Blood for Blood Read online

  And when I took her up to the bedroom to repeat the exercise, there it was. The jeans came off. She was watching for my response. The pants came down. It was comical. Sweet, some might say. Not me. Though I let on I was pleased. She stood before me, her skin as pink as a newborn. And the blonde hair had gone. She’d shaved it for me. The smile of embarrassment and of waiting for my reaction said it all.

  I pulled her over and kissed her. She read affection or love or some such shit in it. It wasn’t there. Just manipulation.

  OK, you’re probably wondering what all this is leading up to. How would Gemma having electrolysis tell me how Lucille had reacted to that birth certificate?

  Well, it’s like this: there’s probably a fancy word in the dictionary for people like me, and I don’t know what it is, but what I do know is that I seem to have a way of adapting other people’s circumstances to help my own.

  Me and Charlie Swags play poker every Sunday night. Have done for years. It’s not one of these schools like you see sometimes where you need a big wad to get in. The money is big, but it’s incidental. Me and Charlie and a few lads going back a lot of years get together and that’s it. No one else.

  He was telling me there a while back about a guy called Drake who owned a garage with land attached to it near the city centre, enough land to build a nightclub on. Charlie wasn’t interested in the garage. He was gonna sell that bit off. The price had been agreed and Charlie’d had plans drawn up and all that. Then Drake started fucking about, wanting more money. Charlie was fed up with the cunt.

  So while all this business with Gemma was going on, what Charlie was saying was beginning to tie in with it. How and why would be too difficult to go into now. Call it instinct, a sense of what might happen – it’s up to you. But with me, both Gemma’s and Charlie’s situations were coming together. I was starting to look at them as a likely opportunity.

  What I did was I started avoiding the Copper Jug on a Friday night. Gemma would read stuff into it, I figured, that maybe I was avoiding her. I wasn’t, yet I was. I just wanted to see how it played out. I knew that by spending Fridays in The Minstrel, one of my two hotels, Sally would – not would, might – tell Gemma that I’d got Ted Lyle to send girls over there instead. Which I did. Fra might tell Gemma that I sometimes spent Fridays in my other places. I went to the Jug Monday afternoons, or something like that, instead.

  I popped in one such afternoon and there she was, with a big smile on her face, glad to see me. ‘Red, how’s it going?’ and all that.

  I acted like nothing was untoward. ‘Gemma, how’s it going?’ There was something different about her though. Ted Lyle hit me with it weeks later, and I told him he was imagining things. Anyway, I was in the office when she came in for a new till roll.

  ‘I meant to ask you, Gemma.’

  ‘Yes?’ sprang out of her like a big exclamation mark, which she checked, realising she was coming across a bit eager. A flattened down version of ‘Yes?’ followed.

  ‘How’d you get on with that support group? Any luck?’

  She lit up, yet looked nervous at the same time. ‘I found out who my mother is.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No. Honest.’

  I didn’t care. I was hoping for news of what Lucille was up to.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, ‘and tell me all about it. If you want to now. I don’t want you to think I’m prying. Just interested, hoping things are working out for you.’

  ‘Sure if it hadn’t been for you, Red, I might never have found out.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ I pulled up a chair. We were both sitting on what you might call the visitor’s side of the desk. ‘Hang on a minute and I’ll close this door,’ I said, as if we were in for a heart-to-heart. ‘Don’t want everybody hearing your business.’

  I won’t say she lit up again from then on in, but everything about her definitely sparkled. Her nice blonde tit-length hair was making me feel like having another poke at her. I say blonde, but it was more white-blonde than the yellow kind. Nice eyebrows. Great mouth. She leaned forward in her chair a lot, emphasising.

  ‘I’m going to write my mother a letter,’ she told me. ‘She lives in Allens, County Longford.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Angela Reading.’

  The Connemara orphanage must’ve used a different system than the Dublin one I was in.

