ANNE BENNETT
Till the Sun Shines Through

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2003

Copyright © Anne Bennett 2003

Anne Bennett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007139828

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN: 9780007534685

Version: 2017-09-13

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my eldest

daughter, Nikki Wilkes, with all my love.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

Both Bridie McCarthy and her cousin Rosalyn were lying across the straw bales on the upper floor of the barn, the place both girls made for when they needed a bit of peace. Rosalyn was reading the latest letter from Bridie’s sister Mary, who was married and living in Birmingham and had written asking if Bridie could come and stay with her a wee while before school opened again in September.

Rosalyn handed the letter back to Bridie with a sigh. ‘You’re so lucky,’ she said.

Bridie didn’t contradict her cousin. Instead she said, ‘Well, Mary did promise I could go on a visit when she had her own place. You mind they had to stay with Aunt Ellen first after their marriage last year?’ She hugged her knees with delight. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘I bet,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Anything would be better than this place day after day.’ She crossed to the barn window and Bridie got to her feet and joined her. ‘It’s not to see Birmingham,’ she told Rosalyn. ‘It’s to see Mary. I’ve missed her so much since she left. Before then – Mary leaving and all – I thought life would just go on the same way year in, year out.’

‘For me it does.’

‘No, even for you there’s change,’ Bridie reminded her. ‘For a start you’ll be working in the shirt factory in Donegal town in a few weeks, now that you’re fourteen, instead of going back to school.’

‘Aye, I’ll work longer hours, give most of my pay to Mammy and still be at her beck and call when I’m home. “Rosalyn, do this, or that, wash the dishes, see to the weans, change the baby”. God, it would sicken you.’

Bridie burst out laughing. ‘Don’t be such a grouch,’ she said.

‘Well, don’t you ever want something to happen?’ Rosalyn demanded. ‘God, Bridie, there must be more to life than this.’

Bridie looked out at the farm and countryside she loved with all her heart, where the sun shone down from a cloudless sky giving everything a glow. In front of the squat whitewashed cottage the hens strutted about the yard, pecking the grain that had fallen between the cobbles, while the cows placidly chewed the cud in the lush fields and occasionally leaned their heads on the five-bar gate to watch the world go by. To the side of the house was the orchard, the trees heavy with fruit at that time of the year. Much of the fruit would be picked in another month or so, Bridie knew, and bottled or made into jam, except for the apples. They would be stored in straw-layered barrels in the barn.

Everywhere she looked there were trees and greenness and beauty and it always left her with deep satisfaction to look upon it. There were other cottages like their own dotted about, all on the same lines and most with a curl of smoke wafting from the chimneys. Some cottages seemed almost to nestle in the verdant green Donegal hills that were dotted with sheep who tugged relentlessly at the grass.

The lane to the road divided the cows’ field from the tilled ground where Bridie could see her father and her brother Terry working. Just a little way along that road the lane meandered down to run alongside the rail bus tracks at the bottom of the farm.

The red and cream diesel-driven rail buses had been a feature of Bridie’s life since as far back as she could remember. Her father had told her rail bus tracks were laid all over Donegal and ran on narrow rails because they had to climb and dip over unaccommodating hills, or negotiate other austere landscapes. He’d said they had opened up life for the people in the outlying farms and villages, which had been fairly isolated until then.

The one that ran past the bottom of the McCarthy farm came from the port of Killybegs in the west. In the cars and trucks pulled behind the rail bus would be fish from Killybegs, and cattle, sheep and produce from the surrounding farms. The rail bus would bring back vital foodstuffs, coal and Guinness from the north.

It also took fathers to work and mothers to shop. Bridie had been on it herself a few times with her mother, as far as Donegal Town, on the rare occasions when no one was taking the cart in. She’d never travelled on it the other way though; there had never been the need.

She well remembered the day Mary left, beside herself with excitement. She’d been mad to go with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Sam, who’d wanted to take her back for a wee holiday to their house in Birmingham, and she hadn’t been at all sure that her mother would allow it. Bridie had been sorry to see her sister go and would have been worse still if she’d known she’d never come back to live at the farm again.

She wondered if her mother had had an inkling of the way it might turn out, for she’d not wanted Mary to go either and Bridie had overheard the conversation she had about it with her sister Ellen. ‘What is the point of going to a place like Birmingham for a holiday?’ Sarah had complained. ‘Haven’t you said it’s fine and dirty and the air full of smoke and fumes from the factories? Hasn’t Mary all she needs here for a holiday if she wants one?’

‘Aye, and what does she see of it?’ Ellen retorted. ‘Cooped up all day in a shirt factory.’

‘It was her choice to work there,’ Sarah said, bridling at the implied criticism.

‘I wasn’t blaming you, Sarah,’ Ellen said in a conciliatory tone. ‘But let me take the girl for a wee change. Show her things and take her places you haven’t here. I’d like to do it, Sarah. You know I think of your children almost as my own.’

Sarah could say nothing after that. The blight on Ellen’s life was the fact that she and Sam had never had any children. Ellen, older than Sarah by five years, had lived with Sam’s parents in Letterkenny for six years after her marriage and initially put the fact that she was childless down to the stress of living with in-laws she barely got on with, certain it would come right when she and Sam had a place of their own.

She’d seen and approved her sister’s marriage to Jimmy McCarthy, and only had a slight twinge of envy at the birth of Seamus the following year and Johnnie the year after. Shortly after this, she followed her husband to Birmingham, where an uncle promised him a job in a new rubber factory set up by an Irishman named Byrne, later called Dunlop’s.

Ellen had been glad to go, for Sam’s father’s farm made little enough money and Sam, being the second son, would never inherit it anyway. At first, all they could find to rent were two mean little rooms and Ellen was actually glad she hadn’t weans to see to in the place and said as much to any who asked her.

She’d been married almost ten years when they got the house on Bell Barn Road and she settled down to life there. She was confident children would be part of their marriage and, please God, children she could rear, not like her poor sister Sarah, who’d lost three wee babies to consumption.

But no children came. Ellen had a comfortable home – Sam earned good money, though he worked hard for it and came back home each evening as black as any miner and stinking from the rubber, and he was a good man, a good husband and provider and, Ellen thought, would have made a wonderful father. But it wasn’t to be. ‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ she told Sarah, when she had eventually come to terms with her barren state. She visited her sister and her children at least once a year, sometimes twice, and all of them loved her and Sam dearly.

Sarah had never resented the love her children had for her sister and her husband, for didn’t she love them herself and felt heartsore that they hadn’t been blessed with children? She was quite willing to share hers. Ellen had never suggested taking any away before though and Sarah had serious misgivings. But then, she told herself, she had Mary all the time, and Terry and young Bridie too. Surely she couldn’t be selfish enough to begrudge her sister a week or two of her daughter’s company?

‘Sure don’t I know you love my weans?’ she told her sister. ‘And it’s bad of me to deny you Mary’s company. It isn’t as if she’s not due for a holiday from the shirt factory either. I’d say she was more than entitled. So you take her along with you and Sam and Godspeed to all of you.’

Bridie knew then that Mary would go and that she’d miss her desperately. As it was she’d hugged and kissed her that early morning as the family all assembled at the end of the farm where the rail bus would obligingly stop to take Ellen, Sam and Mary on their journey.

As it had pulled up beside them, Mary had peeled herself away from her weeping sister, who was wrapped around her, and had turned to embrace her parents. Ellen had taken Bridie in her arms. ‘She’ll be back before you know it,’ she promised. Bridie had tried to swallow the sobs and nod to Ellen. She couldn’t blame her aunt, she loved her too much and anyway she’d heard her mammy say often how hard it was not to have a chick or child belonging to her.

After the rail bus had left the farm and Bridie’s parents and Terry returned to the farmhouse, Bridie had climbed up on the five-barred gate as she’d often done with Rosalyn and watched the rail bus chug its way to Derg Bridge Halt, the next station.

From this height, as long as the sun shone, and no mist shrouded the hills you could often see the glint of the tracks disappearing between the two towering peaks in the distance known as Barnes Gap.

Her uncle Francis, Rosalyn’s father, would keep them all entertained on winter evenings with tales of the highwaymen who used to lurk there in the past and prey on the unsuspecting people travelling along the road.

Francis was a gifted storyteller and he could paint a grand picture in words, and Bridie gave a smile at her own foolishness as she remembered how feared she used to be. Today Barnes Gap was a famous landmark where only sheep, not highwaymen, wandered at will.

The sun had turned the rivers running down the mountainsides into silver snakes and a tributary of one of those rivers ran beside the farm. Bridie could see it in the distance and she remembered playing in there as a child and how the boys had learned to swim where it ran deeper behind the rocky waterfall. She gave a sigh of pleasure at the memory as she turned to face her cousin. ‘I’d never want to leave here, Rosalyn. I love it all. What more could you want? It’s beautiful!’

‘Aye. Beautiful and dull, deadly dull,’ Rosalyn replied contemptuously. ‘But you at least can get away from it. If Mary’s place doesn’t take your fancy, haven’t you two fine brothers in New York?’

Bridie knew she had. They were shadowy figures she could barely remember, who sent weekly letters to her mother Sarah with dollars folded inside them.

‘I can’t remember either Seamus or Johnnie,’ Bridie protested. ‘I was only five when they left in 1919, and before that they’d been at the Great War for three years.’

Rosalyn, a year older than Bridie, remembered how happy everyone was that Bridie’s older brothers had escaped injury in the Great War that had killed so many and arrived home, if not totally fit and well, at least in one piece.

Their happiness was short-lived though, for in the early spring of 1919, two weeks after the boys had come home, they’d both contracted Spanish flu.

Bridie had crept about the house of sickness on tiptoe, listening to the adults talk. She didn’t understand much of it, but knew her brothers were very sick, and with the rest of her family she’d said prayers and attended Masses though she barely knew them.

The two boys had rallied and began on the long road to full recovery when, despite Sarah’s efforts to isolate them during their illness, their young brother and sister, Robert and Nuala, then aged seven and nine, caught the flu too. Sarah was worried, but she told herself that the children had previously been fit and healthy, and they’d surely have more resistance than their brothers who’d spent years fighting a war from an open trench they’d shared with ice and mud and rats. However, Sarah had underestimated the speed with which the illness could take hold. Neither Sarah’s stringent nursing care, the masses said, novenas begun nor rosaries recited in many neighbouring houses could save the young children who died just two weeks after the onset of the disease.

Bridie had been beside herself with grief, unable to understand how children fit and healthy one day could just up and die in no time at all. Robert and Nuala, the siblings nearest to Bridie’s age, had been her playmates, together with Rosalyn and her brother Frank, and Bridie missed them dreadfully. Rosalyn had been almost as badly affected and they’d often crept away together to escape the grief.

It was usually Mary who found and comforted the two wee girls. Sarah and Jimmy were too racked with sadness, Johnnie and Seamus were riven with guilt from bringing the disease into the family, and Terry was busy trying to keep everything ticking over, although he was stunned with sorrow himself.

Then, with the family coming to terms with their loss, Seamus and Johnnie, unable to stand the guilt any longer, suggested going to their uncle Connor in New York in the autumn of 1919. Ireland was on the brink of civil war at the time and Bridie remembered her mother saying the boys had survived the war, as well as pulled round from the Spanish flu, and she didn’t want a British Tommy gun to end their lives and so she’d made no objection to them going and trying their luck in America.

Although Bridie barely remembered the two brothers she still got that blood was thicker than water when all was said and done and a brother was a brother. ‘I’m sure they’d be delighted if you were to join them,’ Rosalyn told Bridie. ‘They’d hardly refuse now, would they?’

‘Probably not,’ Bridie said, considering it. ‘But I don’t think I’d like America, not from what they say in their letters anyway. I’m not like you, Rosalyn, I’m happy here and Mammy and Daddy would hate me to leave.’

Rosalyn knew that was true. Bridie had been pampered all her life, being the baby of the family. After the deaths of Robert and Nuala, Sarah had taken even greater care of her youngest child. She was slight, very small, and Sarah thought she hadn’t the constitution or physique of the children she had left to rear.

She appeared incredibly frail, yet Bridie never sickened for anything. After Robert and Nuala died, Sarah worried constantly about her. The choicest cuts of meat were hers and there was always a newly laid egg and fresh milk whenever she wanted it. She was expected to do little in the house: Sarah said she did enough at school and encouraged her to go out into the sunshine, or sit by the fire to rest herself.

Rosalyn often resented the way Bridie was treated. Apart from her elder brother Frank, there were also four much younger weans at home: her mother had suffered a series of miscarriages after her birth and so she’d been eight when Declan was born, followed by Nora, Connie and Martin. She seldom had a minute to call her own and yet Bridie could swan around the place, being petted by everyone because she looked so sweet.

And she did, that was the very devil of it. She was elfin-looking with large, expressive, deepbrown eyes, ringed with long black lashes, which showed up against her creamy-coloured skin, and just a hint of pink dusted across her cheeks. Her nose was like a little button, and her mouth a perfect rosebud above a slightly pointed chin that showed how stubborn she could be at times, not that she was thwarted in many things she wanted. Bridie’s shining glory though was her hair. It was thick, the colour of deep mahogany, and hung in natural waves which were tied back with a ribbon, curling tendrils escaping and framing her pretty little face.

She was well loved, Bridie. Her parents were fair besotted by her and seemed to find it amazing that they had given life to this beautiful, fine-boned child and Mary and Terry petted and spoilt her too. She was also a favourite in Rosalyn’s own home and even Frank was gentle with her.

Yes, Bridie had a fine life, Rosalyn thought. Why ever would she want to leave? Yet a restlessness had begun to stir in Rosalyn and she knew Barnes More, which was just three miles away from Donegal Town in neighbouring Northern Ireland, would not be able to hold her for long. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I intend to go as soon as the opportunity arises. Mammy’s brother Aiden keeps talking about trying his luck in the States, but he hasn’t done anything about it yet. He’s sweet on Maria Flanagan and that’s what holding him, Mammy says. I don’t intend to get sweet on anyone over here. There are men galore in America. I’ll chance my arm there.’

‘It’s not your arm they’ll be looking at I’m thinking,’ Bridie said with a broad grin.

‘Bridie McCarthy,’ Rosalyn shrieked in mock indignation. ‘I’ll …’

But Bridie never found out what Rosalyn was going to say because just at that moment they heard Aunt Delia’s voice in the yard. ‘Rosalyn! You, Rosalyn!’

‘Oh, Dear God, now I’ll catch it,’ Rosalyn said with a groan, catching sight of her mother’s angry stance from the barn window as she stood in the yard below them.

Bridie watched her cousin run across the yard to her mother, feeling sorry for her. She had hardly any time to herself. Once, Bridie had asked her mother whether she thought her aunt Delia was unfair on Rosalyn.

‘Well, she has her hands full with four wee ones and all,’ Sarah had said. ‘And,’ she’d added, ‘Francis isn’t always easy. ’Course, your father won’t hear a word said against him.’

Bridie was familiar with the story of how her father Jimmy and his wee brother Francis were the only ones left after cholera had swept through their family. Female relations had arrived in droves to claim wee Francis who was but five. Jimmy had been twenty years old then and refused to let him go. Instead, he had farmed the land and reared the boy himself.

Jimmy had married Sarah when she was just seventeen and she helped in the rearing of Francis, who was by then twelve years old. Later, as a grown man, he had met and married Delia and Jimmy had helped him buy the farm beside them when it became vacant. Because of all this there was a special feeling between the brothers, though they were totally different both in looks and temperament, and the families saw a good deal of one another.

‘What’s wrong with Uncle Francis?’ Bridie had asked, intrigued, for she thought her uncle grand, full of fun and wit and always ready for a wee game or a laugh.

Sarah had given a sniff and with that sniff and from the look she also threw her, Bridie knew she was wasting her time asking. ‘Never you mind, Miss,’ Sarah had snapped. ‘Delia has her work cut out, that’s all I’m saying.’

Doesn’t need to take it all out on Rosalyn, Bridie thought now as she watched Rosalyn trailing behind her mother across the orchard that separated their house from her aunt and uncle’s. Rosalyn had her head down and Bridie guessed she was crying.

She wondered if she should have written and asked Mary if Rosalyn could come with her to Birmingham. But she really wanted Mary to herself. She doubted that Rosalyn would be let come anyway. How would her mother manage without her? Then there was the job she was starting soon in the shirt factory in town. She would be beginning that before Bridie had to go back to school.

At one point it seemed that even Bridie wouldn’t be able to go because Sarah didn’t want her travelling alone. Normally, Ellen would have come over like a shot to take her back, but she was struck down in bed with a bad attack of rheumatics and couldn’t make the trip.

