She tried to piece it all together but some elements of the story were confusing: she couldn't remember when Michael left them or why certain smells prompted panic attacks or whether any of the other children had showed signs of abuse. Dr. Paton suggested asking Winnie but Maureen didn't feel comfortable about it. Dr. Paton said they might ask her under controlled conditions, perhaps they could organize a joint session with her.
Winnie came to it sober and apparently quite willing. The three of them gathered in the cozy office in the Portakabin in the hospital grounds, sitting in big armchairs and sipping tea. Dr. Paton said Maureen had something to ask her mother, there were some problematic details about the facts surrounding the abuse and would Winnie be willing to help?
Winnie smiled and listened to Maureen's first question: she remembered Winnie getting her out of the cupboard and she remembered Marie being there but was Michael in the house at the time? Winnie said she didn't know, she couldn't help there. Maureen asked about Michael, when did he leave? Winnie didn't know about that either. Dr. Paton asked her why she didn't know and Winnie started crying and saying that she'd done her best. Maureen rubbed her back and told her it was all right, they all knew she had done her best. She was a good mum.
Winnie got up and stormed off to the toilet and came back with the greasy-nothing smell of vodka on her breath. She told them that Maureen had been misinformed by her sister; Una remembered properly now and would come and talk to them if they wanted. Winnie said it had never happened and then she lost the script, shouting at Maureen and the doctor when they tried to speak, interrupting them with irrelevant details and crying when nothing else worked. Maureen had always been strange, she always made up stories. Mickey had never touched Maureen, he didn't even like her. He was a very passionate man and he had been devoted to Winnie. She cried again and said that she still loved Maureen and what had she done to make Maureen stop loving her?
Maureen was numb. "I love you, Mum," she said vacantly, and rubbed Winnie's back, "I do love you."
The effect on Maureen was marked. An iota of doubt grew into a possible truth. The memories seemed so tangible and the emotions attached to them were so intense, overwhelming, like a searing physical pain. If Maureen was misremembering, she was as mad as a fucking dog.
She felt more ashamed of herself than she ever had before. She would have killed herself but for the effect it might have on Leslie and Pauline, her pal from the OT classes. She had put everyone to all this trouble over a bullshit story.
She couldn't talk about it. Her meetings with Dr. Paton dissolved into hour-long sessions of staring at the floor, hot fat tears rolling down her immobile face. The doctor tried to get her to talk but couldn't. They both knew it was because of Winnie. The doctor sat next to Maureen and held her hand, dabbing her face dry with a tissue. She began to lose weight again. Her release time was revised and moved back a month.
Leslie knew something was very wrong. She kept asking about it but Maureen couldn't say it out loud. Finally, after two weeks of needling her with questions, Leslie got Maureen to tell her what had happened. She was furious. She roared up to Winnie's house on her bike and parked it on George's lovely lawn. She stomped into the kitchen, where Winnie was eating lunch with Una, and told her that if she denied the abuse again, even in her prayers, Leslie would personally kick her cunting teeth in. Winnie went off Leslie after that.
Leslie made Maureen draw up a list of facts corroborating the abuse and brought her books with firsthand accounts by other survivors, telling how their families had reacted when they told. It seemed that physical damage, DNA tests, even a criminal conviction, could be ignored if the family didn't want to believe, and Winnie did not want to believe.
On the day Maureen finally left the hospital Dr. Paton took her to one side. "I want you to know that there is no doubt in my mind that it happened," she said. "And, on a strictly nonprofessional level, I think that your mother is a self-serving bastard."
Maureen and Winnie never talked about it again, but because of Leslie's visit Winnie knew where Maureen's Achilles' heel was and there was always the possibility that she would bring it up when she was viciously drunk.
Maureen cheerioed Liz and left work with a knot in her stomach and a drag in her step. She would have given anything to be on her way out to get drunk with Leslie instead of going to do battle with Winnie.
The family had moved to the house when George and Winnie first got married. It was on a small council scheme with modest two-story concrete box houses. In front of the house was a tiny token lawn, meticulously cared for by George, and in front of that a broad pavement leading down the quiet street where the small children played together until their tea was ready. It was a nice scheme, peopled by good-living poor families who were ambitious for their children. The neighbors knew Winnie was a drunk and the O'Donnell kids were pitied for it.
She hadn't intended to let Winnie pay – she meant to pay herself and let the taxi go before going into the house – but Winnie was watching at the window and ran out of the house when she saw the taxi pull up. She shoved a tenner in the driver's window. "Take it off that," she said.
"Hiya," said Maureen, trying to sound cheerful.
Winnie looked terribly hung over. She put her hand to Maureen's face. "Hello, honey," she said, looking as if she might cry.
Maureen followed her into the house. Winnie and George were of a generation who believed in the value and longevity of man-made fabrics. The house was furnished with brown and yellow carpets, and curtains and furnishings that had survived from the seventies.
George was asleep on the settee in the dark living room; the silent television flickered in the corner. George drank as much and as often as Winnie but he was a dear, melancholic drunk whose greatest handicaps were falling asleep at odd moments and a propensity to recite sentimental poetry about Ireland.
Maureen could feel the heat from the cooker before she got through the kitchen door. "I've been baking all day," said Winnie. With a great flourish she opened the oven and pulled out a loaf tin. She cut a thick slice of hot gingerbread, buttered it and gave it to Maureen along with a cup of coffee.
The gingerbread tasted exactly the same as McCall's, a famous bakery in Rutherglen – they always overdid the cinnamon. But it was a kind lie, designed to make Maureen feel cared for. "Thanks, Mum," she said. "It's lovely."
Winnie sat next to her, clutching an opaque mug with a dark glaze on the inside. Maureen tried surreptitiously sniffing the air to work out what Winnie was drinking. It wasn't coffee, anyway. Winnie wasn't exhaling after each sip so it wasn't a spirit. It might be wine. Her tongue wasn't red. White wine. She had drunk just enough to get morose but not enough to be aggressive. About two cups. Maureen guessed that she had at least half an hour before Winnie started to get difficult.
Winnie sat next to her at the table and offered Maureen her old room back. "You could stay for as long as you want," she said.
When Maureen said she'd be fine at Benny's house, Winnie asked her if he was in the phone book. "Yeah," she said, before she had time to think about it. She was cursing her own stupidity as Winnie tried to give her some money. "I'm fine, Mum, really, I don't need anything."
"I've got some cheese in the fridge, I got it from the wholesalers, it's from the Orkneys."
"I don't want any cheese, Mum, thanks."
"I'll cut you a block to take home." She stood up and opened the fridge door, heaving the six-pound block of orange Cheddar onto the work top.
"I don't want any cheese, Mum, thanks."
Winnie ignored her, opened the cutlery drawer, pulled out a long bread knife, and began slicing a one-pound lump from the block. She paused, slumping over the cheese.