The Cloths of Heaven

By Geraldine Nesbitt

In a seemingly ordinary street, the lives of ordinary people are forever changed by the arrival of Maud Phelan and her mother Kitty. Physically disabled Sheila McGann and her mother Eileen are immediately captivated by these exotic creatures who live across the road from them in a camper van. As time goes by the ties that bind the four women strengthen until their lives melt into one symbiotic existence. Maud and Kitty experience the lust, passion and illicit affairs, while Sheila and Eileen vicariously enjoy the adventure from the safety of the sidelines, until adventure turns inevitably to tragedy.

Set in Ireland in the 1970's The Cloths of Heaven is Sheila's recollection of the parallel existence she and her mother shared with Maud and Kitty. Sheila attempts to unravel the mystery surrounding the past and finds her loyalties torn between being true to Maud or true to the parish priest, Michael Daly who has been sucked in to Mauds fantasies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469737928

Geraldine Nesbitt

Geraldine Nesbitt was born in Belfast. Her family settled in the Irish Republic when she was a teenager. She attained a business degree from University College Cork, and worked in industry for several years, mainly in finance. In the mid nineteen eighties she moved to the Netherlands where she still lives with her two children. As well as writing fiction Geraldine also runs her own text and design business, carrying out translations into and from Dutch and managing web content. She also designs brochures and other cross media. She is also a keen blogger who has opinions and likes to voice them. www.geraldinenesbitt.com http://thewritingprocess-geraldine.blogspot.com

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Geraldine Nesbitt

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental

ISBN: 0-595-16660-1

ISBN: 978-1-4697-3792-8 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

For Ciaran Nesbitt, whose courage, determination and love for life have inspired me. Without him this book would not exist.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats: He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to those who helped me bring this story to life. To Christine Hayes and Neil Walker who were there, chapter by chapter in the earliest stages of creation. To Linda Deak for her valuable criticism. To Deborah van Thiel, who took the time to read the manuscript, and who encouraged me to ‘go for it’. To Bob and Rosie Harle for putting the publishing idea into my head. To my children Jennifer and Eoin, for taking me as I am.

Also, a very special thanks to Darin Christensen and Maire Keary who never doubted me for a moment and to Jill Winkowski, my heroine.

And to Ciaran Nesbitt, whose life is an inspiration to me.

Prologue

The bulldozers moved in on a cold, dank Monday morning. Within minutes they had razed the entire street to the ground. The teeth of a JCB chewed Kitty Phelan’s dilapidated camper van until the rusty metal remains were reduced to shavings. Had he been there to see it, Dan O’Connor would have cheered as the last evidence of Kitty and her daughter Maud’s existence disappeared under the rubble that was, ironically enough, once his tidy, red-bricked two-up two-down.

The day Kitty set up home in James Street with her daughter Maud, Dan O’Connor nearly had a seizure. In she drove, as cool as you like, tearing at the clutch of her camper van as she backed into the site she had claimed for her own. Then she stepped out and smiled at a horrified Dan O’Connor. Her black hair fell in a careless plait along her back, her clothes were tattered and reminiscent of the hippie era: layers of tie-dyed garments worn simultaneously, finishing in a faded skirt which brushed her painted toenails. Kitty summed Dan up immediately, and from that moment on she took evil pleasure in aggravating him. She had no qualms about smoking in the street, or drinking beer from a bottle, and when she was annoyed with Maud, her daughter, she screamed at her like a banshee, for the whole street to hear.

A filthy gypsy, was how Dan thought of her. She was bound to lower the tone of the street with her unkempt appearance and vulgar behaviour. Knowing how she riled him, much of Kitty’s behaviour was intentional. Of a morning, and when she was sure Dan could see her, Kitty loved to toss the left over tea from the pot out through the back window of her camper, into the yard behind. She washed her clothes, such as they were, on Fridays and left them hanging out on a line all weekend. Knickers and bras wafted before Dan’s beady eye for two whole days. Then just as he was leaving for work early on Monday, she would demonstratively take everything in. Oh, she dragged the street down, he moaned, but no one cared but he.