But Bridie was desperate to go and when Terry offered to go with her as far as the boat and meet her from it on her return, Sarah reluctantly agreed. Bridie had grown very fond of Terry who’d been friendlier to her since Mary had left, knowing how much Bridie would miss her. Now the two got along well, even though Terry was seven years older than her.

Despite Bridie’s spirited claim that she could look after herself, she was glad Terry was beside her to negotiate rail buses and trains, especially when she saw the big port of Belfast where the ferry was waiting. Bridie suddenly wished Terry was coming all the way with her. Terry wished that too when he saw Bridie hanging over the deck rail, the case hurriedly borrowed from their uncle Francis beside her nearly as big as she was.

For two pins he’d have hopped up there with her and hang the consequences. He was at any rate heartily sick of the farm. But he knew he couldn’t do that to his father, not just leave him in the lurch that way. So he waved goodbye to his little sister as the boat set sail and hoped she’d remember what he’d said about changing trains at a place called Crewe.

However, Bridie had the vulnerable appearance of someone who needed looking after and, in a boat packed with Irish families, she was befriended by many a mothering soul. They were a great comfort when she felt a little sick and a true help when it was time to disembark. Someone eventually settled her onto a train bound for Crewe and, once on the train, Bridie again found that people were only too happy to assist a wee girl travelling alone and there was someone to carry her case and direct her to the right train for Birmingham. Bridie knew without all those kind people she would have been utterly lost.

Even with their help though when she finally alighted from the train at New Street Station, she felt exhausted and frightened, and stood on the windy, dirty platform, surrounded by bags, wishing she’d never come. She was scared witless of the noise around her. People shouted at each other above the din and there were sudden yells as people greeted others and sometimes gales of raucous laughter.

Porters rushed about with trolleys full of suitcases. ‘Out the way,’ they’d cry, or more politely, ‘Mind your backs.’ But above it all was the noise of the trains: the hiss of the water on the tracks, the pants of steam, the ear-splitting screech of the whistles and the roar of trains approaching other platforms, arriving in a cloud of smoke.

Never had she been so glad to see anything as she was to see Mary’s welcoming face, her warm, comfortable arms enveloping Bridie immediately and taking much of her fear away. ‘Oh God, Mary, how do you live in such a place?’ she cried. ‘How d’you stand it?’

‘Och, sure you get used to it,’ Mary said dismissively. ‘Come on away home. I’ve the house shining like a new pin and food fit for a king to cook for you.’

Bridie was terrified by the tram ride, far too frightened to take in the things of interest they passed which Mary pointed out to her. They alighted by the shops in a road called Bristol Street and she felt as if all her bones had been loosened. They turned up a little alleyway called Bristol Passage and came out into Bell Barn Road and Bridie stood for a moment and stared. There were row upon row of houses squashed up together, all grim and grey, matching the pavements and cobbled streets. But Mary didn’t seem to notice her sister’s horrified face. ‘Come on,’ she urged and, pointing down the road, added, ‘Aunt Ellen’s house is just down there. She’s in Bell Barn Road, and we’re just beside her in Grant Street. We’ll go around later, I’m seeing to things while she’s laid up.’

Mary’s front door opened straight onto the street, with another door in the entry leading down to the courtyard. Bridie was to find out during her stay that six houses opened on to that yard. The brewhouse was there too, where Mary, along with everyone else, did her washing on Mondays with the one shared tap. Mary told Bridie the tap often froze altogether in the winter, but added it was a grand place to hear all the gossip while you awaited your turn.

On fine Monday mornings, the washing lines crisscrossing the yard were filled with flapping washing, lifted into the sooty Birmingham air with the aid of tall props. The miskins were kept there too, where people tipped their ashes and where the communal dustbins often spilled rubbish on to the cobbles, and beside them, at the bottom of the yard, were lavatories which were shared by two families.

But that first day, looking around the inside of Mary’s room, Bridie thought it was as small as it had looked from the road. Her head was reeling. She had no understanding of such places, of so many people, families, living together: it seemed there was no space, no air for them to breathe at all.

And yet Mary seemed ridiculously proud of her house and she had made an effort for Bridie’s visit. A new rag rug was in front of the shining fender and the mantelshelf was dotted with plaster ornaments each side of the large wooden clock in the centre. Above the mantelpiece was the familiar picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and to the side of the fire was an alcove, which housed the wireless. Bridie remembered how Mary had written home in such excitement about it.

We have to have something called an accumulator to get it to work and have it charged at the garage on Bristol Street. However, really it’s no problem and grand altogether to have music on or even a play to listen to now and again.

‘We have a new gas cooker too now,’ Mary said proudly. ‘We used to cook on the fire when we first came here.’

Bridie had noticed the hooks on the chimney wall, reminiscent of her own home, and she now turned to look at the large, squat, gas cooker positioned between the table on one side and the door to the scullery on the other. There was also a press, which Mary called a sideboard, with more ornaments on it. ‘I keep good plates and glasses and such in there,’ Mary said as she tipped water from a lidded bucket into the kettle. ‘I don’t keep anything of importance in the scullery, the walls run with water in the winter.’

Bridie had a peep inside and could see, even on this summer’s day, what Mary meant. There was little there, just three shelves, housing a variety of odd plates and cups, a stone sink and steps leading to the coal cellar. There was no tap, but Bridie had expected none as Mary had already told her family when she wrote to them that they got their water from a tap in the yard that often froze altogether in the winter. ‘Shall I take my case up first and get settled in?’ she asked.

Mary nodded. ‘Aye, if you like. I’ll have a cup of tea waiting for you when you come down. I’d best start the tea or Eddie will be in on top of us and not a bite ready.’

‘Where am I to sleep?’

‘In the attic, pet,’ Mary said. ‘We’ve borrowed a mattress for you, but the sheets and blankets are my own. The bed’s made up for you, but you can put your things in the cupboard. There’s a hook if you want to hang anything up, unless it’s anything special like your clothes for Mass – I’ll put those in my wardrobe. Leave them down on my bed and I’ll see to them.’

In the attic another rag rug had been placed between the mattress laid on the floor and the cupboard, covering the bare boards. There was no other furniture and the room was dim with the only light coming from a dusty skylight.

Having put her belongings away, Bridie was glad to return to the living room. Mary had drawn the curtains and lit the gaslights which now popped and spluttered. She’d lit the fire too and it danced merrily in the hearth and Bridie was glad of it, for the evening had turned chilly. She had to admit that it all looked rather cosy. Mary handed her a cup of tea while she lit the gas beneath a pan of potatoes and another of cabbage.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘I don’t have to do the bacon for a while yet, so take the weight off your feet and tell me the news from home.’

What Bridie found particularly hardest to cope with in those early days in Birmingham was the noise. Inside the cottage in Ireland, it was often so quiet you could hear the peat settling into the grate, the ticking of the mantle clock, or her father puffing on his pipe.

Outside, she might hear the gentle lowing of the cows and the clucking of the hens, or the sweet singing of the birds. She’d hear the wind setting, the trees swaying and the soft swishing sound as the breeze rippled through the long grass, or the river rumbling as it ran across its stony bed.

There was nothing to prepare her for this crush of humanity, the walls so thin every sound the neighbours made could be heard. She hated the shrieking of the children in the street just outside the window and the cackling laughter and shouting of the women doing their washing in the brewhouse. She hated the tramp of hobnail boots on the cobbles as the men made their way to work and the factory hooters slicing into the quiet of early morning.

But most of all she hated the traffic: the clanking trams and rumbling omnibuses, the roar of petrol-drawn lorries and vans and cars. Even the dull clop of horses’ hooves disturbed her. These city horses were as unlike those at home as it was possible to be. They were tired and sad-looking. And why wouldn’t they be, Bridie thought, with hard roads beneath their feet day in, day out. She wondered where they were stabled because there was precious little grass to be found. She guessed the horses saw as little of it as the people.

And that was another thing, the people. They unnerved her. She supposed they were kind enough, but their voices grated on her and she could barely understand what they said anyway, their accents were so alien. She couldn’t seem to get away anywhere to be alone, to have a bit of privacy, and she wondered if Rosalyn would have made a better fist of it than she was doing. Frowning, she admitted she probably would.

She couldn’t say any of this to Mary though. How could she? Mary had chosen to make her home in this hateful place and so Bridie couldn’t go around moaning and complaining. But she was incredibly homesick and eventually felt if she didn’t tell someone how she felt she would burst and so, without mentioning a word to Mary, she poured her heart out to her mother in a letter, telling her everything that she hated about the city her sister lived in. She told her parents of something else too. She’d wondered when she’d arrived why there were so many idle men about. They lolled on street corners, hands usually in their pockets and flat caps on their head. Back home in Ireland, she’d seldom seen a man idle in the middle of the day, unless it was a Fair Day, and she’d asked Mary about it, revealing all to her parents in a letter home:

Mary said the men have been that way since they were demobbed from the army. There is no work for them and many of the families are starving. I know she’s right, for you only have to see the children, with pinched-in faces like old people’s and so thin they’re just skin and bone. They have arms like sticks and quite a few have running sores on their body. Most of them are clothed in rags and many are barefoot. Aunt Ellen said even in the dead of winter it’s just the same.

Bridie was no stranger to running barefoot. In her mind, to cast off her shoes and run across the springy turf and leap the streams was linked to the freedom of summer – few children back home wore shoes then. However, in September, before she returned to school, along with the schoolbooks and jotters her parents bought her, there would be a pair of shoes. They mightn’t be new, but they would be freshly soled and heeled, and there would be stockings too to keep her from freezing altogether.

She looked at the children around the streets and hanging around the Bull Ring when she went there with Mary and wondered if many of them had ever had shoes. She doubted that when the winter chill came they’d have thicker clothes to wear either, or a good, warm coat and hats, gloves and scarves to keep the life in them.

It’s awful, Mammy, is surely is to see so many people living like this, she wrote.

There had been poverty at home in Ireland, of course there had, and people with large families they could barely feed used to get food vouchers from the St Vincent de Paul fund. The nuns there would find clothes for the children to wear, but here it was the sheer numbers of poor that overwhelmed her.

It bothered Sarah too when she read Bridie’s letter. ‘Fancy not having shoes for the winter,’ she remarked. ‘Although I shouldn’t think it’s pleasant running barefoot through city streets at any time.’

‘It’s the men out of work that I feel sorry for,’ Jimmy said. ‘God, what that would do to a man, not being able to provide for his family. Seems to me Ireland wasn’t the only one betrayed by that damned war. “Land fit for heroes” and they can’t earn a bite to put in their families’ mouths.’

‘Aye,’ Sarah agreed with a sigh. ‘It must be dreadful and Bridie doesn’t seem to be enjoying it at all.’

‘Ah well, she’ll soon be home again,’ Jimmy said, ‘and then life will go back to normal. No danger of Bridie taking a liking to the place and wanting to live there anyway.’ And that made Jimmy a happy man – it would make his world complete if, when Bridie did decide to marry, it was to one of the local boys and she’d live not far from them.

‘Aye,’ Sarah said with feeling, for she’d missed her youngest daughter and longed to have her home again. When she’d been placed in Sarah’s arms after her birth, Sarah thought she’d never rear her. She thought she’d go the way of the three she lost to TB after Johnnie. Then when Robert and Nuala had both died, she was convinced that Bridie would never reach adulthood. But here she was, on the threshold of it, and still fit and healthy, as beautiful and kindly as ever. ‘Aye, she’ll be home soon enough,’ Sarah said with satisfaction. ‘And, if you ask me, I think it will be a long time before she goes so far again.’ She could have added, ‘Unlike Mary.’ She’d been so upset when Mary went on her wee holiday in the spring of 1926 and had fallen in love with a man called Eddie Coghlan. It had only helped slightly that Eddie was from Derry and a good Catholic into the bargain, because it still meant their daughter would be living and bringing up any grandchildren miles away from them.

Sarah had been inclined to blame her sister and wrote her a letter telling her so but, as Jimmy said, love is not a thing you can watch out for. Ellen couldn’t have known that Mary would lose her heart to a man at the Easter dance they’d taken her to at their local Parish Church. At least, he’d said in Eddie’s defence, he was in work, not everyone was as fortunate.

So Eddie was welcomed into the family and Sarah never admitted how much she missed her eldest daughter. As long as she had Bridie, she told herself, she would be content, so Sarah was glad Bridie was disliking the place so much.

But, little by little, Bridie got used to the noise and bustle of the city and started to enjoy her stay at Mary’s. Eddie went out of his way to make her welcome, but she most enjoyed the times she had alone with Mary. One day, when they were alone in the house, she asked her a question that had been playing on her mind since she arrived, for Mary looked far rounder than she remembered her. ‘Mary, are you having a baby?’

‘Aye. Didn’t Mammy tell you?’

‘No. Why didn’t you? You never said in your letters.’

‘It’s silly to say the same thing twice,’ Mary said. ‘I write to you about different things, but I did think Mammy would say. I’m five months now. What did you think, that I’d just put on weight?’ Without waiting for Bridie’s reply, she asked, ‘Would you like to feel it kick?’

Bridie flushed and looked at her as if she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Don’t you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Bridie put her hand out and felt the child move beneath her fingers and saw the material of the smock Mary had on ripple. She was awed by the thought of a living being inside her sister. And then, because it was her sister and she felt comfortable enough, she asked the question she’d puzzled over for an age: ‘Mary, how did it get in there?’

Mary was surprised Bridie hadn’t tumbled to it living on a farm. But then she remembered Bridie was always sent elsewhere when the bull or rams were due to service their cows and sheep. It was an effort to protect her, Mary supposed, but children could be protected too much.

She bit on her lip as she considered whether to divulge the whole matter of sex with her younger sister. She’d never get the information from their mother, she knew that, because she’d never discuss anything so intimate. Mary had got all her information from Aunt Ellen and she often thanked God she had.

So she told Bridie how the seed inside her had grown into a baby and watched Bridie’s eyes open wider and wider in shock as she spoke. ‘Something else occurs before a woman can have a baby,’ Mary told her. ‘They’re called periods and they mean you bleed from your private parts every month. You need to know: I began mine at school and because I hadn’t been warned, I thought I was dying. Sister Ambrose eventually found me in the toilets, limp from crying, and explained it to me and took me home.’

‘Was Mammy cross?’

‘No,’ Mary said. ‘But she was embarrassed. She told me she had linen pads in the press ready and I was to pin one to my liberty bodice. When they were soiled I was to put them in the bucket she’d leave ready and that respectable women didn’t need to know any more than that, in fact they didn’t need to talk of it at all.’

‘And that bleeding happens to every woman every month?’ Bridie asked, curling her mouth in distaste.

‘Aye,’ Mary said, smiling at her sister’s discomfort. ‘I’m afraid it does. It’s a sort of preparation for motherhood and even people like Aunt Ellen, who’ve never had children, have periods.’

‘So, when … How will I know when it will be?’ Bridie asked.

‘Your body will change first,’ Mary told her. ‘Your breasts will begin to grow and you’ll get hair down below.’

Bridie let out a sigh of relief. She’d been horrified to see the little swellings around her nipples and even more so to see hair sprouting where it had never done before, certain that she was abnormal and too worried to even contemplate discussing it with Rosalyn.

Mary heard the sigh and saw the relief, but hid her smile. She was glad she’d told her. ‘But,’ she cautioned her, ‘don’t you be telling Mammy about this, d’you hear? She’ll have my mouth washed out with carbolic.’

‘I won’t,’ Bridie promised with a giggle, visualising her mother forcing a bar of soap into Mary’s mouth. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me. I’ve wondered, you know.’

‘Of course you’ve wondered, it’s natural,’ Mary said. ‘And you needed to be told. But one thing I do agree with Mammy about is respecting yourself. It’s all the advice she ever gave me, but for all that she was right. Boys will try to … well, you know what I mean, and if you let them, they’ll not respect you anymore. Wait for the ring like I did. Believe me, it’s worth it.’

‘I don’t know if I want to get married,’ Bridie said doubtfully. ‘I don’t think I want to be doing that sort of thing to make babies either.’

‘Oh you will, little sister,’ Mary said with a laugh. ‘You will.’

CHAPTER TWO

Almost as soon as Terry picked Bridie up at the docks three weeks later, she knew there was something wrong with him. But she also knew to press him would only annoy and so she waited for him to tell her.

She hadn’t long to wait: Terry was bursting to tell somebody his news and as soon as they were seated on the train, he couldn’t contain himself. Bridie looked at him in astonishment. ‘Leave the farm? But, Terry …’

‘Hear me out first,’ Terry said, ‘and then judge if you want to, Bridie.’