  ‘Her name was Smart when she had me.’

  Ah, same system. As Smart starts with ‘SM’, the ‘AL’ was for Allens with the final ‘L’ for Longford. That’s how they’d come up with ‘Small’. If I’d thought about it long enough I’d probably have come up with it myself, plus a few more possibilities.

  ‘The trouble is, Red, I don’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘Why not just say you’ve been thinking about her and would like to have a chat? That you’d travel up – in case she might find it difficult to get away, y’know, save her maybe making up yarns to her family. One meeting. Then take it from there. Tell her you’re working and taking good care of yourself – mothers like to hear stuff like that – and it’ll also tell her that you won’t be a burden to her; just in case she’d be worried. You don’t know her circumstances. Make it sound like you’re your own girl. That’s how I’d run with it. That you’re initially hoping to strike up a no-strings friendship.’

  ‘Oh, Red, you’re so understanding.’

  ‘Just older than you, Gemma. Age gives you a common-sense perspective, that’s all. Want me to type it up for you? Longhand’s OK, but it might strike of intimacy. Just an idea.’

  ‘Oh, would you?’

  ‘Sure.’ I pulled the keypad and the monitor round. ‘Fire away.’ I then came across as if I’d been acting the know-all. ‘Listen to me. This is your private business. What right have I to be taken into your confidence like this? I wasn’t thinking, Gemma, I’m sorry. Why don’t you write what your flatmate wrote to hers? What’s her name again?’

  ‘Lucille. But no, listen – I want you to write it. Your idea’s good. Anyway, Lucille’s not writing to her mother.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She doesn’t look at it the same as me.’

  Fuck it. Lucille wasn’t going to contact Anne Donavan. That’s all I could think of as I typed Gemma’s letter. That’s the trouble with this game: you can never predict how it’ll turn out. Some kids want fuck all to do with the person who gave them up. I’d had it in mind that she’d contact Anne, who’d of course deny she was her mother. It wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t be the first to deny she’d given her kid into care. Lucille wouldn’t believe her. Official documents, birth certificates, don’t lie. Lucille would come away believing she’d been rejected all over again, which, it could be argued, would add to her sense of grievance. For the revenge angle I was working on, y’see, I needed her to confront her mother.

  There was nothing else for it. I’d have to force Lucille to go out to Clonkeelin, and to do that I’d have to up the emotional pressure on her.

  Some of the kids I’d grown up with had sought out their birth mothers for no other reason than the fact that they had no one else in the world. They came out of the home and were alone. Adopted kids are different in that sense. They have their adoptive families. They’re part of something. That’s why some of them never trace their roots, I believe. They’re emotionally shored up.

  In that sense, Lucille had someone: Gemma. They were close. Without Gemma, Lucille would be alone. Bereaved, she might then begin taking steps into her past.

  ‘You’ll have to sign this.’

  ‘OK. What do you think I should write?’

  ‘How about “Love, Gemma”?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘“Love, Gemma” it is.’

  And that’s what she signed, after reading it four or five times, full of trepidation: longed to send it but was full of uncertainty, all that.

  I told her I was going to the post office later, and that I’d mail it for her.
/>   But I’d no intention of doing that. Angela Reading would never see it. Therefore she’d never reply to it. I was gonna do that. And I was gonna do it in such a way that when Gemma read it, she’d feel her mother had rejected her all over again. If Gemma had given any indication that Lucille had gone to Clonkeelin, what happened next wouldn’t have happened. There’d have been no need for it.

  LUCILLE

  Doctor Nolan looked to be in his early thirties, too young to have been my mother’s doctor when I was born, and had been practising in Clonkeelin for just under three years. When I showed him my birth certificate and explained why I had come he agreed to tell me what he could.

  ‘What are her circumstances? Is she married for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Divorced?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Does she have any children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does she work in the village?’

  ‘She runs an equestrian business. The Donavan Riding Stables.’

