throws one last great party to give itself a hallucinatory send-off. Maybe during that euphoria people feel released from all their pain and then suddenly they are brought back to face it. But you’re one lucky man. I’ve seen people left paralysed from the waist down after car crashes, being fed through a straw for the rest of their lives. You’re had a miraculous escape, Mr Blake. Thousands of people never get this second chance at life. Now try to sleep.’

She closed the door. I felt less alone for her words, for knowing that other people had felt similar bewildering emotions. I knew where I was: I had been transferred from the Mater Hospital to a room in the private hospital run by Bon Secours nuns on Washerwoman’s Hill. This was only two hundred yards away from where my car had crashed into that bus outside the Botanic Gardens. One of my last memories was of passing this hospital. Moments later I had technically been dead. It had only taken a few seconds for that crash to occur, but in my mind I could now break it down into a protracted sequence of events. Firstly I had taken the corner way too wide, leaving myself on the wrong side of the road. Secondly I saw a woman step off the pavement with a baby in her arms and had needed to swing my car back towards my own side of the road to avoid hitting her. Thirdly the bus came out of nowhere. If I had not swerved to avoid this woman I’d have ploughed into the bus in a headline collision, instead of glancing off the side of it, and would almost certainly be dead. I thought back over those memories of then finding myself floating above the crash site, serenely observing everything below. I had no recollection of any woman and child standing among the hushed crowd, watching the paramedics frantically try to resuscitate me. But I did possess a fleeting sense of her face as she stepped off the pavement, so anguished looking that it was almost as if she didn’t care what happened to her, although her arms had been protectively cradling the child.

I needed to stop thinking about that crash, but found it hard to dwell on anything else. The Bon Secours Hospital was close to my home; convenient for Geraldine and the children to visit. I could imagine Geraldine’s teasing voice that, despite all my talk of being an atheist, the nuns had finally got hold of me in the end. I smiled and then my smile faded. This was not my first time to be in the care of nuns. But there had been no wood-panelled private room back then, no call bell to summon nurses. Just pregnant girls on their knees scrubbing floors or put to work in the laundry; infants lined up in iron cots like post waiting to be dispatched from a sorting office; the beeswax scent of shame and disapproval. At this moment I desperately wanted to know my birth mother’s name, why she had given me up, what became of her. I pressed the call bell.

‘Could I have some water to drink, please?’ I asked the night sister. ‘And, if you don’t mind, could you remove that bottle of hocuspocus holy water from my room?’

She held the glass to my lips, then eased my head back onto the pillows. She went to close the curtains and I asked her to leave them open. A taxi passed the hospital gates beyond the long sweep of the lawns. A few lights shone in the apartment blocks by the river. A crane was discernible to the left of the black shapes of the arboretum in the Botanic Gardens. The memory of gazing down at those Victorian glasshouses seemed more real than my conversation with the nurse a moment ago. Behind the arboretum lay Glasnevin Cemetery where my adoptive parents were buried. I had always hated the desolate feel of that graveyard. But now it felt welcoming, like a doorway behind which I knew faces were gathered, wondering what was keeping me so long from them.

A mile away, in an old estate off Griffith Avenue, the woman I loved lay alone in the bed in which we had conceived two children. Surely I had been given this second chance at life for Geraldine and the children. Then why could I not focus on my love for them? My eyes kept being drawn back to the dark expanse of the Botanic Gardens below my window. The memory of that young man’s surly face returned and seemed to be linked to there. Aesculus. This word came to me unbidden. I did not know its meaning, just that it too was linked to those dark gardens.

I closed my eyes and the yew-tree walk in the oldest part of those gardens came into my mind: two lines of gnarled, intertwined trunks that had withstood centuries of storms. The place seemed to call out to me. I knew that I was traumatised from the crash, but amid my confused, scared state I sensed that something linked me to that narrow yew-tree walk; something I was refusing to remember. If I could unlock this memory, then maybe my confused emotions would begin to make sense.

Chapter Two

28 December 1991, Coventry

Elizabeth heard the crash and woke. It was so close that she thought a car must have taken the corner wide, sliced through the railings and struck the wall of her bungalow. The bedside clock told her that it was two minutes past ten in the morning. If any of her family called in to spy on her they would know, from the fact she was still in bed at this hour, that she had gone walkabout yet again the night before. It was Sharon’s husband, Steve, who had coined the phrase: ‘Your mother’s Irish, not Aborigine. This is Coventry. She can’t just go walkabout with her spear.’

She pulled back the curtains to stare out. The estate looked deserted. Lights of Christmas trees flickered in some porches. The daily procession of older neighbours had already departed for the shops, wheeling their shopping trolleys. The younger couples who had moved in more recently would still be off work on their Christmas break, yet there was no sign of their children playing out on the street. How different things had been thirty years ago, with skipping ropes, the thud of footballs and the excited shouts of young boys forever haunting her.