The street certainly did lose some of its charm, just as Dan had predicted, but the blame did not lie exclusively with Kitty or Maud. The fault lay with the entire street. As the years passed, so the street became ever more grubby, houses more dilapidated and well in need of a lick of paint. Windows cracked, and were not replaced. Rotting fences and rusty gates were left as a monument to better days. Renovations cost money, and in James Street there was none to spare. By the time the Corporation moved in, most of the inhabitants were damn glad to be gone, though they put up a good show of fighting the eviction order.

It was all part of Limerick City Corporation’s development plans. The Good Shepherd Laundry and Children’s Home had been demolished the previous year to make room for the extension to Teach Mhuire, the Primary School, and to provide Tennis Courts for St. Bernadette’s, the neighbouring Secondary School for girls. Now it was the turn of James Street to be flattened to make room for the New Shopping Mall. The acquisitions were all done by compulsory purchase order. A paltry sum was offered, hardly enough for an inner city flat never mind a proper house.

No one was spared; no one that is, except Tommy Nealon. He had a proposal ready when the Corporation came calling, one that would, at minimum cost, turn his small grocery store into a CD Shop. It was the perfect size, he explained, and ideally situated at the front entrance to the planned Mall. Its red-bricked front would bring character to the face of the ultra-modern building. The Corporation agreed to at least consider Tommy as the lessee of the CD store, which had been part of the plans anyhow, even if they did not use his shop in its original form. Tommy’s acute business sense did not make him very popular in the street; while the other inhabitants attempted to stand firm and avoid eviction or at least extract a decent compensation, Tommy openly took on the role of Judas against those with whom he had grown up.

What’s the point in antagonising the powers that be? he asked. They will win, believe me. At least this way I get to keep the shop.

For these remarks he was jeered and ostracised. And from that moment till the day they all left no one darkened the doorway of Tommy Nealon’s shop. The fact that no one actually minded leaving the street had nothing to do with it. It was a matter of principle and those basic community values—solidarity, loyalty, and friendship. Tommy had disgraced all three. When word leaked out that the living quarters upstairs were to be converted into a Video library and that Tommy would have to find alternative housing, everyone smiled with malicious satisfaction.

Christy O’Connor, who had lived in his Uncle Dan’s house for years, disappeared once he was informed of the plans, in the middle of the night, without even waiting to receive his compensation. No one batted an eyelid. Granted, it was an odd move on Christy’s part, but then Christy had always acted oddly. He departed as he had arrived: like a thief in the night.

Doctor Cooney was another more fortunate inhabitant. Yes, he would lose his comfortable, friendly practice cum home, but he was to be given first option for a partnership in the new Clinic included in the development plans. He accepted, provided he was found accommodation nearby; he was simply too set in his ways to start from scratch elsewhere. No one begrudged him his luck; he at least had not betrayed his friends and neighbours as selfishly as Tommy Nealon had.

Father Michael Daly, whose parish house looked out on James Street from the safety of the Church grounds, said he would be sorry to see the street destroyed. James Street and the surrounding area, also marked for destruction, were what made St. Anselm’s church what it was: a pulsing heart. Without this strong nucleus the church was bound to lose some of its influence.

And Matty O’Brien? He had every right to be pleased. When the last stone was cleared away from The Good Shepherd Laundry that stood between Teach Mhuire Primary School and St. Bernadette’s Convent Secondary School, his spirits soared joyously, for the new sports facilities for his girls was to be built on the site. It was only a shame he could tell no one about his own part in the destruction of the Laundry. He could boast to no one about how he had worked out the plans for the sports facilities for St. Bernadette’s, costs and all. Once he had listened to the disapproval of the parishioners, stunned at the heartlessness with which The Sisters who had run the laundry were to be separated and spread out over sister convents with no regard for their welfare, he dared not open his mouth on the subject.

So with the destruction of James Street there ended an era. And with its destruction, Father Michael Daly, Matty O’Brien, Christy O’Connor, Tommy Nealon and Doctor Cooney could rest assured that their secret would soon be forgotten, buried under the new Shopping Mall. Who would remember their secret life? Was James Street silenced forever?

Chapter 1

Kitty Phelan’s husband left her; tiptoed out of her life like a thief in the night. Since then there had been plenty of men in her life but none of any importance. They had served one purpose only—to give Kitty the means to support her daughter. Once they demanded more from her, she packed her camper van and moved on. But the life of a floozy had lost its charm, and opening her legs as a way to make ends meet had become an unpleasant chore for Kitty. With age and maturity came the realisation that she too needed friends, other souls with whom she might share a thought or two, a laugh, a secret perhaps. Surely she could earn a crust without lying down for it?

