The Rosary Garden

the hiddenness of things; she raised the issue of contraception. Gay was running out of sympathetic nods, was starting to look a little alarmed. She found the end of a thought and pulled up to a halt. The last thing she said was, ‘… we don’t seem to want these babies that we go on about loving so much.’
Her heart was hammering but maybe it hadn’t been so bad after all. She hoped she’d spoken for her generation.
The audience were muttering, shifting in their seats.
‘Ah now,’ said Gay, ‘surely this case is not the normal run of things.’
‘I think it happens often.’ Her words were defiant, but she spoke quietly, not wanting an argument, not wanting anything now but to go home.
‘We’ll come back to that,’ said Gay.
A few hands poked up rigid among the heads and shoulders in front of her – bids put in with Gay for future notice. He didn’t pay them any attention, but turned to the other guests.
‘Donald, Alison here seems dissatisfied with the way she was taught the facts of life. Now you’re the man who devises those classes – do you think there’s a need for a fresh approach?’
‘Hello, Alison,’ said Dr Beasley with a creeping smile, as if he remembered her well. ‘We only aim to supplement the parents’ own teachings, you understand, Gay. The home is still the foundation of sexual morals.’ He spoke on about the merits, the responsible science, of his own system. Mary jumped in to question whether it wouldn’t be better for a woman to be teaching these things to girls. Ali half-listened, but was also trying to replay her own impassioned speech and see if she had said anything stupid. Her eyes ran over the faces in the audience – some sneaking their eyes diagonally upwards to check the monitors and see if their reactions were being broadcast home.
Mary was worked up, plying her outstretched hands as if she was shaking an invisible football. She was angry with Beasley about something, then she turned and pointed to Ali, saying something about St Brigid’s. Ali strained to pay proper attention, but her mind was not operating normally, her thoughts like scattered beads.
‘That’s hardly my fault,’ Beasley said.
Gay swivelled to look straight at Ali.
‘Do you blame the doctor, Ali?’
‘For what?’
‘For what you told me,’ Mary interrupted, ‘about the girl in your school that got pregnant and went missing …’
‘Missing?’ asked Gay. There was a silence without air, a vacuumed-out pause waiting for her.
‘Not missing,’ Ali managed to say. ‘She left our year, that’s all.’
Mary rode away with it. ‘You see, it happens again and again – a whole culture of secrecy.’
The audience was simmering, desperate to add their bit. Hands strained towards Gay, patting the air. He finally turned, scanned the rows.
‘We can’t discuss individual cases, of course – let’s go to our audience. Sir!’ he said, pointing into the crowd.
A strained-looking man with a side parting stood up.
‘I have fourteen children,’ he paused, ‘and each one is a precious gift from God.’
‘Is your wife with you tonight?’ Mary called out. A twitch of a smile moved on Gay’s lips.
‘As it happens, she’s at home …’ The sound of female laughter drowned out the rest of his words, and Gay pointed at someone else, leaving the man stranded, with no choice but to sit back down. A woman in a yellow tweed jacket stood up and looked at Ali. She had a tight, excited look about her.
‘I have a daughter just your age, and do you know, I’m terrified for her. Terrified. There’s so much pressure on her – from the media, from boys, from other girls even. To have sex, I mean. Tell me, as a young one yourself, how do you stand firm?’
Ali was at a loss. She tried to imagine what Mary would say.
‘Maybe I don’t.’ A slight gasp came from the audience, and Gay wheeled around to look at her.
‘Promiscuity is hardly a solution!’ shouted Beasley.
The woman with the question raised her voice. ‘Well, I’m glad my daughter isn’t a little slut like you,’ she said.
‘Ah now! There’s no need …’ said Gay, but the audience was in uproar again, everyone talking at once, Mary and Dr Beasley leaning forward to speak into their microphones. Ali caught sight of the monitor to one side of the stage and her own face was filling it – stricken eyes, flaming cheeks.
Swan sat in his mother’s front room, disbelieving his eyes and ears. His mother was on her knees at the side of his chair, mopping up the tea he’d knocked over when Alison Hogan had appeared on the television screen.
‘Leave it!’ he said again.
‘It’s my rug and I’ll save it if I want.’
Her grey head bobbed by his elbow. He could either argue or listen to what that little rag was saying about the case, and he should know by now that his mother was immune to argument. The innocence of the Hogan girl’s face was amazing, given her lust for the spotlight. Two days ago she’d sworn to him that she wouldn’t talk to any more journalists and he’d believed her, and now here she was, opining away about the state of the nation. She was trouble.
Just as well Considine was already looking into the girl’s past, that other baby. With any luck it would turn out to be nothing – bad dreams, imagination.
His mother exhaled an Oof as she got up and threw the dish-towel over onto the table, where the remains of their dinner still lay.
‘I’ve a lot of time for that Mary O’Shea,’ she said, settling back into her chair.
Swan grunted assent. His mother’s appreciation was probably of a different flavour from his own. That night he was introduced to her at the theatre, he’d fluffed it. Words had failed him. He was still amazed that someone as elegant at Elizabeth had agreed to marry him; but Mary O’Shea, she was in another league entirely.
The screen was filled with Ali Hogan’s face,