  ‘Does she live alone?’

  ‘No, with her father. His two sisters still live in the old family cottage; it’s at the entrance to the farm.’

  ‘How do you think my return might affect her?’

  ‘In a situation like this, if the person involved is elderly or of a nervous disposition, I would suggest that I mediate. I would write her a letter and inform you of her response. Anne is neither of those. Have you considered writing to her?’

  I had. But sending a letter’s a bit like sending a résumé: it doesn’t always lead to an interview.

  My friend Gemma was facing the same situation. Only she had written her mother a letter. She’d been talking about it then had it posted before telling me, which meant I couldn’t tell her about seeing Doctor Nolan. It only would have upset her to think she hadn’t thought to give her mother the same consideration. Besides, it probably wasn’t important. After all, I’d imagined Anne Donavan married with kids and possibly not in the best of health and Doctor Nolan had just told me otherwise.

  The equestrian business made it possible to approach her on that level. So I bought jodhpurs, boots, waxed jacket, gloves and hat, new seat covers for my Fiesta and gave it a good polish. Then I fixed my hair in plaits and drove in past the cottage where my two great-aunts lived and up the long rambling drive to the main house. It couldn’t be seen from the road. It lay in a glade, about half a mile in. A big dormer bungalow with an entrance porch and a conservatory on the end facing the paddocks.

  I parked in the stable yard and walked across to an outdoor arena where a man was jumping a horse. He nodded as he rode past. He bore no resemblance to me; resemblance was what I was looking out for. I put him in his late fifties, dark hair as short as eyelashes and stocky.

  Then I heard a voice say ‘Can I help you?’ and I turned around and saw a woman in her late thirties walking towards me.

  ‘Yes, I’ve a … come for riding lessons.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Only if it’s convenient.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Lucille Kells.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Lucille. Anne Donavan.’

  It was her.

  Though again I saw no resemblance. She was pretty but did not look at all like me. Perhaps I favoured my father. Her hair was long, like mine, and she wore it in a middle parting, the way I often do, but she was much fairer.

  I’d known girls over the years who’d been afraid to meet their mothers. They’d traced them, gone up to them in the street as strangers and asked for directions, just to see if they would detect anything of themselves in them – a set of the jaw, a glint in the eyes – only to be told which way to go. This was very much the same. Still, it was strange standing there with her not knowing who I was.

  ‘Have you ever ridden before, Lucille?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on then, we’ll get you going.’

  ‘Are you going to teach me?’

  ‘Of course. If that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes. Perfect.’

  I hadn’t thought of her teaching me personally. I thought she’d have staff. I was delighted though – it would give me a chance to get to know her quicker.

  We went over to the stables, where she saddled two horses.

  ‘Now just put your foot in the stirrup and up you go.’

  And up I went. Then she showed me how to hold the reins. ‘Between your second and third fingers. That’s it. Grand.’ Big smile. ‘And do your jacket up, Lucille, there’s a twist in the air.’

  She was very friendly and informal. I liked her.

  She got up on her horse. Marty she called it. He was much bigger than mine, which was white and called Flo.

  ‘We use Flo for all our beginners. She’ll just follow me. I stop, she stops. She likes stopping.’

  ‘OK.’

  We went along a trekking lane and across fields to a river.

  ‘Today’s just to help you find your seat. Once you get the feel of the saddle, I’ll try you out in the lunging arena, lunge you in a circle, going from trot to canter.’

  ‘Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is this what you do every day?’

  ‘No. Most of our business comes from tourists. They start off from here with a saddlebag, trek across country to a guest house, stop over then do the same the following day. The routes are all worked out for them on a map. We breed as well, though that’s more of a hobby. That was my mare in the first stable. She’s a prizewinner. She’s due in a few months. To Palermo. The stallion my father was jumping.’

  That’s how I found out he was my grandfather.

