Beggar's Miracle Read online

  Joy Ross Davis

  MillerWords, LLC

  PO Box 1622

  Mount Dora, FL 32756

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Joy Ross Davis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

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  This book is dedicated to all the children of Ireland

  who suffered at the hands of those in the Magdelene Laundries

  and the Irish Industrial Schools

  For He will give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.

  Psalm 91:11

  “Hope” is the thing with feathers -

  That perches in the soul -

  And sings the tune without the words -

  And never stops - at all –

  Emily Dickinson

  To Murray Pura for his uplifting faith in me,

  and to Kathleen M. Rodgers for her cheer-leader spirit and unwavering support

  1

  Bitty

  Bitty Brown hid behind a stone pillar across the way from several large trash bins on High Street in Dungarran, bare feet tucked under a tattered dress she’d been given by the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. She covered her head from the misting rain with a piece of canvas she’d taken from the orphanage’s laundry room. One small rough hand gripped a worn bag she’d pilfered from one of the other girls. Inside this bag, she kept a treasure, a secret treasure she’d had since she was only four years old.

  As darkness descended upon the small town, Bitty stood and looked down High Street to the right, then to the left. The shop keepers had turned off the lights, locked the doors, and left for home, and just as she’d hoped, the streets were now deserted as they were every Wednesday evening at six when people gathered for services at the Dungarran Church of Ireland.

  Bitty had visited the church only two nights ago when Ireland’s cold winds cut through her like daggers. She’d thought she might freeze to death outside under her cardboard, and not wanting at that moment to die, she sought refuge in the church. Fearing that she would be thrown out, she hid behind the last row of pews. She sighed as she sat down, treasure in hand, on the thick rug. It felt so much better on her bare feet than the icy streets. She’d been warm there.

  She decided that night to become a proper Christian someday.

  But then, the pastor came ‘round, a tall, good-looking young man wearing a black robe.

  Bitty closed her eyes, curled herself into a tight ball, and waited for him to walk past. She heard his footsteps coming nearer, an odd sound, as if one foot fell a little lighter than the other.

  Her heart pounded.

  Then the footsteps stopped briefly.

  Bitty did not open her eyes for fear the pastor would be standing beside her. He’d then toss her out, back on the streets.

  She sighed quietly as she heard him walk past and into the small rectory office. When she heard the door close, she opened her blue eyes.

  Draped over the pew in front of her was a woman’s shawl. She hadn’t seen it when she’d first come in, but now, the thick fringed wool, unattended, proved too much to resist. Bitty picked it up carefully and wrapped it around her shoulders. She was small for her age, terribly undersized, even now at nineteen, so the shawl covered her from her shoulders to her feet. She rubbed her cold hands along the soft wool, hugged the shawl tightly over her and let her head fall back. She closed her eyes and tried to remember when she’d ever been this warm. Nothing came to mind, so she made a sign of the cross in thanks, slid under the pew, and fell fast asleep.

  And now, back in the damp and cold of Dungarran, the memory of warmth and security lingered and made her feel good inside, but her growling stomach reminded her of one thing: she needed food.

  With the streets empty, Bitty darted to the trash bins, the icy street tearing into the flesh of her bare feet. She winced as she rummaged through the garbage. Then, she came upon a little miracle: a paper tray with three pieces of battered fish surrounded by chips, her favorite fried potatoes.

  Why, it’s another miracle, sure it is. A whole meal just for me.

  Gently, she lifted out the prize and hurried back over the cold street to the stone pillar where she sat wrapped in the stolen shawl, smiling at her good fortune is always finding food in the bin. Each time she felt hungry, she went to the bin, and when the opened the heavy lid, she invariably found something to eat.

  As she bundled herself tighter, a coughing spasm seized her, burning her lungs and tearing at her throat. Bitty held her breath to see if it would subside, but that only made it worse, and the spell drove her up on all fours, her tiny body heaving. Quieted finally, the spasm left her weak. She slumped beside the pillar. Her trembling hands felt for the edge of the shawl and pulled it around her. In spite of the cold, she felt hot, her wet hair clinging in wayward, matted strands to her forehead and cheeks. The heat felt like flames in her throat, making even her chest, her nose, and her eyes burn.

  She cupped her tiny hands, gathered a few drops of misting rain and let them fill her mouth and soothe her throat.

  Bitty eyed the plate of food beside her. She knew she should eat, but the coughing spasm had taken her appetite.

  Her mother’s words crept into her mind.

  You must eat, Bitty. You’re too small as it is. Never waste a bite of food.

  She grabbed a piece of fish and held it in her lap.

  Cold and a bit soggy, the fish smelled of vinegar and salty batter. Gingerly, she tore off a piece and popped it into her mouth.

  “Mm,” she whispered and took another taste.

