to saying it, that Constance was gone, dropping it into casual conversation over scones and tea as if her friend was just a topic, like hypochondriac patients and new vaccines.
‘Oh, yes, she was the woman who gave that dreadful man a voice. That anti-medicine man, what’s his name.’
‘Bernard Carberry,’ Kitty said, her blood boiling. He was a nice man, a very well-respected and highly educated man, who also happened to send her a Christmas card every year.
‘That’s it, the man who preaches against the evils of GPs,’ Caroline continued, laughing to belittle him, though her disdain and rage was clear. ‘He believes we should be eating grass and drinking more water.’
‘He believes GPs unnecessarily prescribe antibiotics and other medications without actually getting to the root of the problem, whereas the other drugs he recommends are less damaging and can build up immunity.’
‘Utter tosh,’ Caroline said dismissively. ‘So do you work for this man then?’
‘We work for the same magazine and our paths have regularly crossed.’ Kitty was determined to stay polite.
‘And do you agree with his conspiracy theories?’
‘I believe Constance Dubois was an incredibly progressive figure who had the ability to see what the new and interesting were before other publications. She recognised Dr Carberry’s studies were of great interest to a wide audience twenty years ago before the topic was really being discussed and now he is among the world’s leading lecturers on homeopathic and new-age medicines, with many GPs actually agreeing with his findings, so yes, I think a lot of heed must be paid to what he says.’
Kitty used her firmest voice, and, as Caroline opened her mouth to speak, she took a risk and jumped in front of the traffic and hoped they would slam on the brakes in time.
‘But that’s not why I’m here. I have nothing to do with Dr Bernard Carberry; I don’t work in that department. My mentor and friend, Constance Dubois, has once again had the great foresight to find another person of interest to the public, a person that the country needs to read about, the kind of person who is inspiring and warm-hearted and who has a long and wonderful story to tell us all. Your mother is helping me with my story.’
Kitty realised she wasn’t just trying to give Birdie’s family a kick up the backside but that she genuinely meant what she was saying. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t yet find the link between the people she had so far met, their stories alone were interesting to her. She saw they were all staring at her in silence. Confused, she looked at Birdie and back at them, unsure what they were waiting for.
‘So don’t leave us in suspense,’ Caroline finally spoke. ‘Who is it you’re writing about?’
‘But …’ Kitty turned to Birdie with a frown. Birdie’s cheeks had pinked and she was looking down at her skirt, fixing the hem. Kitty thought she had made it perfectly clear. Anger filled her heart. ‘I’m here for the same reason as you are.’ She reached out and took Birdie’s hand. ‘To spend time with this wonderful woman.’ And when they still didn’t get it, she said, ‘I’m writing about your mother.’
‘That was a nice thing you did for Birdie,’ Molly said as Kitty was leaving the home that evening. They had sat outside in the sun most of the day, spending a few hours with Birdie and asking her more about her life, delving a little further, getting a little more personal as they grew to know one another better and as Birdie learned to trust her. Kitty felt she had a good insight into Birdie’s life growing up in the chapel town with her father as principal and only teacher of the local school. With no mother for Birdie to turn to her life was strict, regimented. Her father took care of the family in every way he could but there was no physical love. No hugs at bedtime, no whispers of affection. Birdie came from a prominent family in the village and as the daughter of the principal she had a certain sense of duty and expectation. As soon as she could, she left for life in Dublin. Her one caution to herself had been not to marry her father’s type and, to her credit, she hadn’t. She had married a kind and supportive yet traditional man in Niall Murphy, a civil servant, and they in turn had bred a family of doctors.
‘What do you mean?’ Kitty asked.
‘You know what I mean,’ Molly replied. ‘Word gets around here quickly.’
‘I meant it, you know. She’s an interesting lady.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
This comment intrigued Kitty and she wanted to find out more about Birdie from Molly. ‘Are you heading back to the city, by any chance? Fancy splitting a taxi?’
‘I’m going the other way, but I can drop you to Oldtown, if you like.’
Kitty would take whatever she could get.
‘It’s Birdie’s birthday on Thursday,’ Kitty said. ‘I overheard her family asking her out for dinner.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘She says she won’t go.’
Molly shrugged and a smile appeared briefly on her lips.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Something I should know?’
‘No.’
Kitty didn’t believe her. ‘She’ll be eighty-five. Eighty-five. She should celebrate. Is there something you can do for her here?’
‘We usually have a cake. A chocolate one with candles. We bring it in during dinner and everyone sings. It’s nice. Birthdays don’t go unnoticed.’
‘I’d like to do something for her.’
Molly looked at her. ‘You’re growing fond of her, aren’t you?’
Kitty nodded.
‘Well, she won’t be here that day,’ she said, grabbing her leather jacket. ‘She’s taking a trip.’
A swarm of residents arrived through the front door, conversation buzzing, and more piled out of the bus parked out front. The bus, an eighteen-seater, had St Margaret’s stencilled across the side.
‘They won the bowling match,’ Molly explained. ‘They play against teams from surrounding homes once a fortnight. You wouldn’t believe how serious they take it. I love being on driving duty, just so I can hear their tactics, and because I always wanted to be a bus driver when I was a kid, but they rarely let me. Fancy a lift to town?’
Kitty took her up on her offer and as she sped along the potholed roads that led to the small village of Oldtown, on the back of Molly’s motorbike, she quickly understood why Molly wasn’t often allowed behind the wheel of the bus.
Sitting in Oldtown, Kitty had over an hour to wait for a bus to the city. Pulling out the list of one hundred names, she pored over it and set to work.
Magdalena Ludwiczak did not speak enough English to enable Kitty to have a decent conversation with her so she struck her off her list. Number five, Bartle Faulkner, was on holiday for the next fortnight, and she could hear the water lapping on the beach in the background.