At thirty-five, Kitty was in need of a rest from grovelling, grunting men and Limerick with its Good Shepherd Laundry was just the fresh start she needed. It just an hour’s drive from Mitchelstown where she had worn out all the married men and her welcome.

And the empty space next door to Dan O’Connor’s pristine abode was just the place to park her camper van. It cost nothing, was situated in what appeared at first glance to be a pleasantly busy street, and what was more, it was but a stone’s throw away from The Good Shepherd Laundry where Kitty intended to earn her keep as a washer woman.

The first item on her agenda was to obtain permission from Limerick Corporation to reconnect the old water pipes. With Father Keane at St. Anselm’s and the nuns of The Good Shepherd on her side she managed to persuade the Corporation to let her run a pipe into the minuscule kitchen of her camper. Daddy, the local plumber, searched for the old water supply and drainage system and before long she was plumbed in. Granted she only had cold water, but with a gas tank under the van to power her three-ringed cooker, it was no great hardship to boil a kettle when she needed a wash. Daddy suggested she build on an outhouse while she was at it, and though she was initially dubious it did not take long for him to convince her to have it built.

She dug a vegetable patch between the camper van and Dan O’Connor’s side wall and planted a flower border around the van, making it quite clear she had no intentions of moving on for some time. When her territory had been sufficiently marked, she took her child by the hand and walked up past the cross-roads to enrol her in Teach Mhuire, the primary school up by The Good Shepherd Laundry. Within a month of moving in, she was well and truly established.

Her presence in James Street had such an air of permanence to it, such dimension it seemed Dan would explode from frustration. She responded with a bold, challenging smile to each glare from him and despite his refusal to speak to her, she greeted him warmly at every opportunity. His face grew redder, his temper more foul. Some said he was suffering from elevated blood pressure. Thwarted in his efforts to insult Kitty, he took to complaining to the neighbours, but his complaints were seeds scattered on barren soil. The more he protested the more others went out of their way to be friendly to Kitty. She accepted their friendship gracefully, even though she knew it was given initially only to annoy her truculent, intolerant neighbour.

By September she had her routine organised: each morning she took Maud to school, and crossed the courtyard to the laundry where she worked until it was time to take Maud home again.

Because of her dark sultry looks word went around that she was a true gypsy, not just a tinker. She did nothing to quell the rumour and took great pleasure in building up a clientele for her little fortune telling business. Tealeaves were her speciality, though she would do the cards too if pushed. Even she was astonished at the accuracy of some of her predictions.

Mam took an instant shine to her, and before long she and I were regular visitors to the camper van. And while they drank tea, chatted and smoked cigarettes, Maud and I sat on the floor together, whispering and giggling in the way that only little girls can.

They’re so different. Sheila looks so pale next to Maud. She looks so delicate, Mam remarked.

You ought to set her outside more often. She’ll never get a colour cooped up indoors all day. I’ll bet her hair shines like gold in the sunlight.

Mam nodded wistfully. Aye, it does that. But there’s no point setting her outside every day. What would she do?

Maud will come and fetch her when she gets home from school in the afternoons, won’t you Maud?

Maud nodded. See, problem solved.

Mam looked doubtful. What would Maud be wanting…

None of that talk, you hear. Now, give us your cup and I’ll be reading those tealeaves, she said and grinned mischievously.

Mam grinned back, and handed over the cup. You’re like a breath of fresh air, Kitty Phelan.

And you’re a fine friend. She turned the teacup over, placed it on the saucer and turned it three times in a clockwise direction. Then she turned it back, and looked at the pattern created by the sodden tealeaves. She examined them carefully, rubbed her forehead and frowned. You have an unusual future, she began in a husky, breathy voice. You will have great joy. Success will touch you, but the success comes after a great pain, a wrenching. You must suffer in order to gain.

Ah, get out of it, Mam scoffed. Don’t pull my leg. Success—me? That’s a laugh. I might go through all the suffering, and still see no gain at the end of it.