Bridie nodded and Terry went on. ‘Look at me – I’m twenty years old in a week’s time, I never go out, I’ve never dated a girl in all my life and why? Because I never get a penny piece of my own, that’s why. Oh, they point out, Mam and Dad, that this place will be mine one day – Seamus will hardly want it – and they remind me I have a warm house and plenty of food and clothes bought for me when I need them. Aye, I do, working clothes and a suit for Mass that I never even get to choose the colour and style of.

‘I can’t stand it, I tell you, Bridie. I don’t like farming anyway, never have, and I won’t grub around in this place for much longer, with Mammy doling out small amounts of money to me for the collection at Mass as if I was a wean.’

Bridie saw some of the injustices of Terry’s predicament that she’d never realised before. ‘Oh, Terry,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you tell Mammy and Daddy how you feel?’

‘Do you think I haven’t tried?’ Terry snapped. ‘It’s like talking to a brick wall.’

‘But where will you go?’

‘New York,’ Terry said. ‘Seamus and Johnnie said they’d send me the fare.’

‘But what about a job?’ Bridie said, for she knew as well as any that unemployment was rife everywhere since the Great War and getting worse. ‘It’s as bad there as here. Worse, in fact. They have soup kitchens in America, Terry.’

‘I know,’ Terry said. ‘That’s the threat Mam and Dad use when I’ve mentioned it to them. Not that I’ve said that much, you know. I’ve just tested the ground as it were. I wrote to Johnnie and he said he can probably get me set on alongside him in time. There’s nothing for now, but he’s keeping an eye out and will send for me. I’m willing to work. I’ll not go to America and live off him and Seamus, never fear. All I’m waiting for is word and the money for the fare.’

Bridie knew then that eventually Terry would go. It might be weeks or even months, but he wouldn’t stay.

However, the weeks rolled by and soon winter was upon them again and still no word came from America. Still and all, Bridie told herself, there might not be a place in America for Terry for a long while. She couldn’t imagine Johnnie and Seamus to be the only Irish boys with relations clamouring to join them. The dole queues in America were as long as those anywhere else and why would they take another person into the country when it made more sense to employ one of their own?

That winter proved to be a severe one and both Jimmy and Francis were worried about their pregnant ewes. Rosalyn came over one day and complained how bad-tempered her father had become lately. Bridie expressed surprise – Francis usually had a smile on his face and had a far more relaxed attitude to life than his brother Jimmy.

They were, as usual, in the barn and Rosalyn peered out of the barn window as she said, ‘Poor things to be born in this anyway.’ She rubbed at the window with a mittened hand, clearing the ice. ‘I mean just look at it,’ she said. The landscape before them was covered in snow blown into drifts at the sides of the fields and gilding the trees and hedges.

Bridie shivered, despite her thick coat. ‘Aye, you’d think they’d wait till spring is really here and the snow had at least disappeared,’ she said. ‘I think God slipped up there.’

Rosalyn gave her a push. ‘Don’t let the priest hear you say that, Bridie McCarthy,’ she said in mock severity while her eyes twinkled. ‘You’ll spend the rest of your life on your knees repenting, you will.’

‘Aye? Well, I’ll say one for you when I’m down there,’ Bridie promised with a smile.

But in all truth there was not much to smile about during those bitterly cold days and the only bright news at all that awful January was that Mary had given birth to a baby and named him Jamie after her father. Jimmy was ridiculously pleased by the gesture and that evening talked of Mary coming home when the baby was a bit older. ‘Show me my namesake,’ he said with a broad grin.

Bridie was glad to see that smile; for far too long her father had had a frown creasing his brow. It was a pity, then, that Terry had to spoil it. ‘Aye, that’s right. Get another one back here that you can chain to the bloody land.’

‘I chain nobody, boy.’

‘Yes you bloody do,’ Terry said, leaping up and reaching for his coat.

‘Where are you going? There’s work to do.’

‘Oh,’ said Terry in mock surprise. ‘You surprise me! Work, is there? Well, get some other silly bugger to do it. I’m away out.’

‘Terry! Come back here!’

As the door slammed shut, Bridie looked fearfully at her father, but he made no effort to follow his wayward son. The peat in the fire settled and hissed and the clock’s tick seemed very loud. Everyone seemed fearful of breaking the silence and Bridie picked up a sock from the mending basket by her mother’s feet and began to darn the large hole in the heel.

By mid-March, the long months of the winter were behind them. The snow and ice were long gone, the lambs had all been born fine and healthy and spring planting was going on apace. The sun was shining in a bright blue sky and Bridie, having celebrated her fourteenth birthday in February, felt happy with her world.

She was, however, rather at a loose end. It was a Saturday and also a Fair Day in the town, where the farmers bought and sold their stock. Terry and her daddy had gone in early with some calves to sell. They’d offered her a lift into town, but she’d said she’d not felt like it that day but then, calling to see Rosalyn, she found she’d also gone into town with her own brother and father very early that morning. ‘She thought you’d be gone in too,’ said Delia.

‘No,’ Bridie said. ‘Daddy offered, but I didn’t fancy it today. Never mind, I’ll see Rosalyn later.’

After helping her mother all morning, she’d been too fidgety to stay in and had gone out tramping the hills later that afternoon. Everyone seemed either to be indoors or in town because she met not a soul and so was pleased on her return to see her uncle Francis approaching her as she neared the outskirts of the farm. She waved to him.

It was as she got nearer that she noticed his strange gait, his slightly glazed eyes and slack mouth, and she realised that her uncle was drunk. She wasn’t totally surprised. He’d been in the town for many hours and the bars, open all day, would be thronged with friends and acquaintances with nothing to do for hours but drink and reminisce. Many men, her father included, would probably be the worse for wear that day.

‘And how’s my favourite girl today?’ Francis cried.

‘Ah, then it must be me you’re talking about since there’s not another soul around for miles,’ Bridie answered with a laugh.

In two strides, Francis was alongside his niece. ‘God, Bridie, but you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. His voice was husky and thick and the way he was looking at her was sending shivers of alarm down her spine. She told herself not to be stupid. This was Francis who she’d known all her life. Dear God! There was no need to be nervous of him. He’d got drunk and was acting oddly, that was all.

‘Hush, Uncle Francis,’ she said in a voice she forced to be steady. ‘You’ll have my head swelling and I’ll not get in the door.’

Francis, his mind addled by the many pints of ale he’d drank that day, was confused. Bridie was his niece and yet he wasn’t seeing her as a niece, but as a desirable young lady and one he’d secretly lusted after for months. It was a fact he’d kept hidden from everyone and the guilt had made him short-tempered with them all at home.

But now here she was, all alone and not a soul about. He grabbed her around the waist and, stunned, she made no protest until he held her against him, his hand clamped against her back. Bridie remembered what Mary had told her about men and women just the previous summer and when she felt the hardness of her uncle she knew what it was that he was pressing against her. She was suddenly aware of every bit of him and she started to wriggle and protest.

Francis’s thick lips descended on Bridie’s, holding her so tight she was unable to get away. When she felt her uncle’s hand trailing up her leg, she was filled with panic. Lifting her foot, she stamped on his toes with all her might and Francis, taken unawares, slackened his hold slightly and she was able to twist out of his grasp. She stood facing him, her eyes sparkling with anger, and her chest heaving. ‘What d’you think you’re doing, Uncle Francis?’

Francis was angry with himself. What had compelled him to grab Bridie like that? He’d fought the attraction this long while and now … now, to give in like this. But it would never do for her, for anyone, to guess his thoughts and so he answered angrily:

‘What d’you mean, what am I doing? You could see what I was doing, giving you a kiss and cuddle, as I’ve done since you were a child. There was no need to make such a fuss and near lame me in the process.’

Doubts began to creep into Bridie’s mind. Had she read too much into what Francis had done? True, the kiss was one he’d never given her before and she hadn’t liked it much, but that could have been because he was drunk. It could all have been down to the drink. Maybe she’d exaggerated the whole thing. She must have done, she told herself, for her uncle Francis would never hurt her, she was sure of that.

She felt rather silly as she said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Francis. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘Yes, well, we’ll say no more about it,’ Francis said. ‘I might have surprised you a wee bit and I’ve been drinking all day.’

Relief flooded through Bridie. That was it then. She’d been foolish. ‘You’ll not tell them at home, sure you won’t?’ she asked her uncle.

‘Not a bit of it,’ Francis replied. ‘Don’t fresh yourself. This will be just between us two.’

But for all Bridie’s relief, she tried to make sure after that that she was never alone with her uncle, especially when he’d taken a drink, for she saw his eyes on her, sometimes in a most disturbing way. She never tramped the hills again either and, on Fair Days, she either stayed around the farmhouse with her mother, or went into the town with her father and stuck like glue to Rosalyn.

She finished school in June and Sarah told her to have a wee holiday before looking for a job. Bridie hadn’t forgotten Terry’s threat, but it had been so long now with never a word that she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. She told herself it might be years before Terry was able to go to America.

She really wanted a job in the shirt factory in town beside Rosalyn, but she knew if Terry did leave, a job off the farm would be out of the question. It was too big for her father to manage on his own and she’d be the only one of the family left then. She’d have to stay and help him. Because she was the youngest and so small, she’d been protected from much of the work. Now, she faced the fact that if she was to be of any help to her father and not a hindrance altogether, she would have to learn, and fast, for farms carried few passengers.

She began to tail Terry as he went about his jobs and Terry, admiring her guts and determination, took time to teach her, even though he worried that some of the work might be too much for her.

‘Talk Daddy into getting someone in to help once I’ve gone,’ he told her one day. ‘I’m going to tell him you can’t manage because I don’t really think you’ll be able to do all I do. And for God’s sake, if you’re determined to take on the farm, stick out for a proper wage. It’s only fair and it’s important to have money in your pocket.’

Bridie knew all Terry said was true, but she couldn’t see her daddy hiring help. It went against his principles of it being a family farm. Maybe she’d grow a wee bit more yet before Terry was ready to leave and there was always Frank within calling distance. She was sure he’d give her a hand if she needed it. Rosalyn always said he had a soft spot for her. The point about a wage, however, was a good one. One reason for getting a job, as well as helping the family out, was to have money to spend as she wished.

One day in late July, when the warm sun shone in a sky of Wedgewood blue, Terry was working in the fields when he saw the postman, Abel Maloney, turn in the lane. It wasn’t that unusual, so Terry took little notice, until Abel hailed him. Almost every week, Abel carried letters to the McCarthy house from their sons in America and he knew their writing well, so he said to Terry, ‘Your brothers are after writing to you now too.’

Terry stared at the man for a second or two before the significance of what he said caused him to throw down his spade, leap the hedge and take the letter from his outstretched hand. He went to the privy – the only place he could think of where he wouldn’t be disturbed – and ripped the envelope open.

Dollar bills were folded inside the letter and Terry stuffed those into the pockets of his breeches and smoothed out the sheet of paper.

Okay kiddo,

I just might have a job for you at last. The factory are setting up new lines making waterproof mackintoshes and they’ll be up and running in three weeks or so. I’ll put your name forward, but there would be hundreds after each vacancy, so there is no way I can hold it for you and there will be a damned long wait for anything else if you let this one go. I presume you have primed Mammy and Daddy what you intended to do when the time was right so I advise you to waste no time in buying a ticket and getting your arse over here pronto. See you soon hopefully.

All the best

Johnnie

Excitement leapt inside Terry initially and then reality struck. It was about the very worst time to leave the farm with not even the hay gathered in. But then was there ever a good time to leave a farm? And as Johnnie said, if he passed this offer up, then he might as well say goodbye to his dreams of going to America altogether. Johnnie thought he must have discussed the possibility of him joining his brothers with their parents, but though they’d both sensed his dissatisfaction, the idea that he might leave the farm had never occurred to them and Terry wished now he’d given some hint of it. Well, he thought, that can soon be remedied. The sooner he told them the better for speed was of the essence, so he squared his shoulders and made his way to the farmhouse.

The resultant row was so fast and furious that Bridie fled to the bedroom and buried her head beneath the bedclothes. Sarah pleaded and cried and Jimmy thundered and roared while Terry shouted back. Francis and Delia were brought in to try to talk some sense into the boy and the following day Father O’Dwyer was called.

By then, Terry was barely speaking to his parents, but his determination to leave had not been altered at all though everyone had thought and said he was wrong, ungrateful, neglecting his filial duty. His parents, their farm and their welfare were, they said, his responsibility. Who was to help them now if he ran away like this? Surely to God he couldn’t expect his wee sister to take up the reins?

Bridie tried to keep out of it. She wanted no one to see the tears she shed, for it would be just another stick to beat Terry with. She knew she’d miss him more than anyone – it had been just the two of them for so long and she knew she’d be lonely. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she’d been going into town to work; then there would have been Rosalyn and other girls to talk to through the day, but she knew it would be the loneliness as well as the workload that might wear her down now.

‘Do you hate me, Bridie?’ Terry asked, coming across her in the barn in tears. He’d fought all the people that opposed him and pleaded with him and yet it was Bridie, who had said so little, who played on his mind.

Bridie raised her face, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She knew Terry had his ticket and would be leaving in the next few days and she wanted to bang her little fists on his chest and tell him he couldn’t go. What was he thinking of to leave her like this?

But how could she let her brother go with only recriminations ringing in his ears? ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t hate you, but I’m sad – I’ll miss you.’

‘Oh God,’ Terry said, feeling ashamed for his sister’s sake. ‘I’ll send for you, Bridie, when I’ve …’

‘You know I can’t leave here,’ Bridie said quietly, and she put her arms around Terry and kissed him on the cheek and left him, sobbing.

Terry left in August 1928 and, in the early weeks, Bridie often felt she couldn’t go on. She saw the farm for the first time as Terry had seen it: one relentless round of work with never an hour, never mind a day, off to do with as she pleased.

At first, she sought her bed straight after the evening meal, so tired even her bones ached. However, bit by bit, her body became accustomed to the hard physical work and she had a wage to be picked up at the end of every week to look forward to, though her parents had balked at that initially.

‘But why do you want a wage, Bridie?’ Sarah had asked.

‘Everyone has a wage, Mammy, if they do a job.’

‘Yes, of course, if you work outside the home,’ Sarah had conceded. ‘Here you get your meals and clothes bought for you when you need them.’

‘Ah, but d’you see, Mammy, that’s it,’ Bridie had said. ‘You say I have clothes when I need them, but really you mean your choice of clothes when you think I need them. As for meals, wouldn’t anyone working here be fed?’

‘Well, yes,’ Sarah had had to agree. ‘But …’

‘There isn’t any but in this, Mammy,’ Bridie had said, hardening her heart against her parents’ confused faces. ‘There has been no cost to you in working clothes, for I’m wearing Terry’s.’

She was, too, although they had been refashioned. By taking in the crotch and chopping inches off the legs of the breeches and cutting down the work shirts, repositioning the buttons and chopping the sleeves to fit, she had her made them fit her just right.

‘I’d like the same as Rosalyn earns in the shirt factory,’ Bridie had said. ‘Less what she pays in keep. I think that’s fair.’

‘Fair or not,’ Jimmy had said, ‘none of our other children have demanded a wage for working their own place.’

‘It’s not my place, it’s yours,’ Bridie had reminded him. ‘And I know Terry asked for a wage because he told me. Maybe if he’d been given one he’d have stayed longer.’

‘Are you threatening me, Bridie? I’ll not stand that,’ Jimmy had blustered. ‘Big as you are …’

‘Daddy, I’m threatening no one,’ Bridie had said gently. ‘I’m just stating facts. I’ll work as hard as I’m able, but I need money of my own.’

Jimmy had knocked his pipe against the hearth, filled it with infinite slowness and drew on it. He had no wish to alienate his darling daughter ‘Well,’ he had said at last, ‘I think what Bridie has suggested is only fair.’

Sarah had looked at him, open-mouthed, while Bridie had reached up and kissed her father’s stubbly chin. ‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she had said. ‘I appreciate you listening to me.’

She had missed the look that passed between her parents, the one that said they’d raised a treasure, a daughter in a million, for that treasure, worn-out by hard work, had taken her weary bones to bed.

Francis wondered if Bridie had any idea of how fetching she looked as she worked the fields in her brother’s cut-down clothes. She was like a wean dressing up, except no wean had a figure like the one she was developing. Her eyes were like pools of dark brown treacle and could flash fire, but mainly sparkled with laughter, and however her hair was tied back, curls would always escape. Sometimes just to look at her could stop the blood pulsing in his body. He knew he could do nothing about it but look, for the girl was his niece and yet but a child. But God, if things were different …

Francis was on his way to the McCarthy house for a rambling session with these thoughts churning in his head. In the late autumn and winter, with the harvest safely gathered in, rambling nights were popular in the country houses.

