Page 161 of The Missing Sister

I looked at him in surprise. ‘My goodness, you’re right.Ifthese women are actually telling the truth about why they are hunting me down,’ I added. But it did prompt me to ask Ambrose an important question.

‘Do you... I mean, would you have any idea who my birth parents were, Ambrose?’ I asked tentatively.

‘None at all, Mary, none at all. You were what was once known as a “foundling”, and because you replaced the Mary that had died, there was never any gossip about you. No one except the unknown person who brought you knew that youhadbeen left on James’s doorstep.’

‘Do you... well, do you think my parents took me in because of the money you paid them?’

‘Of course that was a worry to begin with, but I remember so vividly the look on your mama’s face when she held you in her arms for the first time. And your dear papa was so very much in love with her that he’d do anything to make her happy. I watched as he grew to love you. You were very easy to love, Mary,’ he smiled.

‘Perhaps you’ll never find out who your birth parents were, Mum,’ said Jack. ‘Does it matter if you don’t?’

‘Under normal circumstances, it might not,’ Ambrose cut in, ‘except that there seems to be a search taking place by a group of sisters who are determined to look at that ring of yours. As it is the only clue to your original heritage, it does indicate that they may well be genuine. Mary, might I suggest that you actually consider meeting with one of these women to discover what it is they want?’

‘I think Ambrose is right, Mum,’ said Jack. ‘I could certainly contact Ally.’

‘But you’re not even sure whether sheisone of the sisters, are you, Jack?’ I said.

‘The more I think about the conversations we had, the more I think she sought me out on purpose. Anyway, there’s only one way to find out.’

‘I’ve just realised something,’ I said with a shudder. ‘That man I met in London – Orlando Somebody-or-other – I told him whichcaveyou were staying at in Provence, and even gave him your mobile number, in case he wanted some further technical details about our vineyard.’

‘Well then,’ Jack sighed sadly, ‘that settles it. That’s how she found me.’

‘It seems that these sisters are certainly resourceful.’ Ambrose gave a weak smile. ‘Despite your fear that their motivation is connected to your past here in Ireland, perhaps either yourself or your daughteristheir missing sister.’

I could feel every nerve in my body tingling as I thought of the connotations of me being the missing sister. Even if Ambrose said he had an inkling of why I’d run away all those years ago, and he was certain that these women looking for me were not connected to it, I was still not convinced. I stood up suddenly. ‘Would you mind if I took a walk? I need some fresh air.’ With that, I turned, made my way to the entrance hall and left the house.

Outside, I took in some long, deep breaths of Irish air, then I walked determinedly through Merrion Square Park, past the couples and groups of students having summer picnics in the shade of the large trees, just as I’d once done. Walking past the Oscar Wilde statue, I followed the same path I’d trodden in my uni days. When I emerged onto the intersection between Merrion Square West and North, I saw that even though the streets were now packed with cars, and the odd new building had popped up along the way, it was otherwise unchanged. I’d always loved how green everything was here in the city centre, having missed the wide-open spaces of West Cork, and in a daze, I automatically walked down the road, past Lincoln’s Inn, which had always been a popular student watering hole, then around College Park, where men in whites were practising cricket. I arrived at the smaller green of Fellows’ Square and remembered how I used to meet Ambrose outside the School of Humanities to walk home together.

I saw tourists were lined up outside the Trinity Library building, waiting to view the famousBook of Kells, and continuing onwards, I arrived in Parliament Square and looked up at the central campanile tower, its white granite facade still as imposing as I remembered it. I smiled weakly at the tourists posing underneath it for photographs, thinking of the student superstition that if one were to walk through it while the bell was tolling, you would fail all your exams.

Student life had been full of superstitions, ancient traditions, balls, house parties and anxiety over exams, all accompanied by a good quantity of alcohol. Being here at the beginning of the seventies, a bright new decade when the youth were finding their voice, had been exhilarating – Parliament Square had frequently been filled with students protesting against apartheid in South Africa, or the republican student clubs rallying for support.

I went and sat on the chapel steps and I shut my eyes, overwhelmed by the memories evoked. I remembered sitting on these steps with my friends in my first ever pair of Levi’s jeans. I’d started smoking, just because everyone else did then we’d even had our own brand of Trinity cigarettes, sold by a man at the college front gate, who’d always flirted outrageously with any girl he saw. It was here that I’d celebrated the fact that I’d won the Classics scholarship at the start of my second year. It meant that I wouldn’t have to worry about tuition fees, accommodation or meals, they were all provided for me by the college. It had been fiercely competitive, and after months of studying, I’d rarely felt more elation than I had then. We’d all drunk beer out of bottles, then gone to the student café in New Square for some more. The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ and ‘Congratulations’ by Cliff Richard had been on the jukebox, and we’d played them over and over. It had been one of the happiest days of my life. I’d felt young and free, as if anything was possible.

‘If only life could have been frozen there,’ I murmured as I watched the students coming and going, their exams over for the year and as carefree as I’d been back then, before everything had changed. Sitting here now all these years on, I simply didn’t know where to turn for comfort. My mind – usually so clear and organised – was in turmoil.

‘I’m falling apart,’ I whispered, on the verge of tears. ‘I should never have left New Zealand.’

‘Mum?’

I saw Jack standing at the bottom of the steps looking up at me. I hadn’t noticed his approach, because he’d blended in with the rest of the young faces milling about.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Not really. I just needed...’

‘I know. I understand. I can leave you be if you want?’

‘No, come and sit up here with me.’

He did so, and we sat side by side, our faces tipped up to the sun, which had just appeared from behind a grey and very Irish cloud.

‘What a beautiful place. You must have loved being here at uni,’ he said.

‘I did.’

Jack knew me well enough not to push for any further information; he just sat quietly beside me.