  When she’d finished, she wiped her hands on her dress, then laid her head back against the pillar. With a full stomach, she thought she could sleep. But when she closed her eyes, memories from the church crept into her mind. She’d stolen some poor woman’s shawl.

  What if she needs it more than I do? She could be cold and shivering somewhere.

  Bitty faced the fact that she was a thief now and would never be a proper Christian.

  At nineteen, she had condemned herself to eternal flames, though there were times when she felt that just a few minutes of those flames would be preferable to the long nights of icy cold.

  She could go back to the orphanage, to the laundry, or to some strange family who wanted her as a housekeeper, but the thought filled her with dread. At her age, she was too old to live at the state house unless she paid her own way by slaving in the laundry houses. She didn’t mind the hard work, the blisters on her hands and feet, and the constant bellowing of the Sisters of Mercy.

  “Work faster,” they’d say, their voices loud enough to be heard over the sound of the electric dryers. “Get out every spot. The good Bishop will not tolerate a speck of dirt on his robes. Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

  She hadn’t minded working from the early morning hours until the evening. She hadn’t really minded the endless scrubbing from the three washes. Three washes and rinses of each garment. The sisters decreed it. And she hadn’t really minded not being able to leave the task for a short break. Nor had she mi
nded learning to use the press machine to take away wrinkles, though she couldn’t master using it without burning her fingers at least once with each piece of clothing or table linen.

  But when the sisters told her that she would be required to work on Sundays in the Hall, her heart sank.

  Bitty knew what that meant.

  She was too old now, they said, to be given a day off. That was reserved for those who had family to visit or hopeful adoptive parents coming to pick out a new child to raise.

  “You’ve not been chosen by a family, Bitty, in all these years. We have fed and clothed you since you were four years old. At your age, you are a liability for us. You cannot seem to learn any useful skill besides washing clothes and cleaning. We haven’t even been able to teach you how to read. You’re a lovely young woman,” they said, “but you have no skills that would be useful to anyone. You refuse to speak, so how would any family communicate with you? We do not see any employable future for you, and certainly, no man of any standing or high caliber would want a wife who was the daughter of an emigrant, abandoned, left alone to be raised by the Sisters of Mercy. You must work to pay your way here. Our Lord despises idle hands. They are the Devil’s workshop.”

  Bitty’s eyes welled with tears.

  “If you continue here, you will become an expert housekeeper. We’re assigning you to the Hall to help with cooking and serving meals. You must learn all you can if you are to become a valuable part of a household. Once you’ve mastered kitchen skills, you might find a family to take you. There are several well-established families around who need good workers. They would provide for you in return for your services, and perhaps you would learn how to become a proper young woman under their influences.”

  She remembered, then, her two best friends, both seventeen and sent to work for two of the good families of Dungarran.

  The three of them had met in secret one night after they’d been working for the families for several months.

  “It’s hard work,” one of them had said. Then she lowered her head. “And it’s not what they tell ya, either, nothin’ like they tell ya.”

  Afterwards, though they’d planned another meeting, neither of her friends came. It was only later that she’d overheard two of the Sisters whispering in the hallway. Her friends had died on the passage ship to Australia, sent away by the Sisters of Mercy. Died on the ship.

  “We have several calls for housekeepers,” one of the sisters had whispered. “Perhaps it’s time for her to go. With those two dying on us, we’ve no choice but to try to replace them. If the families go to the Bishop, we will be investigated again. At least, she can help one of the families, and that family will simply have to understand that she neither reads nor speaks. What difference does it make in the long run? She’ll only be a servant.”

  And that night, Bitty left the Sisters of Mercy, not with a family, but on her own.

  She’d traveled from Dublin, occasionally finding shelter in hostels where there were beds and food and even clean clothes for the taking. The hostel owners would direct her to the next, then the next, until she reached Dungarran: her destination, the place she’d lived as a wee babe. When the hostel in Dungarran closed, she had nowhere to go except to the streets.

  “Sorry,” they said to Bitty, “but we’re leaving for America. We’ll try to find some friends to take you in.”

  The friends let her stay with them for several weeks. The wife loaned her shoes and clothes, saw to it that she was bathed and fed, and even helped her achieve the look of a proper young woman with her waist-length dark hair pinned back from her face just so, long ribbons cascading past her shoulders.

  Bitty had smiled at her reflection in the long mirror.

  She’d never seen herself dressed up, not like a proper lady. She was transformed and looked almost as beautiful as her mother.

  “You’re such a lovely girl,” the wife had said to her. “We can find you a husband in no time. With a good husband, your life will be safe and good. I know a few eligible men, but we mustn’t tell them about the orphanage. We’ll come up with a story that will not repulse them.”

  The smile on her face had faded then. She’d lowered her eyes and remembered that she was Bitty Brown, an orphan, a slave to the Laundry, a runaway not fit for any gentleman.