Word got around that a rambling was to be held at such a house and neighbours and friends would come from all over. The men often had an instrument with them and always a drink of some kind. It was usually poteen, which was brewed in stills in the hills of Donegal, as everyone knew but no one spoke of.

The women would bring slices of soda bread, or barn brack or similar, and sometimes a bottle of homemade wine, and in an instant a party would begin with the rag rugs rolled up for the dancing.

One of Bridie’s earliest memories was of lying in her bed, her toes curling with excitement at the tantalising music and the rhythmic tap of the women’s feet as they danced on the stone slabs of the cottage floor below. There’d be a break halfway through when they’d eat and drink deeply and talk. The murmur of voices would rise and fall, sometimes heated and raised in argument, sometimes quieter and gentler. But the music would always begin again and she’d go to sleep with the tunes running through her head.

Now, though, Bridie was allowed to stay up for the rambling. She had turned out of her work clothes and after a wash from the basin in her room, she had changed into her second-best dress and was ready with Sarah to greet the first arrivals.

Francis was one of the last guests to arrive and there was a whistle of approval as he drew a large bottle of poteen from beneath his coat. ‘I hope you didn’t get that from Tommy Flaherty?’ one of the men said. ‘I heard the Garda are after him.’

‘Christ, haven’t they been after him for years?’ another put in. ‘Haven’t caught him yet?’

‘He’s too wily a fox for them,’ said the first man.

‘Anyway,’ Francis said. ‘They’re only cross because he won’t supply them. They like a drop the same as the rest of us.’

‘The priests do at any rate, I know that,’ said Jimmy. ‘I passed on a bottle to Father O’Dwyer once and he was delighted with me so.’

‘Aye,’ Francis said. ‘Did you hear the one about the young curate from England who came to help out a country priest in Ireland? He’d had a man in confession admitting to making poteen. As he’d never heard of such a thing before and wasn’t sure of the penance to give him, he went to the older priest and said, “There’s a man here making poteen. What shall I give him?”

‘“Well, be careful now,” said the older priest. “These men would fleece the likes of you. I never give more than three and six a bottle.”’

There were gales of laughter at this. ‘It’s right enough too,’ one said when the laughter had died down. ‘Stingy buggers, priests.’

‘Come on,’ Jimmy cried. ‘The night’s running away with us and we’ve not played a tune yet.’

Bridie helped the women pile food onto plates on the big table, but surreptitiously watched the dancers. Mary had taught her some dances before she went away, but she’d not performed any since she’d left and was surprised how much she remembered. One of the women, seeing her watching, seized her hand and pulled her in to join them and she danced along with the rest.

She was glad when a halt was called for the food – the sweat was running from her – and she slipped outside for the night air to cool her down, walking a little way away from the house towards the orchard.

When she heard footsteps behind her she turned, expecting it to be one of the other women as hot as herself and taking the air, but it was her uncle Francis.

Bridie hadn’t forgotten her earlier encounter with her uncle, but had passed it off as a one-off experience and not something to be too worried about. And yet she felt alarm as she remembered her uncle drinking deeply of the poteen that evening.

But, she told herself, she could come to no harm. She could see the light of the cottage, other people were no distance away. She was safe and so she relaxed a little. ‘I think you’re avoiding me, Bridie,’ Francis said, wagging his finger in the exaggerated manner of the drunk.

‘Not at all,’ she said.

‘Oh, I think so,’ Francis said. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. ‘Are you afraid of me?’

‘No. No …’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Francis said. ‘Have I ever hurt you?’

‘No.’

‘Am I likely to then?’

‘I don’t suppose so.’

‘So you won’t object to giving me a kiss?’

‘No,’ Bridie said. ‘But only on your cheek.’

‘Jesus, that’s a wean’s kiss,’ Francis said and, before Bridie could respond further, clasped her tight against him again, but this time his other hand caressed her breasts and began fumbling at the fastenings of her dress before she managed to break free. Her dress hung half open, the bodice underneath exposed and the hair she’d spent hours putting up hanging in untidy strands around her face, which was red with shame.

‘You mustn’t do such things,’ she said, turning her back on her uncle to fasten herself up and tidy her hair. ‘What if I was to go to the house and say?’

‘Say what?’ Francis said. ‘I’d say you led me on. You left the house first, remember. What if I say you’d arranged it all. No one will blame a man for taking what’s on offer.’

‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Bridie cried, swinging round to face Francis again. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel!’

But as she looked into his face she knew he would and, what’s more, she knew he’d be believed above her. Maybe her parents would believe her, but even then there would be doubt and suspicion. ‘Why do you hate me so?’ she cried in distress.

‘Hate you!’ Francis said incredulously. ‘How can you say such a thing, Bridie? I love you. You are incredibly beautiful. It almost hurts to look at you, but you’re a temptress. You tempt men with those big eyes, with those long eyelashes you flutter so seductively, your luscious figure, your young beautiful breasts, your …’

‘Stop it! Stop it,’ Bridie commanded. ‘You mustn’t talk this way, Uncle Francis. It’s the drink talking.’

‘Aye, maybe it is at that,’ Francis said, but he knew this feeling he had for Bridie never went away, it was just when he was sober he could keep it in check.

‘I’m going back to the house now,’ Bridie said. ‘Don’t follow me, please …’

Francis said nothing as she walked away and once in the house, she pleaded a headache and said she was ready for her bed. ‘I thought the air might clear it,’ she said, explaining her previous absence. ‘But it didn’t.’

‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to,’ Jimmy said. ‘Did you see Francis on your travels?’

‘Yes,’ Bridie said. ‘He’s over by the orchard,’ and then she fled to her room, closing the door before she let the tears fall.

By the time Bridie was sixteen she was beginning to feel desperate about Francis, for try as she might to avoid him, he seemed to find many occasions when he would get her on her own. Even when he just ogled her, it made her feel sick, but sometimes, usually when he’d had a drink, he wasn’t content with that alone.

Bridie didn’t know what to do, where to go for help or advice. She was at her wit’s end when she decided to write to Mary, though she knew it would be hard to commit such words to paper for even to think of them made her face flame with embarrassment.

Dear Mary,

Please help me. I am having trouble with Uncle Francis and I don’t know what to do. He looks at me funny and sometimes touches me and kisses me. I’ve told him to stop and that I don’t like it, but it makes no difference. I’ve even said that I would tell Auntie Delia, but he just laughed. He knew I would never do that, but what should I do, Mary?

She couldn’t totally avoid her uncle because she couldn’t physically manage some of the jobs on the farm. Frank had readily agreed to help her with the heavy stuff, but it was usually her uncle Francis who came to give her a hand, giving the excuse that Frank was busy with something or other.

Mary had become angry as she’d read the letter and more by what her sister didn’t say than the words she actually used. It brought back to her mind the time she was fourteen. ‘Dirty bloody pervert!’ she exclaimed, tossing the letter to Eddie. ‘Read what our Bridie has written. God, it’s almost unbelievable. Uncle Francis, for God’s sake!’

Eddie jiggled his baby son in his arms as he scanned the page. ‘She doesn’t say much,’ he said at last.

‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’ Mary cried. ‘What d’you want, that she explains it to you chapter and verse? What she says and hints at is quite enough to tell me what’s going on.’

‘Why doesn’t she kick the man in the balls if she’s so bothered about it and tell him to behave himself?’ Eddie asked.

‘It’s not as easy as that,’ Mary said, knowing full well the dilemma Bridie would have found herself in. ‘I should have gone over to see her this summer, especially with Aunt Ellen’s rheumatics starting up again and being unable to go herself.’

‘You knew nothing about this in the summer,’ Eddie reminded her. ‘And then the money was an issue with Junior here taking such a lot of it. There was your aunt being laid up too. How could you have just upped and left for a week or two?’

Mary knew she couldn’t have done, not really, but she felt guilty about her sister. She promised her she’d be home the following summer and until then advised Bridie to be very careful of her uncle and try to avoid situations where she might find herself alone with him and to make sure she never, ever encouraged him in any way.

At the end of the letter she suggested that she should perhaps broach the subject with her mother. But when Bridie received Mary’s reply, she screwed it up in impatience.

What the Hell did Mary think? That she encouraged, even enjoyed, the advances of a man she thought of as a fatherly figure? And didn’t she think she’d tried to avoid being alone with him? The fact that the farm was isolated in many areas made that almost impossible. And as for telling her mother … Well, that was a non-starter.

What had she expected, she asked herself, that Mary would come up with some plan to scupper her uncle? She didn’t know, but she did know she viewed the future with dread and would continue to unless she could find some sort of solution. Each day now she woke up with a dead weight in her heart and a stomach turning somersaults in case she should have to ask for help in some area of the work. She wished someone could tell her how to deal with it.

By the late spring of 1930 the situation between herself and her uncle had got worse rather than better and she knew something had to be done, and so she decided to take Mary’s advice and speak to her mother.

It was not a success. Sarah truly didn’t see there was a problem, or chose to misunderstand what Bridie was trying to say. Bridie, knowing of her mother’s naïvety, chose to believe the former. Not that she was experienced herself, but every nerve in her body cried out that what her uncle was doing was wrong. Yet, unless she was able to describe in detail what her uncle said and, more importantly, where he touched her, which she couldn’t begin to explain to her mother; she’d never understand. ‘What do you mean, you don’t like him kissing you and holding you?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Hasn’t he done that since the day you were born?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But nothing, Miss. God, Bridie, I hope you’re not getting above yourself, I thought you had more sense.’

‘I have, Mammy. It’s just that …’

‘I hope you haven’t been bothering your father with this nonsense? You know what he thinks of Francis. God, I’d hate to be the person that came between them.’

No, she’d said nothing to her father, she wasn’t a fool altogether. And she didn’t want to be the one that would separate one brother from the other either as her revelations certainly would. She realised in that moment that she was on her own and not even Mary’s promised visit in August of that year could lift her spirits.

However, Mary believed every word her anguished sister had written to her, and with reason, and was furiously angry on her behalf. She intended to seek her uncle Francis out at the first opportunity and put the fear of God into him.

But when Mary eventually arrived back home she was the feted daughter, welcomed home with Aunt Ellen, now semi-recovered from her rheumatics, and wee Jamie, an enchanting toddler turned two years old, who enthralled Jimmy and Sarah and even Bridie.

It was almost a week before Mary got her chance to see her uncle Francis without anyone else in earshot. She’d said nothing to Bridie of her intention and now she faced her uncle across the field of ripening hay he was surveying.

Her stomach churned as she looked at him. He seemed so harmless. But she hardened her heart against him for Bridie’s sake. ‘I believe you’ve been giving our Bridie a hard time recently?’

‘Not at all. What’s she been saying?’

‘Never mind. She’s said enough,’ Mary snapped. ‘We won’t go into it now – you’d just deny everything, I imagine, and then I’d get angry, because I’d stake my life on Bridie telling the truth. All the years of her growing up, I’ve never known her lie.’

‘I demand to know what she’s complained of,’ Francis said. ‘How else can I protest against it?’

‘Don’t even think you can,’ Mary answered scathingly. ‘If you examine your conscience, you’ll know what Bridie has complained of. And I’m telling you it has to stop, here and now. You think if she complains she won’t be believed, she’s even told me that. Well, let me tell you, if this doesn’t stop, the letters she’s sent to me, telling me what you try to do and what you say, will be given to prominent people in your life. Aunt Delia, for example, or Father O’Dwyer. Believe me, if you do not leave my sister alone she will not be the one painted black in this instance because I’ll tell my tale too. Some people might then begin to wonder about Sally McCormack so think on, Uncle Francis.’

Francis began to bluster. ‘Mary, for God’s sake. You know there was no proof that I’d ever touched that gypsy brat. As for your sister … Well, let’s just say she has a vivid imagination.’

‘And me? Have I a vivid imagination too?’

‘You misunderstood me.’

‘Like Hell I did,’ Mary spat out.

‘Look, Mary, Bridie has got the whole thing wrong, out of proportion. That’s all it was and that’s all I’m prepared to say on the subject.’

‘Well, it isn’t all I’m prepared to say,’ Mary barked out angrily. ‘I don’t care what label you put it under, or how you try to justify it, if she writes to me in the same vein again, you will have cooked your goose as far as your family, your wife and your standing in the community are concerned. I hope you understand that.’

Francis understood all right. He stood at the crossroads of his life and he knew if he was to go forward, Mary would ruin him. Somehow, he had to control the fascination Bridie held for him in order to keep the life he had and, though he made no reply, Mary knew she’d frightened him and dearly hoped it was enough to help her sister.

CHAPTER THREE

Mary never told Bridie of the conversation she had with their uncle Francis and the threat she’d issued, so Bridie didn’t look for any significant change in his behaviour once Mary left for home.

But at the harvest, which the two families had always worked together, Uncle Francis was quite curt with her, when he spoke at all. She didn’t see why he should seem so annoyed with her, but preferred that attitude to his previous one, so didn’t bother worrying over it.

She still viewed the coming winter – the rambling season and Christmas – with apprehension, but she needn’t have worried. Francis made no attempt to waylay her, or even say anything slightly suggestive, but rather seemed to avoid her if he could.

She was able to say this in a letter to Mary, who was glad she hadn’t Bridie to worry about for that autumn she had discovered she was expecting again. The baby was due in April and she knew she’d have her hands full soon enough.

In the New Year 1931, Father Dwyer began a fortnightly social in the church hall for young Catholic boys and girls over the age of sixteen. There was to be no strong drink, but it was a place to meet and chat and dance to the records played on the old gramophone belonging to the priest.

It hardly headed the list of exciting places to be but, as Rosalyn said, it was better than nothing and might brighten up those bleak winter months. Nearly everyone in the place was known to them anyway – most of the girls they’d been at school with, while the boys were usually their brothers or cousins, or friends they’d known for years.

Bridie could have been in great demand and yet as the winter came to an end, she’d given none of the boys the slightest encouragement to take an interest in her. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Rosalyn asked, as they walked home together one night. ‘It isn’t as if you don’t know the boys. You even know most of their families.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t you like any of them?’

‘Not particularly. Not the way you mean.’

‘Don’t you want to be kissed and held and … well, you know?’

Oh how well Bridie knew and she also knew she’d had enough of that sort of carry-on with her uncle to last her a lifetime. There was anyway no point in it.

‘You’ll never get married the way you go on,’ Rosalyn told her.

‘I might not want to get married.’

‘Oh God, Bridie, you can’t want to be an old maid?’

‘Look, Rosalyn,’ Bridie said. ‘Say I really liked one of those farmers’ sons at the social tonight and we began walking out together. If we should decide in time to get married, where would I live? If I moved out of the farmhouse what would happen to Mammy and Daddy?’

‘They’d get someone in to help them. Lots have to do that,’ Rosalyn said. ‘You can’t stay with your parents all the days of your life, Bridie. It’s not healthy.’

But Bridie knew her father would hate to get a stranger in to help him on the farm. He’d rather break his neck trying to do it all himself than that.

‘Daddy said you’re wasting yourself,’ Rosalyn said.

‘Oh, did he?’ Bridie retorted. ‘What does he know?’

‘He was only concerned about you,’ Rosalyn said. ‘You know how fond he is of you.’

Fond, Bridie thought grimly, is that what they call it these days? ‘Your father should mind his own business,’ she cried angrily. ‘He should look to his own life and keep his nose out of my affairs.’

‘Look here, Bridie.’

‘Leave it be, Rosalyn,’ Bridie said. ‘I’m away home.’

Rosalyn looked after her cousin’s retreating figure and couldn’t for the life of her think what she’d done or said to upset her so much.

Bridie was ashamed of her outburst and glad that Rosalyn was not one to bear a grudge, for she couldn’t wait to show her the latest letter from Mary telling her of the birth of another boy whom they’d called Mickey after Eddie’s father. There was also one from Ellen saying her and Sam would be over for a wee holiday later than usual, maybe September time.

When they arrived, the hay was all safely gathered in as the summer had been glorious and Ellen came with tales of the hungry baby Mary could barely satisfy. ‘She’s feeding him every minute and he’s so big, you’d never believe it,’ Ellen said. ‘I’ve told Mary that child doesn’t need milk, he needs good roast meat and potatoes, that one. And as for Jamie, I tell you that child is one body’s work. Dear Lord, Mary often doubts he’ll ever grow up, he’s in so many scrapes.’

‘We’re all longing to see them,’ Sarah said.

‘Maybe next year I’ll come with her to give her a hand – Jamie will surely fall overboard the minute her back was turned.’

‘He sounds a handful right enough.’

‘He’s full of life and fun, that’s all,’ Ellen said. ‘They have only the streets to play in too, remember. You can’t always be at the park.’

‘There’s more space here.’

