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Authors: Brian McGilloway
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interested in.’
Reddin nodded. ‘The place was coming down with them; wee limbo babies.’
‘This one is different. From the late-seventies probably. We think it was murdered.’
Reddin squinted slightly, as if trying to focus on something.
‘The bridges were down by then. Whoever took that child onto the island needed a boat. Net men and smugglers would be the most likely to provide transit across,’ I explained.
‘They would know who brought the baby across. It was buried in another part of the island from the rest of the cillin .’
‘The same goes for Cleary, too, if you find him on that place – someone would have had to bring him across, too. Someone could get into trouble for that,’ Reddin said
shrewdly.
‘No one can be prosecuted in either case. To be honest, I just want to know what happened to the child. I want to find out her name. So she doesn’t just disappear.’
Reddin considered the response. ‘In terms of smugglers, the only ones I knew of left were Pete Cuthins and Alex Herron. The net men were different. Their numbers have been dropping
constantly; the Fisheries stopped them as well. Bloody stupid, too. You can have a thousand people with rods fishing above the Lifford bridge, but the net men fishing for a living beyond the bridge
is having their licences cut every year. There would only be three left I can think of: Tony Hennessy, Finbar Buckley and Seamus O’Hara.’
‘Thank you, Mr Reddin,’ I said, as I jotted the names down.
‘O’Hara might be able to help you best. He was the ferryman, you know?’ He winked blindly as he spoke.
‘The ferryman?’
‘From when people used the island for their babies. A cillin .’
I nodded, worried that the conversation was simply going to be repeated.
‘It means little church, did you know that?’ Reddin said, raising his chin interrogatively.
‘I didn’t.’
‘O’Hara ferried across the babies. To bury them. The church knew all about it; they were happy for him to do it.’
I could see that Reddin was no longer looking at me, his vision seemingly locked on something in the middle distance, which I knew he could not see.
‘I used him once. The missus lost one of ours. He came too early, hadn’t a chance. I called the priest but he wouldn’t do anything for us. He said a quick prayer. We asked him
to baptize the wee critter. Padraig, we wanted to call him, but he wasn’t allowed, he said. “Put him in a shoebox, with a scrap of white wrapped round him and take him to Seamus
O’Hara. I’ll tell him to expect you; down at the island.”’
The whiteness of his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered over them.
‘It was a spring morning, the mist on the river just beginning to burn off. I carried him down there, the shoebox under me arm, like a lunchbox, like I was going to work for the day.
Marion wanted to see him one more time; she wrapped him in a white sheet. We blessed him ourselves, with holy water. I didn’t give a tinker’s curse whether it was right or wrong. We
christened him ourselves, then we laid him in the box like he was sleeping. Marion wouldn’t let me dry the water off his wee head. I could still see the dampness of the cross we’d made
with our thumbs when I reached the island.’
He turned towards me, lifting his hand and wiping his eyes.
‘O’Hara was there. Him and his boat coming across through the mist. “I’ve it dug already,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” I wanted to go with
him, but he wouldn’t let me. “You can’t cross over,” he said. “Don’t be fretting about it. I’ll look after it for you.” I had to hand him over the
wee boy, laid the box on the floor of the boat. O’Hara stood there waiting, until I palmed him a few florins. Then he pushed away from the bank. I never saw where he laid him.’
He raised his head as if to stymie any further tears. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. That wee lad is with Marion now, and the two of them
Reddin nodded. ‘The place was coming down with them; wee limbo babies.’
‘This one is different. From the late-seventies probably. We think it was murdered.’
Reddin squinted slightly, as if trying to focus on something.
‘The bridges were down by then. Whoever took that child onto the island needed a boat. Net men and smugglers would be the most likely to provide transit across,’ I explained.
‘They would know who brought the baby across. It was buried in another part of the island from the rest of the cillin .’
‘The same goes for Cleary, too, if you find him on that place – someone would have had to bring him across, too. Someone could get into trouble for that,’ Reddin said
shrewdly.
‘No one can be prosecuted in either case. To be honest, I just want to know what happened to the child. I want to find out her name. So she doesn’t just disappear.’
Reddin considered the response. ‘In terms of smugglers, the only ones I knew of left were Pete Cuthins and Alex Herron. The net men were different. Their numbers have been dropping
constantly; the Fisheries stopped them as well. Bloody stupid, too. You can have a thousand people with rods fishing above the Lifford bridge, but the net men fishing for a living beyond the bridge
is having their licences cut every year. There would only be three left I can think of: Tony Hennessy, Finbar Buckley and Seamus O’Hara.’
‘Thank you, Mr Reddin,’ I said, as I jotted the names down.
‘O’Hara might be able to help you best. He was the ferryman, you know?’ He winked blindly as he spoke.
‘The ferryman?’
‘From when people used the island for their babies. A cillin .’
I nodded, worried that the conversation was simply going to be repeated.
‘It means little church, did you know that?’ Reddin said, raising his chin interrogatively.
‘I didn’t.’
‘O’Hara ferried across the babies. To bury them. The church knew all about it; they were happy for him to do it.’
I could see that Reddin was no longer looking at me, his vision seemingly locked on something in the middle distance, which I knew he could not see.
‘I used him once. The missus lost one of ours. He came too early, hadn’t a chance. I called the priest but he wouldn’t do anything for us. He said a quick prayer. We asked him
to baptize the wee critter. Padraig, we wanted to call him, but he wasn’t allowed, he said. “Put him in a shoebox, with a scrap of white wrapped round him and take him to Seamus
O’Hara. I’ll tell him to expect you; down at the island.”’
The whiteness of his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered over them.
‘It was a spring morning, the mist on the river just beginning to burn off. I carried him down there, the shoebox under me arm, like a lunchbox, like I was going to work for the day.
Marion wanted to see him one more time; she wrapped him in a white sheet. We blessed him ourselves, with holy water. I didn’t give a tinker’s curse whether it was right or wrong. We
christened him ourselves, then we laid him in the box like he was sleeping. Marion wouldn’t let me dry the water off his wee head. I could still see the dampness of the cross we’d made
with our thumbs when I reached the island.’
He turned towards me, lifting his hand and wiping his eyes.
‘O’Hara was there. Him and his boat coming across through the mist. “I’ve it dug already,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” I wanted to go with
him, but he wouldn’t let me. “You can’t cross over,” he said. “Don’t be fretting about it. I’ll look after it for you.” I had to hand him over the
wee boy, laid the box on the floor of the boat. O’Hara stood there waiting, until I palmed him a few florins. Then he pushed away from the bank. I never saw where he laid him.’
He raised his head as if to stymie any further tears. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. That wee lad is with Marion now, and the two of them
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