  Later, she packed some items in a bag and left, having no idea where she would go.

  Good fortune came gently to her that first night on the streets when she discovered the large furnace outside the mercantile shop. The roof of the shop formed a canopy over the furnace. Bitty took the blanket from her bag and smoothed it along the space beside the heating unit. She covered herself with the extra blanket she’d taken from the house and scooted up next to the wall of the building. Dry, warm, and exhausted from walking, she settled in.

  In the year that she’d been gone, she hadn’t regretted a single night of fear or hunger or freezing cold. The sisters had killed her two best friends when they had put them on that ship to Australia. It was common, Bitty knew, for young girls to die on these ships from disease and neglect, abuse, and starvation. Many girls were sent away to what the Sisters called, “a wonderful opportunity.” But it was not wonderful. It was a death sentence for them all. All of the girls in the orphanage feared not working hard enough or getting sick or saying something too brash. When the Sisters considered them a burden, for whatever reason, they were always sent away, and they were never heard from again.

  She would never go back to them, even if it meant she might die on the cold streets of Dungarran.

  Besides, what if she did go back? What if she were sent to a new family and they found her treasure and took it for themselves?

  No, she wouldn’t risk it.

  At last, she shook off the memories. She’d grown weary and snuggled into the wool of her shawl and the extra blanket.

  She closed her eyes and thought of her mother, her beautiful mother standing on the dock in Dublin. She could see her long dark hair tied back with a bright blue ribbon. She could feel the warmth of her mother’s arms, the smell of her lavender soap.

  Mama, please come back for me.

  Bitty pulled the covers tighter around her.

  She dreamed of a nice little cottage with a roaring fire and plenty of food, a bed and soft quilts. And a puppy, a nice puppy that loved her and slept at the foot of her bed. She dreamed of clothes that fit and shoes, shoes for her blistered feet. And hairbrushes to smooth out the tangles that seemed always present in her wavy brunette hair. Perhaps a bow or two made out of satin so she’d be a proper girl.

  But most of all, she dreamed of her mother’s caring arms around her as the two of them sang softly together before bedtime.

  Someday, someday, she might come and find me. Someday, she might want me back.

  2

  Percy

  At 8:00 p.m., Percy Quinlan, the thirty-three year old associate pastor of the Dungarran Church of Ireland, removed his black robe, hung it in the closet, then stepped quietly into the sanctuary. The night before, he’d seen a small female hiding underneath the back row of pews. His first thought was to approach her and offer help. But then, another thought warned him to leave her alone and let her rest. He worried that he might frighten her, so he simply draped an abandoned woolen shawl over the pew beside her hiding place.

  Now, he scanned the interior of the sanctuary, but finding no sign of the girl, he went to his office. On his desk were several unopened letters, one from the Bishop of their diocese and two from Catholic organizations. A few bills were neatly stacked and ready to be paid. He searched through the mess in his top drawer until he found the listing he wanted, the phone number for the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage, known by the locals as the Laundry. He’d known most of the sisters all his life, and his benefactors—The Lady Emalyn and Master Owen—gave of their time and money to help the orphans. His mother, Fiona, often shipped tins of cookies and boxes of clothing.

  “Sister Teresa,” he said to the voice
on the other end of the phone. “This is Percy Quinlan. Yes, Sister, I’m doing well, thank you,” he continued. “I wondered if there might be a girl missing from the Laundry.”

  He listened as Sister Teresa announced that certainly not, no one was missing from their home. She launched into a sermonette about the care they took for every one of their children, the strict controls in place, the security measures and high standards of discipline enforced to safeguard the children.

  “And, I might add, Percy, that as your mother and the Lady Emalyn were patrons, you should pay no heed to what you read in the news journals or what you hear through the malicious gossip spreading throughout this country. Our good sisters are appalled at these ruinous allegations. There is not an ounce of truth in any of them.”

  The Irish Reporter, Percy recalled, had run several articles in the past year about alleged abuse and financial schemes at the orphanage. The first few had been fairly easy to ignore since the witnesses who came forward were deemed “mentally incapable” of giving true accounts.

  But then, the last two articles, one endorsed by a member of the Catholic governing board for the orphanage, cast such a negative light on the place that many parishioners from all over Ireland had begun to come forward with more accounts. Though the orphanage remained open, suspicions and investigations continued.

  The pastor at Percy’s church had told him that the orphanage would surely be closed.

  “Yes, of course, Sister,” he said. “The Church would not allow such atrocities.”

  He heard Sister Teresa gasp.

  “Most assuredly not,” she said.

  “Forgive me, but I really must get back to my work. God be with you, Sister.”

  Percy rubbed his bad leg. The cold weather seemed to make it throb, even though the injury to it had occurred when he was only a baby. Because of the pronounced limp, he’d been the subject of ridicule in his younger school days.