‘Aye, that’s true,’ Ellen said. ‘But there’s dangers too. Jamie might easily sink into the midden, or drown in the river, or fall down the hillside.’

Bridie laughed. She longed to see Jamie and the new baby and wondered as the work slowed down for the winter whether she’d be able to go over to see them. Even a week, or failing that a few days, would be better than nothing.

But the trip wasn’t to be. Ellen and Sam had only been gone home a week when Sarah tipped a kettle of boiling water over her legs and feet as she attempted to fill the teapot on the hob. The scalds were bad enough and needed the services of a doctor, but a more longer-lasting concern was why it had happened in the first place. It appeared that Sarah’s left arm had given way on her.

As the scalds healed, the arm got steadily weaker and the doctor was able to offer no reason for it, or treatment, or possibility of a cure. Gradually, Sarah was able to do less and less and Bridie had taken on more, until she knew even to take a day off now would be out of the question. Her mother’s disability had tied her even more firmly to the farmhouse and yet Sarah could hardly be blamed. It was just the way of things.

Bridie lifted the burden of the house onto her narrow shoulders and found as time passed she had scarcely a minute to call her own. Even those winter months that usually weren’t so frantically busy on the farm were not easy for her. There was still the washing to be done, the cooking and breadmaking and the dairy work, which her mother had always taken the brunt of previously.

Christmas and the New Year passed in a flurry of activity and even more cooking than usual and Bridie looked forward to 1932 with little enthusiasm, although she would be eighteen in February. This year she’d be able to go to the Harvest Dance. It was the highlight of the year – Rosalyn, being a year older, had already been there the once and had hardly stopped going on about it for weeks afterwards.

Some parents had allowed their daughters to go at sixteen, but Jimmy, Francis and Delia had been adamant that the girls were not to go till they were eighteen, for drink was served there, and that Frank should take them there and fetch them home again.

Bridie was more excited than she would normally be; since her mother had scalded herself, she’d not even been to any of the socials, though Rosalyn had urged her to. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s the only chance we’ll have to do things like this. My aunt Maria said if she knew what she knows now, she’d have stayed single longer.’

‘I don’t blame her,’ Bridie said. Delia’s brother Aiden had married his Maria and now had two boys of three and two and a baby girl of six months old. He’d gone to America and got work with a gang of navvies in Central America, but so far had found nowhere suitable for his family to live so that they could join him. Rosalyn was fond of her young aunt and, feeling sorry for her, often went round to give her a hand.

‘I told you I don’t want to get married,’ Bridie said. ‘Didn’t you tell me Maria has barely time to blow her nose?’

‘God, Bridie, you’re little better,’ Rosalyn reminded her and Bridie knew she had a point. ‘Ah, but it would be worse if I had weans to see to as well,’ Bridie said. ‘Weans are lovely when they’re someone else’s. I mean I love Mary’s, but want none of my own yet a while.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be sensible without a husband,’ Rosalyn said with a giggle and Bridie gave her a push.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Oh I know all right,’ Rosalyn said with a nod and a wink, and the girls laughed together.

But for all that, Bridie was looking forward to seeing Mary and her two sons, who were coming over for the last three weeks in August with Ellen and Sam. She knew that there would be little extra work involved for her, apart from making up the beds, as both Mary and Ellen would give a hand in the house.

When they arrived, Mary and Ellen were astounded at Bridie’s workload and Ellen gave out both to Jimmy and Sarah for allowing it. ‘Get someone in to help on the farm,’ she said sharply to her sister. ‘And if your Jimmy is too stiffnecked to do that, at least get someone in to help in the house.’

But Sarah was no more inclined to have a stranger in her kitchen than Jimmy was in his farm, Bridie knew, and realised the situation was unlikely to change. Ellen felt sorry for Bridie, but also for her sister too. She knew how much of a burden Sarah felt already and didn’t want to add to her problems by continually carping at her.

There was little Ellen could do long-term to ease the situation for the family, but she did tackle Bridie about the social evenings that she had stopped going to. ‘I got out of the way of it when Mammy scalded herself,’ Bridie said, and gave a shiver at the memory of it. ‘God, it was a desperate time.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Ellen said. ‘But what about afterwards, when your mammy recovered a bit?’

‘There is so much to do,’ Bridie replied. ‘And I’m always so tired by the evening. It hardly seems worth it.’

‘Of course it’s worth it,’ Ellen retorted sharply. ‘It’s not helpful to be buried away in this place with two old folk and never seeing anyone else day in and day out.’

‘I see Rosalyn.’

‘Aye, but isn’t she at work every day?’ Ellen said. She knew too that soon Bridie would lose Rosalyn as well because Delia was after telling her just that day of the offer Rosalyn had received that she’d be mad to refuse. She guessed that Bridie hadn’t a hint of it, or she’d certainly have mentioned it. She knew also how much Bridie would miss her cousin and had no intention of telling her, particularly as the details were not finalised yet. However, Ellen knew it was even more vital now that her niece meet other young people. ‘You need to get out more,’ she continued. ‘Jimmy tells me you hardly ever go into the town, even on a Fair Day.’

‘We can’t both be away from the farm,’ Bridie protested. ‘Anyway, I’d hesitate to leave Mammy.’

‘Well, you’ll leave her tomorrow,’ Ellen said determinedly, ‘because you and I are going to town. Mary is here to see to things – we’ll take the rail bus in, so we will.’

‘But why are we going to town?’

‘Why? Because, my girl, I see you for ever in breeches and shirt. I bet you’ve nearly forgotten you’re a girl – a young lady. For your first Harvest Dance, I want you to be the belle of the ball. We’re going to choose the dress of your dreams.’

‘Oh,’ said Bridie, and felt stirrings of excitement at the prospect of new pretty clothes. She went to bed that night dreaming of the next day.

‘Right, Sam,’ Ellen said as the three of them reached the town, ‘here’s the list Sarah and Jimmy gave me for things they need.’

Aye,’ said Sam, taking it from her. ‘Where will you be when I finish?’

‘How would I know that?’ Ellen asked. ‘I don’t know how long things are going to take. Wait for us in the hotel and we’ll have our dinner there before heading for home.’ She nudged Bridie as she spoke. ‘Bit of a treat for you.’

It was a treat. The whole day out was just wonderful. Just to be there in the town, carefree and not with one eye on the clock all the time, worrying about her mother and knowing there would be a pile of jobs waiting for her back home, was sheer bliss. ‘Oh, Aunt Ellen,’ she said. ‘It’s tremendous, the whole thing. Thank you.’

‘God, girl, you’ve got nothing to thank me for yet,’ Ellen cried. ‘Come on now, let’s do some serious shopping.’

And with that, Ellen tucked her arm through Bridie’s, gave a desultory wave to Sam and the two set off to conquer the town.

Ellen led the way to Dumphries, the elegant and pricey dress shop Bridie had never been through the door of before, where she had Bridie try on one dress after the other.

‘What d’you think? Which one do you like?’ she asked Bridie who could only shake her head in reply. She’d never seen such clothes – how could she choose? One was as beautiful as the next.

‘Shall I tell you my choice then?’ Ellen asked, and Bridie nodded her head eagerly. Ellen held up a dress of golden brown with a pattern of green and russet running through it. ‘Put this one on again.’

Bridie took it from her aunt. It was beautiful: the bodice was of fine shimmering material over a skirt of satin and was worn just off the shoulders. It felt so good next to her skin. ‘You don’t think it too low?’ she asked, anxiously tugging at it. It showed her figure to perfection with just a demure hint of cleavage.

‘Not at all,’ Ellen said firmly. ‘It’s a dance. Everyone will wear similar things. Trust me.’

‘But my shoulders are bare,’ Bridie went on. She’d never had anything like this in her life. ‘Isn’t it …? Maybe people will think it a little fast?’

‘Bridie, you’re eighteen,’ Ellen said. ‘The time for childish dresses is past – and you don’t wear sensible clothes that you wear for Mass to a dance, especially your first.’

Bridie still looked doubtful and Ellen said, ‘I’ll buy you a stole to cover your shoulders if you’re so worried. But once the dancing starts, you won’t want a stole hampering you. Come on, take it off and we’ll get them to wrap it up. Now for the underneath.’

‘Underneath!’

‘Bridie, you don’t wear flannel bloomers under a dress like this,’ Ellen said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘We need lace bloomers and petticoats. No need for any sort of brassiere though, for the dress is fitted to show off your bust.’

Bridie felt her face flame with embarrassment at her aunt talking this way, and in the hearing of the shop assistants too. She knew full well the dress was fitted to show off her bust. That was what worried her most, especially the reaction of her mother when she saw just how much flesh the dress showed off.

She couldn’t help, though, but be impressed by the soft bloomers with deep lace edging and the matching petticoats and before they left the shop, true to her word, Ellen bought a stole of soft brown wool shot through with threads of gold that went perfectly with the dress. Then she marched Bridie to the shoemaker’s and bought her the softest, daintiest boots of tan leather.

‘And now,’ she said as they stood outside the shoemakers, ‘I’ve made an appointment with the hairdresser.’

Bridie’s hands immediately flew to her head. ‘My hair! What’s the matter with my hair?’

‘Nothing,’ Ellen said. ‘Or at least nothing that can’t be fixed.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Now don’t fly off the handle,’ Ellen said. ‘I’m not talking of shaving your head, but it needs to be thinned a little. It’s so thick it tangles easily. And then maybe a wee tadge off the length.’

Bridie had had little time to do anything with her hair but wash it for years, yet she was still apprehensive. But she needn’t have worried. Submitting to the hairdresser’s skill, she saw her natural waves again become apparent and the straggly locks cut off, reducing the length to just below her shoulders.

‘Do you like it?’ she asked Ellen, still doubtful herself.

‘Like it? Girl, it’s tremendous so it is,’ Ellen said excitedly. ‘And d’you like the length? You could wear it down to the Harvest Dance. All you’d need would be two Spanish combs to fasten at each side. God, Bridie, you’re going to look the business!’

Bridie’s head was reeling. She’d never had so much spent on her in the whole of her life. ‘And now we’ll be away to the hotel for a big feed,’ Ellen said. ‘Come, girl, let’s see you knock them dead in that place, even wearing those old clothes you have on. Their eyes will be out on stalks, so they will.’

‘Oh, Aunt Ellen,’ Bridie said, her face flushing with embarrassment. Ellen wondered if she didn’t see the way the men looked at her. Was she as unaware as she seemed to be of her beauty, and not just beauty alone, a sort of allure that seemed to draw people to her?

However, while Bridie might have been unaware of the interest of those in the town, she was more than aware of the astonishment of her family as she and Ellen turned into the yard later that afternoon.

They were all there waiting for her: Jimmy and Sarah, Mary with Mickey in her arms, and Jamie standing at her feet. No one spoke because no one could think of words to say. Bridie’s gleaming hair bounced on her shoulders, the only restraint two sparkling combs in either side. The effect was to make her eyes look larger, even clouded with apprehension as they were now. Her mouth was strained a little as she awaited their verdict on what she’d done, what she’d allowed Aunt Ellen to do.

Mary recovered first. She went forward, handed the baby to her father and put her arms around her sister. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Your hair really suits you like that.’

‘Wait till you see the dress,’ Ellen said. ‘She’ll look even better with the whole rig-out on.’

Later, alone in her room, Bridie tried on her new things. When she had pulled the dress on and had fastened it up, and fitted her feet into the dainty little boots, she turned to look at herself and was astounded at the reflection that stared back. Bridie had always thought Mary was the beautiful one in the family with her raven black hair, flawless skin and vivid green eyes. Now, though, she saw she had something special herself and she was quite unnerved by it.

Mary came into the room and stood in open-mouthed admiration. ‘God, Bridie,’ she said, ‘you look fantastic!’

‘It’s all Aunt Ellen’s doing,’ Bridie said proudly. ‘She said she was fed up seeing me in breeches and shirt. But these clothes, Mary, I’m not really sure, and she’s spent a small fortune.’

Mary could tell that: you didn’t get clothes like that for pennies. Yet she didn’t resent the money Ellen had spent on her sister; Ellen was a generous woman and she’d had plenty of help from her herself. ‘Are you going to show Mammy and Daddy?’

‘D’you think I should? I mean what if Mammy doesn’t like it?’

‘Why shouldn’t she?’

‘Well, you know,’ Bridie said. ‘It’s so low. Won’t she give out?’

Mary laughed. ‘She won’t dare. It was Aunt Ellen’s choice, don’t forget. Tell her you’ll keep the stole wrapped around your shoulders all evening.’

Sarah was inclined to say plenty when she saw her daughter come out of the room, but any misgivings she had were forestalled by the cries of admiration from Jimmy. Because Bridie was so small and because her shape had been hidden for so long – for even the few dresses she had already did little to flatter her – he’d not believed she’d changed much from the wee girl who used to trail after him. Now, it was as if the caterpillar had turned into a butterfly before his eyes.

Jimmy wasn’t usually given to much praise of how a person looked: he and Sarah always believed it led to a person thinking too much of themselves. But now Jimmy crossed the room and put his hands on Bridie’s shoulders and said softly, ‘Darling child, you look so lovely.’ His gaze took in all around as he asked, ‘Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ Bridie said, relieved he wasn’t shocked, disgusted even, at the cut of the dress. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and he put his arms around her. She met Ellen and Mary’s eyes across the room and they all knew, with Jimmy’s open approval, Sarah would say nothing detrimental about the outfit.

Bridie was sorry to see her sister and aunt leave, and not just because they had shared the burden of work, allowing her free time to get to know and play with her nephews, but also because of their cheerful company.

But she was too busy to miss them for long, as the hay was ready to be cut and stacked in the barns for the winter feed. Francis and Frank came to help as they did every year and Jimmy and Bridie would then help them in return at their farm, Delia keeping them well supplied with sandwiches and tea as Sarah wasn’t able to.

As she toiled alongside the men, slicing through the hay with her scythe, Bridie couldn’t help recollecting the harvest time when she was small. She remembered what fun Uncle Francis he’d been then. His good humour and stock of jokes seemed to take some of the ache from bent backs and threshing arms. He’d always seemed tireless himself. Even after a day’s work, he would think nothing of tossing Bridie and Rosalyn up on top of the stacks.

Bridie remembered the smell of newly mown hay, the thrill of fear as they slid down the sides of the stack and the way the bits of hay went up her nose and in between her clothes, tickling her. She was often tired, hot and dusty, yet she’d enjoyed the harvest then and had to admit most of that enjoyment had come from her uncle Francis. Now, she kept as far from him as possible and knew she’d be glad when it was over and she wouldn’t have to work near him at all.

After the harvest was safely in, they all visited the peat bog together. Again, Bridie remembered her trips as a child, with her and Rosalyn thrown into the back of the cart, with her father and Francis up in front, and Terry and Frank walking behind. Uncle Francis would sing rebel songs all the way there, his voice rising in the mist of an autumn morning.

Bridie had always loved the damp mossy smell of the bog and the way the spade slid so effortlessly into the peat. Usually black sludge would seep along it, squeezing between her bare toes and slapping up her legs. She liked the feel of it and never minded the icy coldness. She remembered how her mother would often give out when they arrived home and have her stand in a basin of warm water to be washed down before any of them were given a meal. It was part of her childhood; the time she thought would go on for ever with no change.

Now she walked alongside Frank and there wasn’t the hint of a song from her often morose uncle. The fun had gone out of it as it had gone out of a lot of things. These were now just chores to be done in order to get by for another year.

However, at last, the day of the Harvest Dance arrived. Frank was to take them up to it and bring them home afterwards, but at the last minute he went down with flu and wasn’t able to. ‘We can go ourselves,’ Bridie insisted. ‘Haven’t we often enough for the socials?’

‘Not tonight,’ Sarah said. ‘Some of these young fellows will have the drink on them. Lord knows what they’ll be up to once the night’s over.’

‘Well, sure I’ll take them up,’ Jimmy said, ‘and go to collect them.’

‘Aye, but you’ll not know when it might be finishing,’ Sarah said. ‘Ask Francis. He often goes up to the dance himself.’

Bridie wanted desperately to protest. She wanted to say she’d have anyone but Francis, but remained silent, afraid of what her uncle might say if she spoke aloud her fears. She resolved to stick to Rosalyn and her friends like glue.

Later, when her uncle Francis called for her, he stood speechless in the yard, wondering if Bridie had any idea how tempting she looked dressed in her finery as she stood framed in the doorway with the lamp behind her. Her eyes were sparkling and her face aglow with excitement at the thought of going to her first real dance and her dark brown hair, which she had rinsed in rain water earlier that day, shone as it bounced on her shoulders.

