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Tears of a Bluebird

Dedicated to
Vicky Proudmumofs...

Tears of a Bluebird

By: Ashleigh N.M Conway

Part One - 1952
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten

Part Two - 1953
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Part Three 1954/55
Chapter One
Chapter Two - The Beginning

Everything in this book is entirely fictional. Any resemblance of any place/name used within this book happens to be coincidental. The rights to this book belong to me and only me.


For my dad and my sister Victoria. Thank you for all the things you've both given me in life; a shelter above my head when the storms brewed, arms around my shoulders when in doubt and hands to always pick me back up again.     Until the end.


                        If my tears could build a stairway
                              And my memory a lane,
                        I would walk right up to Heaven
                             And bring you home again

                                                           - Papa Duce


Part One - 1952

Chapter One

They say that if you look deep into a child's eyes, moments after they are born, then you can see into their soul. I believed them, for holding the very essence of new born life itself can only be described as incredulous. When you look upon a child – whether it be a new born, an infant or even a teenager – your mind seems to go into a sense of wonder. A trance, it may seem.
Looking at them, you begin to think, "What goes on inside their little minds?" You realise how their bodies are growing and slowly maturing. You notice how some of them haven’t started adulthood yet, or gained their rightful eye colour or even their adult teeth.
For example you can look out of your window and there a child will be, happily playing, happily taking life as it comes. Ever since I was a child I always told myself that normal children are reared in happy environments, where they take life as it comes naively; even blissfully. But I was never the normal type. Mother had told me this countless times before. For I, Molly Taylor, daughter of Sir Nicholas C. Taylor, was of a greater class and I was forbidden to pity or even as much as to acknowledge such peasants.
I soon realised that these so called peasants from the Bogs were in actuality the happier ones than my class, for behind closed doors my class were the true piteous ones. I supposed that it was was due to my hapless upbringing which made me despise mother so much, for I had always done so. I knew if anything that deep down I was terrified of mother. Perhaps it was mother who made me sin in the first place.
Yes. Perhaps, indeed.
It was the twenty-eighth of June 1952; I was sixteen and I had just given birth to an illegitimate child. It was on this day when I first experienced true happiness; real and genuine happiness. My stomach felt like there were butterflies inside of it, dancing and flying about within me.
Yet, with that being said, that night was also to be the worst night of my life. It was the night my child was taken from me.
      “You will do as you're told, Madame!” My stern, catholic mother snapped; her loathsome eyes glaring across at me in disgust. I was slouching in exhaustion on the hospital bed, my body sweating and weeping at the same time. My hands shook. I brought them to my face and pressed them against my cold flesh. Where was my heart? I couldn't feel it. My insides suddenly felt rotten and the dismay was intertwining through my ribs and up my throat where at any moment I was about to vomit. “Think of it… The… the child!”
It was not hard to decipher mothers expression and how much effort she had put in on pronouncing the word child. Mother always made such things very clear to me. Perhaps it was the way her lips would compress together into a thin-line, where they would then transfigure into a slight moue – her great moue of disgust! Her lips doing this, her eyes would then string into contact and they would narrow; where the pupils would form into dark slits. Mother only every did this when she found something she either loathed or felt was repulsive... Lady Elise found her only grandchild repulsive!
       “What kind of life will it have, if it’s to grow up with a sixteen year old mother? Grow up a bastard?”
Her words haunted me from that moment on.
       “Please don't take him!” I managed to whimper, which only caused mother to scowl more.
Labour... Labour was something which was factual proof to me that hell existed. That pain; that dreadful and unbearable pain truly did feel excruciating. I had never felt such physical pain before. The whole delivery process had almost been unsuccessful for apparently I was a stubborn little girl who was indeed very disobedient – just like mother had warned the sisters. I had no idea what to expect during labour. Nobody ever spoke of my pregnancy. Not with me anyway. Only once had I dared to ask the nurse what would happen when I went into labour and the nurse simply replied to me that the bastard would be born and that the pain was bearable. I couldn't believe that the nurse had said the pain would be bearable. For me it felt unbearable, and I kept wishing – screaming out to the doctors! – for the pain to stop. To please end!
During those dark hours I had stared into the very pits of hell itself and witnessed the devil. His amber eyes glared at me through the flames; his fire feeding on my sin. The eyes scorched through my own, causing my paroxysms to grow louder and louder whilst the doctor in front of me screamed at the nurses around him. In the latter I was to discover that it wasn't the devil I had screamed at throughout my pain. It was mother, and for the first time in a long time I suddenly became very, very frightened of her.
As I lay gasping and bleeding, crying and praying on that bed, my child was taken from me. Then, severely, mother unlaced her hands from my shoulders and stepped back from the hospital bed.
     “There’s no use in crying Molly!” bellowed mother. “Crying will do you no good! Huh! – look where it’s got you so far..."
Slowly I turned my face away from mother wherein doing so I then muffled my cries into my damp pillow. I then closed my eyes; praying and longing for sleep. But my mind, troubled, did not want to sleep. My brain was screaming at me; my heart like a monkey rattling at his cage. My hand reached towards the door, as if to drag my son back, but mother rushed over to my side and thrashed my hand away as if it were a bee and it has just stung her. My hand fell with a thud. I couldn't quite grasp it... Why were such beings allowed to take a child away from its own mother? Why? I implored to God. Why?

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Karen Gillanas Molly Taylor
Henry Ian Cusickas Dr. Michael Grey
Maxwell Caulfieldas Father Harrington
Iain Glenas John Ferguson
Tilda Swintonas Mother
Sheena Eastonas Ms. Harrington

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