The success will come. A great, unexpected achievement, but you will see it.

Kitty, this is me you’re talking to. I’m not one of the silly old biddies whose heads you fill with nonsense.

I only recount what the leaves tell me. Believe what you like.

Success. Some success I’ve had, or am likely to have.

Wait and see.

Maybe my Padraig will win the pools!

Maybe, said Kitty and smiled enigmatically. As long as you always do what you feels right, here… Kitty said, pointing to her stomach. That’s your instinct talking to you. Never, ever must you ignore its warnings.

Mam nodded and smiled gratefully at Kitty. You’re a wise woman, Kitty.

No I’m not. I just know that if you don’t listen to your heart you shrivel up like a prune, and grow old before your time. I’m already too late then, Mam said.

Don’t be daft, woman, Kitty scolded. All you need is a bit of cheering up.

Mam laughed. And you’re the one to do it. She stood up. But right now it’s time I got our Sheila back home. Sure we’ve all the time in the world, Eileen.

I did my best to help Mam as she manoeuvred me down the steps of the camper and into my wheelchair, but lately my limbs had been annoyingly uncooperative. Had to do with my age, the doctors said. Now that I was eleven, and entering puberty, my muscles, never fully utilised, were tightening up. As well as that, the fact that I was more aware, and keener to communicate, meant I was straining constantly to make myself understood. This led to involuntary movements at inopportune moments. I had been known to kick at a shop assistant, and had once even slapped Father Keane on the side of the head as he leaned forward to place the communion host on my tongue. Now I was guilty of knocking my wheelchair onto its side with an over eager foot.

Sorry Mam, I mumbled.

Not your fault, love, she said, panting from the exertion.

At this point Kitty came to our assistance. She re-positioned the chair, then grabbed my legs and hoisted me into it. You’re a lot heavier than you look, Sheila, she teased.

I laughed back at her. My arms waved about wildly at the thrill of having a grown-up talk directly to me instead of treating me like a vegetable.

* * *

Maud was autumn’s child. All through September she waited for the first sign of the changing season. To her the world was at its most serene and comforting when the evenings grew longer, the winds chillier, and the leaves golden at sunset. Every day, when school was out, she arrived promptly at my mother’s front door. Mam was delighted that at last I had someone with whom I could play. And I could hardly believe that a creature as beautiful as Maud would want to spend time with me.

But obviously she did, for there was not a day that went by that autumn without her coming to our door to ask: Can Sheila come out today?

She had discovered a pathway behind The Good Shepherd Laundry that led to the rustic, tranquil bank of the majestic Shannon River and each afternoon she took me, her newfound friend, to her idyllic spot. For hours we sat under the broken shadow of a leafless tree while the sun slowly faded behind a distant hill, leaving the sky a fluorescent gold. The Shannon rippled gently, reeds rustled in the evening breeze; clouds floated past and the moon showed its white face.

Maud threw herself back onto the damp grass, put her arms above her head and stretched. In reflection I realise that even then she carried her body with a sensual awareness too mature for an eleven-year-old. Even as a prepubescent girl, she was exquisite to behold. Her innocent, child’s face held a promise of wonderful delights in a not too distant future.

I wish I…could lie on the …grass, I said, my lips twisting and my mouth filling up with saliva.

You can, if you want, said Maud, understanding my thick, garbled attempt at speech. Come on, I’ll help you get out of that chair. She put her arms around my waist, and began to pull at me.

I laughed, almost choking. Put …on the brake!

Maud did as I asked, and after struggling to manoeuvre my stiff, unyielding body, she succeeded in hauling me out of my wheelchair and onto the grass. We fell down together, laughing and panting with the exertion. Then, after catching her breath Maud pointed upwards.

Isn’t the sky beautiful? she gushed.

Yeah, I mumbled, and gazed in wonderment.

We lay on our backs watching the sun splash its fluorescence onto the clouds. Maud said that the clouds were another, magical world.

There’s God, she said and pointed to the tangerine fluff above us. "See there’s his beard.

"And there’s Pegasus.

And the Matterhorn.

I gazed at her, drank in her enthusiasm. Thrilled that someone had taken the time to share an evening sky with me. I was truly alive, and it was thanks to Maud.