The blood coursed through Francis’s veins as he stared at her. He caught a glimpse of one bare shoulder as she adjusted the beautiful stole about her and picked up her bag where she had put the soft kid boots, wrapped in paper. These boots were the loveliest footwear she’d ever owned and she had no desire to tramp across the bog and rocks of Ireland in them, her old working boots would do well enough for that.

Many must have had the same thought as Francis, for Bridie was in great demand all night at the dance and had such a good time that she barely noticed her uncle at the bar, drinking steadily and watching her broodingly.

Lots of the young girls had their eye on some fellow or other and Bridie knew a lot of couples often began walking out from the Harvest Dance. ‘Anyone you fancy?’ said a girl in Bridie’s ear. ‘You have plenty of choice anyway, for you’ve seldom been off your feet all night. You must have danced with half the men in the room.’

But none of the men had stirred Bridie in any way. Quite a few had asked if they could see her again, begin walking out with her, and she’d immediately shied away. She had no wish to be unkind, and just said she was not ready for that level of commitment yet, but she saw the disappointment on all of their faces.

She refused to worry much about it though. She was here to enjoy herself and that’s what she intended to do and she told Rosalyn the same as the two went arm in arm back to the dance floor after the Harvest Supper.

It was as they came back into the hall that a girl said to Rosalyn, ‘Won’t you miss all this?’, the sweep of her arm taking in everything.

‘I suppose,’ Rosalyn muttered, her eyes avoiding those of her cousin.

‘What did she mean?’ Bridie asked when the girl was out of earshot.

It was obvious that Rosalyn was uncomfortable. Bridie saw her lick her lips nervously before she replied, ‘Didn’t your Aunt Ellen say? I saw her talking to Mammy when she came over and I thought

‘What are you on about?’

‘I’m … I’m leaving.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Leaving here. Leaving Ireland.’

‘Leaving Ireland?’ Bridie repeated. ‘Why, in God’s name? And don’t you think if I’d had just one sniff of that, I’d have been around to your house straight off to ask you about it?’

Of course Rosalyn knew: telling Bridie was what she’d dreaded most about the whole affair. ‘Why on earth are you leaving?’ Bridie demanded. ‘Do you mean really leaving, or just going away for a wee while?’

‘No!’ Rosalyn couldn’t let her think that. ‘You know my aunt Maria, well, Uncle Aiden has somewhere for them all in America now. But Maria can’t face the journey alone and is afraid of something happening to the weans, so she’s offered to pay my fare to go over with her.’

‘To what?’ Bridie cried. ‘Here you have a job – a life. What would you get in America?’

‘Experience,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She knew Bridie was hurt and upset and she wanted to explain it to her, make her see what a chance it was. Bridie knew, or she’d realise when the hurt had eased, that Rosalyn would never have been happy in rural Ireland all the days of her life. God! She’d made that plain enough from when they were in their early teens.

Now her young aunt had handed her the means to leave on a plate and her mother, far from opposing it, had urged her to go. She told Bridie this. ‘Mammy’s all for it. She says it’s a chance that might never come again. ’Course, the weans are older now and able to help more. Nora’s only a year behind Declan at ten. I was a fine hand in the house when I was ten and there’s no babies to see to now either. Mammy says I must go. She said these are opportunities that you must take when you’re single.

‘As for a job, I’m sure I could get one over there soon enough if I wanted one. Maria doesn’t want me to work, not at first anyway. Aiden earns good money and he wants me to stay with her too, for he says Maria is bound to feel strange at first. He thinks she’d settle better with someone of her own beside her.’

Bridie couldn’t believe it. Neither Terry leaving, nor Mary moving to Birmingham, had affected like this. Rosalyn had been living next door to her since they’d both been babies and they’d been inseparable ever since. She couldn’t visualise life without her. Even when Rosalyn began work and had been in town during the day, they’d still seen each other in the evenings and at the weekends. Unlike Rosalyn, who’d made other friends at work, Bridie had had no opportunity to do that. It had never bothered her. She’d never really needed anyone but Rosalyn.

Hurt and frightened of the loneliness she’d feel at her cousin’s departure, she spat out sneeringly, ‘Oh, that’s it then, you’ll be a skivvy for your sister-in-law. Fine job that will be.’

‘Don’t be like that, Bridie!’ Rosalyn cried. ‘I’m sorry I’m going, for your sake, and I’m going to miss you like crazy, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Maria can’t go on her own, not with the three weans so small. If your Mary asked you for help, you’d break your neck to do it and you know you would.’

She might like to, Bridie thought, but knew she couldn’t up sticks like Rosalyn could, no matter what fix Mary was in. The heavy cloak of duty and responsibility kept her successfully on the farm. A lump lodged in Bridie’s throat and she was scared she was going to cry. She fought to control herself; she couldn’t bear to make a holy show of herself like that. She swallowed the lump and suddenly she felt anger at the unfairness of life course all through her and turned once again on Rosalyn. ‘Go to bloody America then,’ she snapped. ‘And I hope it stays fine for you.’

‘Bridie …’

But Bridie turned away from her cousin. Tears had begun to seep from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks and she ran from the place lest anyone should see. She knew she had to move well away. Anyone could be about the hall outside: people out for a breath of air to cool off, courting couples – anyone. There was a little copse of trees not far from the hall so she made for there and leaned her head against a tree trunk. She could still see the twinkling lights of the hall and hear the laughter and tantalising music from inside and it cut into her very soul. It felt like a mockery, especially as she remembered how excited she’d been about the dance. At the thought of that, the tears came in earnest, almost bursting from her in a torrent.

She had nothing with her to wipe her eyes; she’d run in a panic, leaving behind her bag, her work boots and her stole. But she couldn’t go back for them, she’d look a sight and she knew her eyes would be puffy and red from crying and everyone would know something was wrong.

But then what should she do? She couldn’t go home yet; her parents might still be up and would wonder why she was back so early. They’d know she’d have been upset by something and wouldn’t rest till they got it out of her.

She’d take a walk, she decided. Her kid boots would be ruined, but no matter. It was precious few dances she’d go to after this one.

One person, the one who’d watched Bridie all night, had seen the altercation between her and Rosalyn. He’d seen Bridie’s flight and Rosalyn biting her bottom lip in consternation.

But he didn’t approach his daughter. Instead, he’d slipped outside and stood by the side of the hall and then, hidden by the velvety darkness, had begun to move forward. He’d watched Bridie approach the edge of the copse and had heard her tears, but he had not moved closer until he seen her enter the small wood and then he began to follow in earnest.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Bridie heard the snap of twigs behind her, she told herself not to panic and stop imagining things. This was the wood not that far from her home that she’d walked in and played in as a child many a time. It was also the home of many small animals and birds and the rustling and cracklings around her were them going about their business, or settling down for the night.

She did stop once and looked around surreptitiously, but she saw nothing and chided herself for her foolishness. Even when she thought she heard breathing behind her, she thought she’d imagined it.

So when a hand shot out and grasped her bare shoulder, she jumped and opened her mouth to let out a scream, but the other hand, already clasped firmly over her mouth, effectively stifled it. ‘Don’t be frightened, Bridie,’ a familiar voice said. ‘It’s me – Francis.’

That hardly made Bridie feel better and her heart was hammering in her ribs. She told herself not to overreact, to act as normally as possible. Whatever had ailed Francis a couple of years before had effectively passed and so she said sharply, ‘Uncle Francis, what are you doing? You could have given me a heart attack.’

‘I was looking out for you,’ Francis said. ‘You shouldn’t be walking home alone. I promised your mother …’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Bridie snapped. ‘I’m a wean no longer. And if you wanted to walk me home, why didn’t you call out? Why did you creep up on me like that?’

‘If I’d have called out, you’d probably have run away,’ Francis said. ‘And break your neck likely as not because you’re nervous of me, aren’t you?’

‘If I am, it’s with reason.’

‘Ah no,’ Francis said, slipping an arm around Bridie’s shoulder and beginning to caress it gently as he continued, ‘I’d never hurt you, Bridie.’

‘Don’t,’ Bridie said impatiently, trying and failing to dislodge her uncle’s hand.

‘Don’t be mean to me,’ Francis said. ‘Sure aren’t you the loveliest thing to walk the earth?’

‘Stop it, Uncle Francis!’ Bridie said. ‘It’s the beer talking.’

‘Aye, the beer,’ Francis agreed, shaking his head sagely. ‘The beer unlocks the flood of words I’ve longed to speak to you. Words like “love” and “adore”. Words like “bewitch”, for that’s what you do to me.’

‘I won’t listen to this,’ Bridie declared. ‘It’s wrong. You’re drunk and you’ll regret all this tomorrow, if you remember it at all.’ She glanced around furtively to see if she could break away from him. But even as she thought of it, she rejected it. Francis had been right about one thing: the wood was inky, pitch black. The harvest moon must have been covered by cloud, for no light from it penetrated through the canopy of leaves and she knew she’d probably fall headlong before she’d gone any distance. In fact, the only thing she could see in the dark was the strange light dancing in her uncle’s eyes and then the flash of his teeth as he opened his mouth and said huskily, ‘I’ll regret nothing. I just want to remember you just as you are tonight.’

Oh God, Bridie thought in annoyance. The bloody man was a pest and the only thing to do was humour him. She wasn’t exactly frightened, she was unnerved, but knew better than to show him that. ‘Go home now, Uncle Francis,’ Bridie pleaded with a sigh of impatience. ‘Go and sleep it off, for God’s sake.’

‘Sleep off this madness I have for you?’ Francis cried. ‘The thing that gets between me and sleep, my work, my peace of mind? Dear Christ, Bridie, you don’t know what you do to me.’

That’s it! Bridie thought, angered at last. This sort of talk had to stop and if Francis wouldn’t listen to reason, maybe he’d listen to fury. How dare he think he could just accost her whenever he had the notion and spout such rubbish? ‘Now look here, Uncle Francis …’ she began angrily.

She got no further for suddenly her mouth had been covered by his. But this kiss was different from the others, for she felt her uncle force open her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

Revulsion filled her being and she fought him like a wild thing, lashing out until she felt her own arms firmly pinned her to her sides. She writhed, squirmed and wriggled, trying to free her feet to stamp on his toes, or release her knee so that she could thrust it into his groin. But Francis held her so fast to him that she could do none of these things. Suddenly, she realised with horror that her struggles to escape had excited her uncle further. She was crushed into him so tightly that she felt his penis rise and harden and heard him moan as if he were in pain. But Bridie knew it was no pain. Never in her whole life had she been so terrified.

Francis released her mouth and her arms to pull the dress down over her shoulders and expose her breasts. Bridie gave a yelp of terror and, pushing him with all her might, she twisted from his grasp.

As she attempted to run, Francis made a grab for her and she felt her bodice nearly ripped from the dress entirely as Francis used it to swing Bridie round to face him. He held her as she stood before him, her dress open to the waist, her breasts exposed. She wanted to die with shame. Bridie saw her uncle’s eyes looked stranger than ever and his breath was coming in short gasps. ‘Ah God, Bridie. You’re lovely, so you are.’

Bridie trembled from head to foot. ‘Please let me go Uncle Francis. I won’t tell a soul, I promise it, on my mother’s life.’

‘Let you go?’ Francis repeated, as if in surprise. ‘You stand with your luscious breasts inches from my face and my manhood throbbing and ask me to let you go?’ He grabbed her hands as he spoke and forced them down the front of his trousers. Bridie felt the nausea rising in her throat and she prayed silently for the ordeal to stop. Oh Jesus Christ help me!

‘Please, Uncle Francis, stop this now!’ she cried, somehow managing to pull her hands free. ‘For pity’s sake.’

‘Ah, pity’s sake,’ Francis said. ‘What about the pity of an uncle who cannot get you out of my mind?’

‘No! No!’ Bridie shrieked and tried to twist from Francis again. For a few moments, they swayed together as Francis fought to still Bridie’s mouth with a kiss without losing his tight hold. Suddenly, Bridie gave an almighty heave, hoping to take Francis unawares and break free. But Francis held on as they both overbalanced and they went crashing down on to the leaf-strewn mossy ground.

For a few moments, Bridie lay stunned, and then she became aware of the twigs and tree roots sticking into her, pressed down as she was by Francis who lay on top of her, kneading her breasts and then rolling her nipples roughly between his fingers.

Her mouth was free and although she was screaming inside, she couldn’t seem to form the sound. The kneading stopped and Francis fastened his mouth around one of Bridie’s nipples, biting and nuzzling, while his hands went beneath her underskirts, pulling at her bloomers.

‘Oh, Dear God, no,’ she cried. ‘Uncle Francis, please, please leave me alone.’

It was if she’d not spoken and as she wriggled and writhed and struggled beneath him, she felt his fingers inside her and let out a cry of agony. Immediately a hand was across her mouth. ‘Shut up, you silly bitch,’ her uncle said. ‘You’ll enjoy this if you let yourself and though I’ve no desire to hurt you, if you make any noise, I’ll knock you senseless. Do you understand?’

Oh God, she understood all right. She lay transfixed with abject fear for she knew he meant every word. This man, with the wild eyes and slack lips, was a stranger, not the uncle she’d loved near all her life. Tears streamed from her eyes as terror engulfed her.

‘After this you’ll be begging for it,’ Francis said.

Oh dear sweet Jesus, please don’t let this happen to me, Bridie prayed silently, even as she saw Francis unzip his trousers. Let someone come. Let something happen to stop this.

But nobody came. There was only Francis’s voice, telling her to lie back and enjoy it, for by God he was going to, and assuring her he’d never hurt her, not in all the world. And then she knew he spoke lies for pain, such as she’d never felt in all her life, shot through her as Francis entered her and she groaned in sheer agony and despair.

It seemed to last for ever, an eternity, but eventually Francis stopped his panting and pulsating and let out a cry of triumph. He slumped across Bridie. She lay still, terrified to move in case she should rouse him in some way. Every part of her body ached and she wanted to die. For such a thing to happen to her … Oh dear God, what should she do? What could she do? She felt defiled and utterly dirty, filthy and so bitterly ashamed.

She didn’t know how much longer it was before Francis came to. He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head in a bemused way as if he didn’t know how he’d got to be there. In the moonlight dancing through the orange and brown leaves he saw Bridie, lying on the ground. The bodice of her dress was nearly ripped off, her underclothes pushed up to her waist and her lace bloomers to the side of her.

He zipped his trousers up and wondered why Bridie made no move to cover herself. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

Bridie wondered if she’d ever be all right again. She made no answer and Francis became uncomfortable. ‘We’ll say nothing about this,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like your parents to know the little wanton you are. I wouldn’t like them to hear how you left the dance early. When I came to find you, not wanting you to walk home alone, you waylaid me in the wood, wearing only that dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. You made up to me and I had to be quite firm with you.’

‘That wasn’t how it was,’ Bridie said. ‘I shall tell the truth. What about my dress near torn in half?’

‘That happened as I struggled to stop you stripping off,’ Francis said. Bridie looked at him with anguished eyes. How could she go home and burden her parents with this? It would be her word against Francis’s. Even if they believed her totally, it would split the families in half.

‘Look,’ Francis said, guessing some of the thoughts running through Bridie’s mind. ‘Best say nothing. After all, there was no harm done.’

No harm done, Bridie thought. Christ!

‘Come on.’ Francis held out his hand to help her to her feet but she barked out, ‘Leave me alone. If you lay one hand on me ever again, by Christ I’ll kill you even if I have to wait years to do it!’

Francis laughed a little nervously. ‘Aren’t you taking our bit of fun a little seriously?’

‘Our bit of fun? Don’t flatter yourself,’ Bridie said with scorn. ‘There was no pleasure or enjoyment for me in what you did, just shame and revulsion. Get out of my sight before I scream my head off and hang the bloody consequences.’

Much later, when Francis had skulked away into the night, she got onto her hands and knees and then to her feet, staggering slightly.

Everywhere seemed to ache or throb and she’d thought she’d probably have a mass of bruises in the morning, a fact she’d have to hide from her parents. She also found that blood had trickled from her and had stained the ground and some of her petticoats and dried onto her legs. She pulled on her bloomers and rearranged her clothes, and hoped she could reach the relative safety of her bedroom without her parents, or anyone else, catching sight of her. She had no idea of the time, no idea whether the dance had finished and no way of knowing. She made for home in a roundabout route. When she got to the head of the lane, unmolested and unseen, she gave a sigh of relief.

The cottage curtains were open slightly, but the Tilley lamp on the windowsill was lit, so Bridie knew then her parents had gone to bed. She hoped they’d be well asleep too, for their bed was in a curtained alcove in the room and if Sarah was awake, she’d be likely to get up to find out what Bridie had thought of her first dance.