  I met him when we got back. The phone in the house was ringing, and while Anne went to answer it I walked around to the lunging arena where he was grooming Palermo. He asked if I’d enjoyed my ride. I said I had. He didn’t recognise me though. He didn’t give that impression. Odd, really. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right Donavans.

  And that’s about it. Just horse talk on an hour’s trekking. They said it was nice to meet me, and off they went to see about the village show. Anne had mentioned it earlier. They were on the committee. I’d already decided to go to it. Anne had said that her two aunts would be there. I wanted to have a look at them too for family resemblances. Edna and Amy they were called.

  I was glad I’d gone about it the way I had. It narrowed things down. By meeting Anne as a stranger, I could gradually get to know her, prove that I was my own person, who would not hurt her in any way. Children were given up in Ireland because of the Church: unmarried mothers bringing shame on their families, reasons I won’t go into. But force was often used and enormous emotional pressure exerted. The choice had probably been taken out of Anne’s hands. Whatever the reason, those days were gone. I was just a girl who didn’t want her mother rejecting her again.

  By taking more lessons over the coming weeks, then renting a holiday home for a week, living close by, seeing Anne every day, she might come to look upon me as a friend. Then I’d tell her who I really was.

  RED DOCK

  I was in the Copper Jug having a pint at the bar when I called Gemma over and handed her a pen and paper. ‘Write this down then run it through the word processor for me, will you? To Marshal and Cochrane. They’re drink distributors; you’ll find their address in the book.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘“Dear sir.” New line. “I’ve had enough. I’m not taking any more. It’s not worth the hassle. Nothing’s working out.”’

  As suicide notes go, it wasn’t the best. I couldn’t be too obvious about it. I couldn’t start saying stuff like ‘I’ve had enough of this “life”.’ She’d have thought I wasn’t right in the head. As it was, she was wondering what it was all about. It was in her handwriting – that was the main thing.

  ‘They’re messing me about with corked wine. One look at that and they’ll be on the phone begging to keep my custom. Might get a price
reduction. Print it out and stick it in an envelope.’

  I stayed away from the Jug after that, kept in touch with Fra by phone, had a casual drink with Ted Lyle and just dropped it into the conversation that I thought he’d have added Gemma to his list.

  ‘You surprise me, Ted. I thought you’d’ve been in there.’

  ‘Some girls do, some girls don’t, Red.’

  ‘That surprises me too, Ted.’

  He was bound to know I’d paid Gemma for it a few times. How, I don’t know. The bar staff might have talked. Gemma could’ve told Sally and it got back to Ted. Not important. He knew. What he said proved it to me.

  ‘You’re a fucking eejit, Red. She went with you because she’s in love with you. Not for money.’

  I laughed it off. ‘Fuck away off, Ted. And you’re supposed to know women.’

  To be honest, I didn’t think I’d let her get that close to me. I can’t bear the thought of anyone having those kind of feelings for me. ‘In love?’ Fuck that. I can’t explain why intimacy hits me like vomit – it just does. The thought of someone ‘wanting’ me, Jesus. And ‘in love’? What a corny way to put it. Not at all like Ted. Usually it’s ‘she fancies you’ or some shit like that. Less sting in it.

  ‘Wise up, Ted, for fuck’s sake. Put one of your big-shot weekends together, get Sally to invite Gemma on the quiet, liquor her up. Let her find a grand in her pocket next morning. That’ll put you straight.’

  ‘What do you care whether she works for me or not, Red? I’ve never known you to take this interest before. Anybody’d think she got to you.’

  ‘Got to me, my bollocks. Swagsy has a difficulty coming up. She’ll do nicely for it.’

  If Ted didn’t run with a nudge like that, he wasn’t the villain I knew him to be. I didn’t need to explain it to him. The remark automatically told him that a ‘difficulty’ that included Charlie Swags using one of his girls meant he’d be in for a slice. And a slice from Charlie was like a whole vanload from somebody else. He’d run with it all right.