All through the autumn, right up until late November, Maud faithfully called to collect me after school each day. I came to expect it and asked my mother to set me outside on the footpath in the afternoon, so that I could see her turn the corner into James Street. Wrapped up in a sheepskin coat and woollen scarf and mittens, shivering with the cold, my body jerking in spasms, I waited for her to arrive, and when she did I wondered time and again why such an exquisite creature bothered to spend her time with a twisted, contorted cripple.

Why don’t you go to ordinary school? she asked one day, as we lay gazing up at the overcast sky.

Can’t look after …myself.

If you came to school with me, I’d look after you.

I spluttered. What’d …you do that for?

Because you’re my best friend.

I tried to stroke her face in gratitude, but though the brain knew what it wanted, the limb refused to co-operate. Instead of a gentle stroke, I almost poked her eye out with my unwilling hand. I watched, mortified as she rubbed her weeping eye.

Some friend I am, I mumbled.

Don’t say that. I’m glad you’re my friend.

Don’t know why.

She laughed and tickled me. Because I can tickle you to death!

Stop! Stop! I screamed.

She threw her arms around me and hugged me tight. I just love you, Sheila McGann, that’s all.

But …

There’s no buts.

I looked at her. Such a beautiful creature. I took in her face, cheeks glowing, eyes twinkling. I knew she was telling the truth. For whatever obscure, unexplainable reason, she did love me.

It was something I questioned time and again down the years, but I never found an answer. I suppose with love, there is no answer. The strangest people love each other, are bound to each other, as though a higher force has decided their fates are to intertwine. All they can do is allow destiny to run its course and live accordingly. That was how it was for Maud and me. We had an inexplicable bond. At times it constricted and smothered us and at other times it empowered us, strengthened us in our battle against the hardships of this world. It remained constant almost despite us.

Separation was unthinkable.

When the harsh winds of November wailed in the grate, Mam refused to set me outside in the afternoons. My health was too frail she said, and the last thing she wanted was for me to come down with pneumonia. That’s the last I’ll see of Maud, I thought, but I was wrong. For some strange reason she still called to see me every day. She brought her reading books with her, together we would sit in front of the hearth, and she would read aloud to me.

* * *

November rolled into December, and soon we were talking about presents and turkey and hoping it might, just for once snow. Mam had her annual bout of loneliness. She missed her other children. My brother Gerard had married a girl from Dublin and lived with her in the big City. He said that with two children it was not practical for him to spend Christmas in our cramped house. Not that I minded. I didn’t like my brother much. I thought he was loud and vulgar and superior. His boys, Frank and Gerry were allowed to run riot.

And then there was my sister Sinéad, or Sister Paul, as she was known now. She was a contemplative nun whose only contact with us were an infrequent correspondence and our annual visit to her convent in Co. Mayo. I hated these visits. I hated Sister Paul’s inevitable pity-filled gaze and her promise to pray for me.

You gonna …make me walk then? I said once, for which my mother glared at me.

All Sinéad did was continue to gaze and say: I will ask God to help you to carry your burden with grace and tranquillity.

So with neither of my siblings home for Christmas there was plenty of space and plenty of turkey to go round. Mam invited Kitty and Maud for Christmas day. Kitty accepted the invitation eagerly, saying she had not had a proper family Christmas in years. Daddy grumbled. He said he had been looking forward to being able to fart, and undo his trousers if he felt like it. Now he would have to be polite and keep himself buttoned up.

Mam rose early on Christmas Eve and after a quick breakfast of tea and toast she prepared her last-minute shopping list, checking the fridge and pantry to ensure she forgot nothing. Then, with the turkey thawing on the draining board and the honeyed ham already in the automatic oven, she dressed me warmly, hung her shopping bags from the handles of the wheelchair and headed for Dunne’s Stores supermarket with me. After parking me at the checkout and grabbing a wire basket she did a rapid run around the aisles collecting the required items. Once she had paid for them and had stuffed them hastily into the shopping bags she stated categorically that we had no time to dally in town and headed straight home.

I wanted to look in the shops, I groaned but to no avail.

Mam declared she had simply a mountain of work to do, and did not have a minute to spare. In the end the mountain turned out to be no more than a gently sloping hill, and Mam was sitting down reading the paper at four o’clock. Daddy laughed when I told him of