Bridie lifted the latch of the cottage stealthily and stole in quietly. She could hear the snuffly snores of her parents and thanked God silently. But still she had to wash the blood from her legs. She lifted a small pan of water from the bucket by the door and took it into her room.

She took the lamp in the bedroom with her and undressed, flinging the ruined dress to the back of the wardrobe along with the kid boots, now not fit to be worn. Then she tipped the water into the chamber pot and began to wash herself all over, dabbing gently at the bruises and abrasions that she could see with a handkerchief from her drawer and rubbing the blood from her legs.

She folded the soiled underclothes to hide the bloodstains and put them at the bottom of the drawer, intending to hide them until she had her period when she could pass the blood off as her monthly bleeding. She eased the window open and tipped the water away before putting on her nightdress and getting into bed. She didn’t feel much cleaner. Even if she was immersed in water for hours and her skin rubbed raw, she’d never, ever feel clean again.

When Bridie woke the next morning, it was daylight and she lay for a moment and let the events of the previous night wash over her and felt her face, her whole body, grow hot with shame as she remembered what had happened.

She got out of bed and began to dress, but all she had for her feet was an old pair of boots of Terry’s which were far too big for her. They’d have to do though. Maybe her parents wouldn’t notice. She hoped Rosalyn would have taken her things home with her and prayed she’d bring them round later, for not even for a million pounds would she go to her house and risk meeting her uncle.

She found out that her father had already done the milking when she went into the kitchen where her mother was frying rashers at the fire for breakfast. ‘We let you lie,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s not often you have the chance to and you were powerfully late in last night.’

‘Thank you,’ Bridie said, but her tone was muted, her eyes downcast. Sarah was not surprised – Rosalyn must have told her the news.

‘So Rosalyn told you then, about her going to America,’ she said as she broke eggs into a pan.

‘You knew?’ Bridie said accusingly.

‘No, no, not at all,’ Sarah said. ‘Not till last night anyway when Delia came to tell me. She apparently mentioned it to Ellen, but it was all up in the air then so Ellen said nothing. Pity, though, that Rosalyn chose to tell you last night. It would have spoilt the night, news like that.’

Aye, as if that was the only thing to spoil it, Bridie thought to herself.

‘You’ll miss her,’ Sarah continued. ‘God, the two of you have been thick since you were weans.’

‘Aye, I’ll miss her,’ Bridie agreed. ‘But I’ll get used to it soon enough, no doubt.’

‘Aye, surely. Life goes on.’

In a way, Bridie was glad to have the excuse of Rosalyn leaving to explain her dejected attitude, for she found she couldn’t forget, even for a second, that revolting scene in the woods and she knew her parents were worried about her, for her mother said she looked as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

Later that day, Rosalyn came around with the things she’d left. Bridie had been on the lookout for her, not wanting her parents to discover she’d left the dance early, and she pulled her quickly into the barn where she exchanged Terry’s boots for her own. ‘Where did you disappear to, Bridie?’ Rosalyn asked. ‘Daddy was hours looking for you. Did you just head for home?’

‘I might have,’ Bridie snapped, the mention of Francis playing the part of a concerned uncle making her feel sick. ‘You were hardly bothered and I don’t think it’s any of your business anyway.’

‘Oh, Bridie, don’t be like this!’ Rosalyn said. ‘I know you’re upset I’m leaving, but …’

‘God, don’t you think a lot of yourself?’ Bridie cried. ‘Don’t you pity me, Rosalyn McCarthy. Pity yourself or some other in need of it. I’m grand, so I am.’

Rosalyn went home, offended. Bridie didn’t blame her and felt bad about upsetting her dearest friend, who would soon be gone, and probably for ever. Another thing to blame Francis for, she thought, spoiling the last weeks they’d have together.

An uneasy truce was formed between Bridie and Rosalyn, however, and Rosalyn was glad. She was leaving in just over a month’s time and didn’t want to go without making it up with her cousin.

As for Bridie, she was desperately unhappy. She couldn’t look at her uncle Francis, or speak to him unless forced to, but she could not afford to draw attention to this and invite awkward questions. She wished the two families didn’t see so much of each other. There were days when she seemed so sunken in misery that nothing seemed to lift her. ‘I didn’t think she’d be as upset as all this at Rosalyn leaving,’ Sarah remarked to Jimmy one day. ‘For all they’d been bosom friends. She always seems to bounce back, our Bridie, but I can hardly reach her at the moment. I wish she was still small and I could cure any hurt with a kiss and a hug. I mean, it’s even stopped her monthlies.’

Bridie had realised that herself one day when, searching for clean underwear, she came upon the soiled petticoats. Her heart seemed to stop beating as realisation dawned. She sat down on the bed because her legs had begun to tremble. Rosalyn was due to sail in two days’ time, and it was a month since the dance – she should have started her period a week after it.

Oh dear God! Surely she couldn’t be pregnant? The disgusting episode in the wood couldn’t have resulted in a child?

The worry of it clouded Rosalyn’s departure and haunted her every minute of the day. Should she write and tell Mary, she wondered? But how could she write something like that? And would Mary feel bound to tell her mother? Maybe she was panicking over nothing, she told herself. All sorts of things could stop periods. She heard it said often enough.

Rosalyn left on a drizzly, early November day and the two girls kissed and hugged and vowed they would write. Bridie watched her climb into the rail bus, carrying Maria’s two-year-old while Maria held the baby in her arms and the older child by the hand, and she felt black desolation sweep over her at the loss of her friend.

A week later, Bridie realised that she had missed her second period and two weeks after that she was sick in the chamber pot as she got out of bed. The same happened the next morning and the next and almost every morning after it. She was whiter than ever and dark smudges had appeared beneath her eyes. ‘That girl will sicken if she goes on like this,’ she overheard her mother say to her father.

‘She looks far from well indeed,’ Jimmy agreed.

‘I’ve heard her being sick a time or two as well,’ Sarah said. ‘God knows, she’s thin enough already. I think I’ll have the doctor look her over if she doesn’t pick up. Maybe she needs a tonic.’

Jesus! Bridie knew what sort of a tonic the doctor would order and that news would tear the heart out of her parents. What was she to do? Eventually they would find out. Pregnancy was something no one could hide for ever.

She lay in bed, night after night, thinking what to do as one November day slid into another. But there was no solution. If she were to tell her parents now what had happened the night of the dance, doubt would linger. They’d wonder why she’d said nothing that night. Francis had his story ready too; he’d already told her what he’d say if she accused him. Dear Lord, he might deny it altogether and lay the blame on one of the young lads at the dance.

He might say they’d been around her all night like bees around a honey pot and suggest she had been more than willing. And hadn’t he told Rosalyn he’d searched the place for Bridie and not been able to find her? She knew with dread certainty that Francis would be believed before her.

When news of Bridie’s pregnancy got out, her parents would be destroyed. Out would go their respectability, their standing in the community. The two families who’d helped each other and shared things for years would be rent apart. It would be particularly hard for her parents to cope; maybe they’d find it so hard they’d have to leave the farm, their life’s work, perhaps even leave the town.

And the townsfolk would blame her. She must have asked for it, they would say, must have done something to provoke such a thing. God, she could almost hear them. ‘Can you trust the young hussies these days, wearing less clothes than is decent and teasing and tormenting honest men? Jesus, it would take a man to watch himself.’

There would be little or no sympathy for her. She’d be the disgraced single parent and her parents dragged through the mud with her. And at the end of this, would be a bastard child that no one would want, a symbol of her loose behaviour, a child that would be held up to ridicule and scorn because he or she had no father.

She knew it would be better if she was well away from the place before the pregnancy should be discovered. Yet, she asked herself, how could she just up and leave? But she knew in her heart of hearts that she must. Though her parents could not manage without her on the farm, neither could they cope with what she carried in her belly and she had no right to shame them like that.

Other people had begun to notice that Bridie looked far from well. Father O’Dwyer had stopped her in the church porch and commented on how pale she was. ‘Mind, I suppose everyone has poor colour at his time of the year,’ he had continued. ‘It doesn’t do my old bones much good either. We’ll all feel better in the spring, what d’you say?’

Bridie had said nothing and managed only a fleeting smile. If she stayed until the spring, the decision would be taken out of her hands and her life, and that of her parents, might as well be over.

All the next week she dithered. Her father had never seemed so old, so stiff, and her mother’s one arm was more useless than ever. She was slow to do everything and, Bridie guessed, often in pain. How in God’s name could she leave these good kind people to cope by themselves?

Then, one evening, her mother said, ‘I’m making an appointment for you to see the doctor this week, Bridie.’

‘What?’ Bridie cried, startled and alarmed.

‘Look at you, there’s not a pick on you,’ Sarah said. ‘People are commenting on how thin you’ve got, and there are bags under your eyes too. You’re not right and haven’t been since Rosalyn left. You’ve got to eat more; you’re not eating enough to keep a bird alive at the moment. Delia said that is probably what has stopped your monthlies. She says she’s heard of it before, but whatever it is, I’m sure the doctor will sort it out.’

Oh by God he would sort it out right enough, Bridie thought. ‘Mammy,’ she pleaded, ‘just leave it a wee while longer. You’re right, I haven’t been sleeping, and I will try to eat more, but don’t go bothering the doctor yet?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘Your father’s worried.’

‘Please, Mammy? Leave it just a bit and if I’m no better in a week or two, then I’ll see the doctor.’

Sarah reluctantly agreed, but for a while only and Bridie knew that for her the die was cast. She’d have to leave her home and as speedily as possible. She knew she would be castigated by everyone about. Neighbours were well aware how much Bridie was thought of, for her parents said so often and also said how they relied on her, but Bridie could do nothing about people’s opinion. Better they thought her the worst daughter in the world than stay and let them find out the truth.

Later in bed, sleep driven from her with worry, she thought of what she must do. There was only one place to go and that was Mary’s; she would know what to do. But how to get to there without detection was a problem. She couldn’t tell her parents that she was going away for a wee holiday and go along to Barnes More Halt and buy a ticket like any other body.

In fact, she couldn’t go on the rail bus at all this side of the border; anyone could spot her. If she could make it to Strabane Station, which was in the English six counties, and catch the steam train from there to Derry, she’d have a chance of getting away. A girl travelling alone would also be less noticeable in a busier place, whereas she’d stand out like a sore thumb in a country station.

She also had to be well away from the farm before her father rose for the milking at five o’clock. She knew the first rail bus left Killybegs at five o’clock, as she’d often heard it chugging past the end of the farm while she was at the milking. According to the rail bus timetable it didn’t reach Strabane until half past six. There the travellers would get out and board the steam train for Derry, she remembered that from her last visit.

But how was she to get to Strabane, about twenty miles away or more? She’d have to go in the middle of the night, but she’d never walk that distance in time for the five o’clock train. Her father once told her a person could walk four miles an hour at a steady pace. But his steady pace was a run for someone of Bridie’s size and that was also on a good flat road in the daylight. It would be different up hill and down dale in the pitch black. She thought bleakly that it was one thing to decide to leave, but quite another for it to be achieved. She mulled the problem over and over in her head, without coming to any conclusion, until sleep finally overtook her.

The next day, as she was at the back of the barn searching for a sack or two to collect any tree branches brought down by the gales of the previous days, she uncovered Mary’s old bike.

Her father was busy elsewhere and there was no one else about, so she hauled it out, dusted it off roughly and studied it. It was in a sorry state altogether: rusted up, missing some spokes and the tyres as flat as pancakes. It had once been Mary’s pride and joy and the first thing she’d bought when she’d began at the shirt factory in the town. She’d used to go in and out of town on it most days then, unless the rain was lashing or the snow feet thick on the roads, for she said it kept her fit, as well as saving the rail bus fare.

Since she’d left, it had lain unused, forgotten about. Bridie could cycle – she’d learned from Mary when she was a child and carefree – and a germ of an idea began to grow in her mind. She didn’t know if she could ride a long distance, she’d never tried, but it was the only way she could think of. Could she do the bike up until it was fit to carry her to Strabane and cycle all that way, in the dead of night, and make it in time to catch the steam train to Derry? She hadn’t a clue, but she was determined to have a damned good try.

With her decision made, she wrote to Mary. It was 1st December and to delay any longer would be foolish. She was sure Mary would help her when she knew the truth, but she decided she’d not tell her too many details in a letter, too risky that. She’d tell her just enough to make sure she knew how serious the problem was.

Dear Mary

I am in big, big trouble. It is not my fault, but I must leave here and quickly. Please don’t let Mammy know any of this and write as quickly as you can and let me know when I can come.

Love Bridie

She tried not to think of the ordeal before her, lest the thought of what she had to do frightened her so much she wouldn’t go at all. She busied herself instead with the task of getting the bike into some sort of working order, oiling it and cleaning it in her odd spare moments. The last thing she wanted was to be stranded on a road in the middle of the night. It was hard work, for she had to do it in bits, and she always had to remember to hide it well afterwards – it would never do for anyone to catch sight of it and start asking awkward questions

She waited anxiously for Mary’s letter, which she wrote back by return.

Dear Bridie

I hope you don’t really mean in trouble, but I won’t waste time with questions now. I presume you’re not telling Mammy and Daddy what you’re doing. I hope you’ve thought this through, because they’ll probably never forgive you, but you must be desperate to consider this course of action and you know you’ll always be welcome here. Make your arrangements and send a letter, or if there’s no time for that, a telegram, and I’ll be at the station to meet you.

Love Mary

Bridie had waited till she was in bed to read Mary’s letter and turned onto her side and cried tears of pure relief as she read the welcome words. When she woke the next morning, her pillow was damp and the letter was still clutched firmly in her hand.

Bridie knew the time for wishing things were different was over and done. Now she had to think of more practical issues. She’ been to Strabane just once in her life and that had been five years before and by rail bus, not bike.

How then did she think she could just set out for Strabane with no planning? She was in bed that night when she thought of it: she’d have to follow the rail bus tracks. They would take her there all right.

Bridie knew there was a rail bus timetable in the drawer of the press and she stole out of bed. ‘That you, Bridie?’ Sarah shouted from behind the curtain.

As if, thought Bridie, it could be anyone else. ‘Aye, Mammy.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Grand, Mammy. I just have a thirst on me. I need a drink of water.’

‘That will be the bacon. I thought it was over-salty myself.’

‘Aye,’ repeated Bridie. She prayed her mother wouldn’t take a notion to peer out from behind the curtain. She’d find it very difficult to explain why she was easing the drawer of the press out gently and extracting the timetable from it.

But she didn’t stir and when Bridie called out, ‘Goodnight, Mammy,’ the voice that answered her was slurred with tiredness. ‘Night, child. See you in the morning.’

Back in bed, Bridie moved the lamp nearer and read the names of the stations under her breath. From the station nearest them, Barnes More, there were Derg Bridge Halt, Meerglas, Stranorlar, Killygordon, Liscooley, Castlefin, Clady, then across the Urney Bridge into the English-ruled county of Tyrone and Strabane Station. She knew that she would have to memorise them and went to sleep with the station names running through her head.

Her home and the farm had become dearer to Bridie as the time drew nearer to her departure and she often found herself looking around as if committing it all to memory, as if she might never be allowed to come back. She knew how hurt her parents would be when they found her gone. Yet that would be nothing to the shame she’d heap upon them if she stayed, she reminded herself. What if her mother had demanded her see the doctor in the meantime? She’d forced herself to eat more to allay her mother’s fears, although she often felt sick and overfull. Of course, Sarah could have tumbled to the realisation of her daughter’s pregnancy herself. Many a mother would have done by now, for she’d not had a period since mid-September and was sick nearly every morning, though she tried to hide that from her parents.

So resolutely, she made her plans. The McCarthys didn’t possess a suitcase. When their children had left home, they’d bought whatever possessions they needed. All Bridie was able to find were two hessian bags and her meagre possessions were soon packed into them. They’d probably be easier to carry on the bike, one hanging from each handlebar, than trying to balance a case in front of her, Bridie reasoned.

Eventually, all was ready, the bike as good as she could make it. The last thing she’d done was pump up the tyres, praying that there were no punctures in the inner tubes, or that they hadn’t perished away altogether, and had hid the bike back in the barn for the last time. With her heart as heavy as lead she lay on her bed, fully clothed, and waited.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bridie knew she would have to climb out of the window. She couldn’t risk the cottage door and she must wait until she was as certain as she could be that her parents were asleep.

Oh, but she was so very tired; she’d been up since five and on the go all day, but she daren’t close her eyes, for if she did, she’d probably sleep until morning. Yet her eyelids were so heavy they were closing on their own. She yawned and wriggled on the bed. Maybe she’d just rest them for a minute or two.

She suddenly woke with a jerk. Dear God, what had she done? What time was it? She fumbled for some matches and lit the lamp.

