I had to answer lots of awkward questions but I had my spiel sorted: Didn’t know I was pregnant, thought it was my menopause, hardly changed shape, gave birth at home with my partner, all happened really fast, no time to call for an ambulance, wham bam there was the baby, so no, we never went to the hospital. No, the baby was not given an Apgar score. I told them that I’d been too nervous to bring the baby out the house before now, that I thought it was OK as long as the baby seemed OK. I sat and took their telling off, let them slap my wrists good and proper. Oh, I said, I’m really, really sorry. But you know, I was a virgin until a few months ago (I used my strongest Irish accent for this), I’ve led a sheltered life, I don’t really know much about anything.
They sighed and looked appalled and made notes about me no doubt: ‘potential loony, keep an eye on this one’. But they gave me all the papers I needed to register the baby at the town hall and made me an appointment to come in five weeks later for my post-natal exam (I didn’t go, of course, but had I done I think they’d have been very impressed with the pristine condition of my underneaths) and told me a midwife would be coming to interview me later that week. I just pretended I was out when she came and hid in the back room while she rattled my letterbox. She came again a few days later and she called me about a hundred times, but she gave up in the end. I duly took the baby to all the appointments at the clinic; she got her shots, she was weighed and measured. I did the bare minimum to keep them off the scent. But in social worker parlance, we slipped through the net. Worrying, really, when you think about it.
But the girl meanwhile … Well, I thought I’d done my best by her. I really did, but she didn’t seem well. It was one thing after another really. First an infection down below. That seemed to heal of its own accord but then she got an infection in one of her breasts, or at least that was my theory. I read up about it on the internet. I told her she must feed the baby from that one breast, feed and feed and feed. She was very hot, then very cold. I gave her over-the-counter remedies but they didn’t work. She lost interest in the baby and I had to take over feeding her. Then she stopped eating. She called for her mother all the time. Incessant it was. All hours of the day and night. I couldn’t bear it for another moment.
Then one day, when the baby was about five months old, I shut the door to that room, and for a very long time I did not go back.
Forty-six
Joshua had given Laurel his grandparents’ phone number in Dublin. Henry and Breda Donnelly. They were both alive and both still working.
‘They’re amazing,’ Joshua had said. ‘Like really amazing. Scary as shit – you don’t want to cross them. But incredible people. Forces of nature, the pair of them.’
Laurel calls them on Sunday when she gets back from Floyd’s house.
A woman picks up the phone and says ‘hello’ so loudly that Laurel jumps.
‘Hello. Is that Mrs Donnelly?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Breda Donnelly?’
‘Yes. This is she.’
‘Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, you’re not eating, are you?’
‘No, no. We’re not. But thank you for asking. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve just met up with your grandson, Joshua.’
‘Ah, yes, young Josh. And how is he these days?’
‘He’s great. Really great. I went to visit him at your daughter’s house. Noelle’s house.’
There’s a brief silence on the line and then Breda Donnelly says, ‘Who is this, please? You haven’t said.’
‘Sorry. Yes. My name’s Laurel Mack. My daughter used to be one of Noelle’s students. About ten years ago. And as a weird coincidence, my current boyfriend is Noelle’s ex-partner. Floyd Dunn? The father of Poppy?’
There’s another silence and Laurel holds her breath.
Eventually Breda says, ‘Ye-es,’ pulling out the vowel to suggest that she needs much more information before she’ll offer any herself.
Laurel sighs. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I don’t really know why I’m calling, except that my daughter disappeared shortly after she finished her tutoring with Noelle. And she disappeared right next to Noelle’s house. And then Noelle herself also disappeared, a few years later.’
‘And?’
‘I suppose I just wanted to ask you about Noelle, about what you think happened to her.’
Breda Donnelly sighs. ‘Are you sure you’re not from the papers?’
‘Honestly. I swear. You can google me if you like. Laurel Mack. Or google my daughter. Ellie Mack. It’s all there. I promise.’
‘She was supposed to be coming home.’
Laurel blinks. ‘What?’
‘Noelle. That week. She was coming home. With her little girl.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise. Floyd just said that she disappeared. He didn’t mention that she was supposed to be going back to Ireland.’
‘Well, maybe she didn’t tell him that. But she was. And the papers barely cared. The police barely cared. A middle-aged woman. A bit of a loner. An ex-partner who said she was mentally unstable. I told them she was coming home but they didn’t think it was relevant. And maybe it wasn’t.’
‘And she said she was coming with her daughter?’
‘Yes. She was coming with her daughter. With Poppy. And they would be staying here. At the house. And we were all ready for her, we were. Beds all made up. We’d bought the child a big bear. Yogurts and juices. Then suddenly she’s given the child to the father, packed a bag and disappeared. I suppose we weren’t surprised. It always did strike us as faintly unbelievable that she’d had a baby in the first place, let alone that she was able to raise it on her own.’
‘So you think she changed her mind? That she was going to start a new life, with you and Poppy, and then freaked out at the last minute?’
‘Well, yes, it certainly seemed that way.’
‘And where do you think she is, Mrs Donnelly? If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Oh, God, I suppose, if I’m honest, I would say she’s dead.’
Laurel pauses to absorb the impact of Breda’s words.
‘When did you last see Noelle, Mrs Donnelly?’
‘Nineteen eighty-four.’
Laurel falls silent again.
‘She came home for a few weeks after her PhD. Then she went to London. That was the last time we saw her. Her brothers tried to visit when they came to London but she always kept them at arm’s length. Always made excuses. We had no Christmas cards from her, no birthday cards. We’d send news on to her: new nephews and nieces, degrees and what have you. But there was never a reply. She genuinely, genuinely didn’t care about us. Not about any of us. And in the end I’d say we’d stopped caring about her too.’
Forty-seven
I first brought the baby to see you when she was about six months old. I dressed her up in the most spectacular outfit: a cardigan with a fur collar of all the things. It was in the sales at Monsoon. And a tutu. And shoes! For a baby! Quite ridiculous. But this baby was the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen and I wanted her to really dazzle the life out of you.
The day I brought her to meet you I had the butterflies. I’d called you to warn you that I was coming. I wanted us to be made welcome, for a friendly cup of tea to be poured for me, for you to be ready.