There was no sign of a crash, yet Elizabeth was certain that she had heard one, so close and loud that her nerves were jangling. It had not been a dream because, with the drugs they gave her to help manage the brain tumour, she no longer had dreams. The doctors had explained that she might experience agitation, even hallucinations, but this crash had been something real, a fearful noise that cut into her. She took her hand away from the window, watching the moist outline of her fingers vanish from the pane, and she knew that she simply had to get away from this house. It did not matter what threats her three daughters might make when one of them called in to check on her; Elizabeth needed to be out walking. She dressed with furious concentration, desperate to overcome the sensation of weakness in the muscles in her hands. The street was empty, but few neighbours still spoke to her anyway. Most of the old ones she knew from when she first moved in had died off, and, over the past few years, to the new families she had just become the crazy woman who looked and dressed older than her years and who went walking alone every night.

The school playground by the main road was empty. This allowed her to pass by it quickly, because if children were playing there, she would often stop to watch them, so trapped inside this habit that she would be unable to move on until her presence unnerved the teachers. She walked as quickly now as her skewed sense of balance would allow, her hair blowing about in the slipstream of passing trucks. She needed to keep walking so she could find the site of the crash and make sure that he was all right.

Eight hours later, when the police finally located her wandering along the motorway in her slippers, the policewoman wrote down the only words she could discern amid Elizabeth’s intense mumbling; ‘It was Francis. I know it was. My baby is dead and he’ll never find me now.’

*

What frightened her most when she first arrived in London was the underground, the way that people pushed forward on the platform as the lights of each train emerged from the tunnel. It was so tempting to think of simply letting herself fall onto those tracks during the seconds it took for the carriages to shudder to a halt. New Year’s Eve was no night to be alone. Girls of her age regularly left the Slieve Bloom Mountains for London, but they often married back into them. They met neighbouring boys from home – fellow emigrants from Roundwood and Dunross and Ballyfin and Coolrain – at the Galtymore Dancehall or the Big Top in Cricklewood. Their families would meet on market days in Mountrath, to stand amid the tractors and ponies and racks of boots and greatcoats and marvel at how their offspring had still managed to find each other in a foreign city and at how wise they were to marry one of their own.

These young girls left home but they recreated home elsewhere: The Carlow and South Leinster Nationalist coming through the letterbox in the post every week and calls made from phone boxes across Britain on Christmas Eve to Dunross post office, where ageing parents would gather in the hope that their banished children might get through.

Lizzy Sweeney boarded the Tube and tried not to stare at the black man sitting opposite her in the carriage. When she reached her stop she climbed steps into the night amongst a shoal of alien voices. The dancehall had jazz music and a balcony. A globe of mirrors sprinkled coloured light over the dancers. She wanted to be alone, yet she needed to be among other people. Her body still hurt below the waist, she still winced every time she passed water. But it was the hollow ache inside that really consumed her, an absence within her stomach begging to be filled. She had chosen this dancehall because there were unlikely to be any Irish here, nobody who might recognise her.

‘Everybody onto the floor,’ the MC was saying into the microphone. ‘There’s only three minutes to go to 1957.’ A nervous man, older than the other dancers there, grabbed her arm. He smelt of Brylcreem and sweat. Before she turned her head Lizzy Sweeney decided that – provided he wasn’t Irish – she would give herself to him.

*

In Coventry the maternity hospital was cold. The convent in Sligo had been warmer, despite its harsh regime of reproach. In Sligo she was a sinner, but she had been among her own kind, her cries mingling with the sobs of the Roscommon girl in the next bunk. In this half-rebuilt city of Coventry she had nobody to confide in. She could not tell what Jack’s family thought of her or of the age difference between them or the fact that nobody from her family had attended their hastily arranged marriage at the registry office. On Jack’s instructions she now called herself ‘Elizabeth’, because no wife of his would have a skivvy’s name.

‘Elizabeth is a Catholic, you know,’ she heard someone say at the wedding breakfast, as if that single word explained everything strange about her. Elizabeth had held in her stomach and tried to understand their accents. When my second boy is born I will feel different, she had told herself, because nobody will be able to snatch him from me this time. She had not expected Jack’s offer of marriage. Indeed she had not expected to see him again after his few thrusts in that London laneway, with a cold stone wall against her buttocks while a single green firework exploded in a slot of sky between the two dark buildings and the bells rang in the New Year. One hand grasping his shoulder and her other hand holding aloft her skirt while she turned her face away every time he tried to kiss her. When his breath came shorter her nails had dug into the seat of his trousers so as to thrust his seed deeper into the empty void in her womb. The pain had not mattered anymore, or the stains on her skirt, or how he looked at her when he stepped back after he finished and said, ‘Christ, you’re no more than nineteen, are you? I bet it’s your first time. I can tell by the tightness of you, girl.’

On the Sunday after they were married he showed her a photograph printed twice in the Sunday Express. It was of Joseph Stalin with a group of Soviet generals. ‘Look at how simple it is to make somebody vanish,’ Jack had said. In the second version of the photograph one general was airbrushed out with a pillar superimposed in his place. ‘That poor blighter was either shot or he’s in a gulag.’ Lizzy had half-listened to Jack talk about show trials, knowing how he loved to present himself as a knowledgeable man of the world, twice her age. She thought of all the homes in Dunross where there were framed photographs of her communion class. She wondered if a space had miraculously appeared in the back row of that photo where she had once smiled shyly.