‘One o’clock.’ She must have dozed. What had she been thinking of?

She listened intently. The house was so hushed that the ticking of the kitchen clock could be heard. She eased herself from the bed, pulled her coat from the wardrobe, and put it on, tucking her scarf into her neck and pulling her hat over her hair. Then, she lifted up the money box where she’d put the wages she’d fought for, grateful that she had, opened it and tipped the money into the large man’s handkerchief she’d taken in readiness from the laundry basket. She tied it with a knot and buried it at the bottom of one of the bags she’d had hidden in the wardrobe.

Her gloves she stuffed into her pocket and she took the letter she’d already written from beneath the mattress and smoothed it out.

Dear Mammy and Daddy

I’m sorry I’ve had to leave this way, but I could stand the life no longer. I’m going to England, where I’m going to lodge with Mary for a wee while. I will write to you again to let you know how I am doing and I hope you will not be too upset or angry with me.

Love Bridie

She smiled grimly to herself as she re-read the last line. Upset! Angry! She knew her mother would be furious, raging, and doubted she’d ever truly forgive her. But it was too late for regrets.

She laid the letter on the chest, secured it with a candlestick, and then crossed to the window. It opened with a creak and whine that sounded terribly loud in the quiet house and for a while she stopped and listened, her heart in her mouth.

There was no stirring though, other than the wind moaning as it buffeted the house and set the trees swaying and rustling. Bridie lifted the bags out of the window and then climbed out herself.

The raw and intense cold took her breath away and hurt her throat as she drew her breath in a gasp. The moon was full and hung like a golden globe in the clear night sky and the frost crackled underfoot on the cobbles as she made her way across them to the barn. She’d had the foresight to bring a slice of soda bread with her, which she shared between the two farm dogs, stilling the barks in their throat before they were able to rouse the house. She pulled the bike from the pile of sacks she had hidden it under, hung the bags on the handlebars and wheeled it up the lane to the main road.

There she stopped and looked down at the farmhouse. It looked so homely, so welcoming in the light of the moon. What if she could never go back? What if that door was closed to her for ever?

She pushed those thoughts away before she went scurrying back down the lane and into her bed. She mounted the bike and set off, glad of the warm clothes for the night was colder than she’d ever known it and the fields around were rimed in frost, which sparkled in the moonlight. She told herself to be stout-hearted. She was doing the only thing she could do and so she pedalled down the road towards Barnes More Halt and never looked back.

She was familiar with the route to the station at Barnes More and set off confidently alongside the river Lowerymore, the two dark mounds of Barnes Gap towering before her.

She was thankful to see that the rail tracks and the road ran side by side. The moonlight was helpful and it felt no distance to Derg Bridge Halt. It was as silent as the grave and Bridie rode past it quickly. The rail bus tracks then led over a single span bridge across the river known as the little red stream, or Sruthan Dearg, while Bridie took the road bridge further down, meeting again with the rail tracks as she began the route through Barnes Gap.

It seemed almost menacing to ride between those imposing craggy hills with the darkness thicker than ever. The wind channelling through the gap hit her at gale force and she had trouble controlling the bike. She rode on quickly, anxious to get away from the place, remembering suddenly the gruesome tales Uncle Francis used to tell her. And she didn’t want to think of her uncle either. If the man had never existed, she’d not be scurrying from her home at the dead of night, pregnant, frightened and alone.

The darkness was no less dense when Bridie was through the Gap and she looked for the moon, but it was obscured with clouds and few stars twinkled. She wished she’d thought to bring a torch or lantern, something to light her way. She also knew that she had to skirt the edge of Lough Mourne. It was a beautiful loch in daylight, but as she could see so little in the pitch black, she went on cautiously, afraid of going too close to the muddy banks and falling in.

The road and railway began to climb steeply up to Meerglas Halt built, people said, for the sake of Lord Lifford, the first chairman, who lived out that way. But before Bridie had gone halfway up, she was gasping for breath and her legs had begun to shake.

She could have taken an easier route lower down the hillside, but she’d have had to lose sight of the rail tracks then and, in such darkness, she was afraid that if she went too far away from the tracks, she’d never find them again.

She could ride no more so she got off the bike and pushed it up the road to the station, feeling the strain in the backs of her legs. The darkness was so intense, she felt she could reach out and touch it as she eventually mounted her bike again – the road didn’t climb again for some time so she was able to ride more easily.

Suddenly the wind picked up and icy spears of rain began to stab at her and she groaned because she’d brought nothing to cover herself with.

The road began to dip at last and Bridie was glad to ease her legs. She freewheeled down while keeping the tracks in view as much as possible as they ran between shrubs and trees. The clouds shifted slightly and for a brief moment the moon shone down through the driving rain and she caught a glimpse of the steel girder bridge over the River Mourne.

She was nearing Stranorlar, the next halt along.

She redoubled her efforts until the stone viaduct spanning the River Finn came into view and she knew she was almost there. The road led downwards and over another bridge into the town of Stranorlar, but she skirted the town, riding around the outside of it before picking up the tracks again.

Her legs were tired, aching and cold, the rain was lashing at her and she longed to stop, to ease them for a moment or two, but didn’t dare because she knew she had miles to travel yet. She forced herself on through the inky blackness, the sound of her wet wheels on the road covered by the noise of the buffeting, blustery wind, sending clusters of icy rain hammering against her.

She sighed as she passed Killygordon Station. As she left the bridge beyond it, she pulled in her bike, desperate to rest even if it were just for a moment or two. She could never remember feeling so cold or wet or miserable in her entire life. Her back ached, while the hands that gripped the handlebars were so cold, despite her gloves, now sodden with rain, that she wondered whether she’d ever be able to straighten them again. She was soaked through to the skin and had the greatest desire to put her head down and cry; in fact she did give in for a moment or two and laid her head on the handlebars.

She brought herself up sharply. She couldn’t give in now. She was doing the only thing possible and was already halfway there. But it took every ounce of resolve inside her to set off again, every nerve in her crying out in protest.

She knew Cavan Halt was only a few miles away for she’d studied the timetable in detail and resolutely set off again. She said the rosary as she rode, the litany and familiarity comforting her for these were the prayers she’d been taught some many years before when the world was a safe and wonderful place. She implored God and the Virgin Mary to help her complete this hazardous but necessary journey

Liscooley Village was after Cavan Halt, but as she reached it, the rails deviated from the road, turning right in towards the station, while the road continued straight ahead to the centre of the village. Bridie was too wary of being seen, and possibly challenged, to ride through the main street so instead used the back roads and came upon the tracks again, just before the level crossing at the other side of the station.

She dismounted and tiptoed past the gatekeeper’s cottage. It was doubtful if he would have heard the whoosh and swish of the wheels on the wet road, for the wind was hurling itself around the whitewashed dwelling and rattling the windows, while the rain was now coming down in sheets, but she could take no chances.

With a sigh, Bridie mounted her bike again, feeling low-spirited and unnerved by this long solitary ride in the rain and the cold as she toiled on towards Castlefin Station. Suddenly Bridie realised the rails had disappeared away to the right, through dense tree and bushes that she couldn’t follow.

She didn’t know what to do other than continue on the roads and hope to catch up with them again. She shivered in fear at the thought of being lost in the dark cold night.

Maybe, she thought, that would be for the best, if she was to just let herself fall from the bike and curl up in a ditch somewhere to die. By the morning she would be stiff and though her parents might wonder what she was doing way out here on a strange road on her own, no one would say a word about it once she was dead. She’d once again be the sainted daughter and they would mourn her for the rest of their lives.

The tracks suddenly met the road again and Bridie drove these gloomy thoughts from her mind, sighing with relief. Castlefin Station loomed up before her a short while later and she dismounted, pushing her bike around the outside of it. Castlefin was the custom’s post and she wasn’t sure if it had a stationmaster’s house or not.

Clady, the next station, wasn’t far away, and though Bridie was just as wet and miserable as ever, and every push of the pedals was an effort now, the thought that she was nearly at her journey’s end spurred her on. Added to that, the road was flat and the road and track ran side by side and so she didn’t feel it was very long before she reached the station. Clady was the frontier post between the Irish Free State and the British-ruled six counties and just after the station, Urney Bridge, crossed the River Finn into Tyrone. It was manned in the daytime, but fortunately not at night, so Bridie dismounted again and pushed her bike along the gravel beside the tracks, too weary to look for the road bridge.

When she reached Strabane Station, she could have wept with relief. It had been a harder, more gruelling ride that she had ever imagined and yet she had reached it and couldn’t help feeling exhilarated.

That was until she tried to dismount and was so stiff and cold that she cried out as she tried to straighten up. Her legs shook from the unusual exertion and shooting pains ran through her fingers right up to her shoulders and she groaned aloud. She stood for a moment, not sure her legs could carry her further. Eventually, she moved off cautiously, staggering slightly as she clambered onto the station platform and looked about for a shelter of some kind.

There was a waiting room open, not a terribly welcoming place and with just basic benches around the walls, but it was out of the bad weather at least and she sank down onto a bench with a sigh of relief.

She had no idea of the time, but she was deathly tired. A sudden yawn overtook her and she leaned back and closed her eyes. Her stomach growled with emptiness and she wondered where she could get something to eat. She’d stupidly not thought to bring anything and had given the soda bread to the dogs back on the farm to quieten them. Now she’d get nothing before the morning but was almost too tired to care. She couldn’t sleep deeply though. What if, after all the effort she’d gone to, she missed the train?

She kept nodding off, her head dropping forward rousing her and eventually, in absolute weariness, she unwound her wet scarf from her neck and, using that and her saturated hat as a pillow, lay down and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Tom Cassidy entered the station a few minutes before the rail bus pulled in from Donegal. He was glad he was leaving his home but felt as guilty as Hell at that relief.

He had stepped into the waiting room to shelter from the weather and noticed the little girl – for that’s all she looked – lying across the bench asleep. He wondered whether she was for the train to Derry like himself, or the rail bus back to Donegal, but whichever it was, if he didn’t wake her she wouldn’t catch either.

Bridie woke up bemused, cold and stiff and not sure where she was at first. She let out a cry of pain as she tried to straighten her legs that had gone into cramp while she’d slept.

‘Are you all right?’

‘My legs! I have cramp.’

Tom wanted to offer to rub them for her, but he could hardly do that. ‘If you try to stand, hold on to me and walk a little. It might ease,’ he said.

Even through her pain, Bridie thought Tom’s voice was one of the gentlest she’d ever heard and somehow trustworthy. She wished she could see his face properly, but the darkness had not lifted and although there were lights in the station, the waiting area was very dim.

But, as Tom had suggested, she struggled to her feet, holding tight to him, and he realised just how saturated her clothes were. He was about to comment on it when she suddenly cried, ‘I have no ticket. I have money, but I arrived too early to buy it.’

‘I’ll get your ticket,’ Tom offered, and Bridie rooted in her bag, unearthed the handkerchief, exposing some coins and a fair few notes as she unknotted it. ‘Where are you making for?’

‘Derry,’ Bridie told him.

‘Single or return?’

‘Oh, a single,’ she said. ‘I’m going on from there to Belfast and across on the ferry to England. I’m bound for Birmingham.’ Bridie was surprised she’d told a stranger this; she was usually more cautious. But she felt instinctively drawn to this man.

Tom’s face creased in anxiety. ‘Look, you are all right, aren’t you?’ he asked, alarmed. ‘You look very young and … well, you’re not running away or anything, are you?’

Bridie ignored the last question. Instead, she said, ‘I was eighteen last February, so I’m nearly nineteen. I’m going to my sister’s for a wee while and I’m wet because I cycled here and set out far too early because I wasn’t sure how long it would take me.’

‘Sorry,’ Tom said. ‘You just don’t look eighteen.’

‘You can’t see me any better than I can see you,’ Bridie complained. ‘You’re going on my size alone, but I’ve told you the truth.’

That seemed to satisfy Tom and he took her money and went out to the booking office just as the rail bus pulled into the station. Bridie emerged from the shelter cautiously, worried that there might be someone on board that rail bus who might recognise her. But few passengers travelled at that early hour in the depths of winter and she knew no one and so, more confidently, she followed Tom to the other platform where the train to Derry stood waiting.

Tom helped Bridie on to the train, stowing her bags on the seat beside her before saying, ‘Why don’t you take your coat off, it’s soaked through.’

‘It’s no good,’ Bridie said. ‘My things underneath are wet too. I’ve bought other things with me, but they’ll probably be just as bad. The bags are sodden.’

‘Even so,’ Tom said, unbuttoning his coat, ‘take it off and put this around you.’

Bridie did as Tom bade her and as he tucked his coat around her, he said, ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves?’ and he extended his hand. ‘I’m Tom, Tom Cassidy.’

Tom’s hand was nearly twice the size of Bridie’s. She’d thought of giving him a false name, but had rejected it. No harm in giving him her real name. It was a shame, but she doubted she’d ever set eyes on him again. ‘I’m Bridie McCarthy,’ she said and asked, ‘Where are you bound for, Mr Cassidy?’

‘Birmingham, the same as you,’ Tom said. ‘Now isn’t that a fine coincidence? We can travel together if you’d like that, and the name’s Tom. I’ve done this trip many a time. My parents have a farm that my sisters now look after. I was over because my father was ill. He had pneumonia and we thought it was the end. He had the last rites and all, you know. But he’s rallied now and on the mend, so I thought it all right to leave him.’

Bridie hardly heard Tom, because as he spoke he’d glanced at his watch and she’d caught sight of the time: a quarter to seven. Her absence would have been noted by now. In fact, while she slept on the bench at Strabane Station, her father would have struggled from his bed for the milking.

Sarah would be surprised her daughter wasn’t up. She would go into the room, maybe with a cup of tea to help rouse her, and she would see the bed not slept in and read the note. Oh God, how upset she would be. Angry yes, but first upset and confused, and her dear, kindly father too. She could hardly bear to think of what she’d done to them and she shut her eyes against the picture of them standing there, sadness and disappointment and shock seeping out of the very pores of their skin.

Tom knew he no longer had Bridie’s attention, but he also knew that it wasn’t mere inattentiveness or boredom with what he was saying that had distracted her, it was something much more. Maybe something he’d said or done had triggered a memory and a memory so painful that she’d shut her eyes against it. But before she’d done so, he’d seen the glint of tears there and the stricken look that had stripped every vestige of colour from her face.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and asked gently, ‘What is it?’

Bridie’s eyes jerked open at his words and, looking at him, she had the greatest desire to tell him everything, to weep for her own unhappiness and that she’d bestowed on her parents for it seemed too heavy a burden to bear alone.

But she controlled herself. How could she tell her tale to a stranger? And however kind Tom Cassidy was, he was still a stranger. She gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, and though Tom knew she was far from so, he felt he had no right to press her further.

He knew there was something badly wrong though. Surely no parents would let a girl set out on a filthy wet winter’s morning on her own? He didn’t know how far she’d come, but by the state of her clothes, it had been some distance. What sort of family had she to allow that? And she was troubled about something right enough.

She was obviously anxious to change the subject as she said, ‘I’m sorry, you were telling me about your family. What line of work do you do in Birmingham?’

‘I work in the Mission hall,’ Tom said. ‘The poverty there is extreme. We take food out to those living on the streets, soup kitchens and the like, and to the families we also take food and clothes – some of the children have little more than rags to cover them and they never seem to have enough to eat.’

‘I know,’ Bridie said. ‘I saw it myself when I was over before, though I was just a child of thirteen then. It must be terrible to be so hungry and cold.’ As she spoke she realised how long it had been since she’d eaten and her stomach growled in protest.

‘Are you hungry?’ Tom said, hearing the rumble of Bridie’s stomach. ‘My mother and sisters have packed me food enough for half a dozen. Please help me eat it?’

Now he knew for certain there was something wrong, for surely to God a person wouldn’t set off for such a journey without a bite with them. What manner of family did she come from at all? But again he felt unable to pry and instead began to open the various packages his mother and sisters had pressed on him.

Bridie watched Tom’s broad hands unwrap the food, while her mouth watered in anticipation, noting that his hands were unblemished and smooth and his fingernails clean and well shaped. Then her attention was taken by the food and her interest in the man fled at such a feast before her.

There were four hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham and others of cheese, and slices of thickly buttered soda bread, large pieces of barn brack and half a dozen scones. ‘I have milk too,’ Tom said, producing the bottle. ‘My mother insisted on lacing it with whisky “to keep the cold from my bones” she said.’

Bridie had never drunk laced milk before; she’d never tasted whisky at all. But she found it was very pleasant indeed and considered Tom’s mother a wise woman for thinking of it for it certainly warmed her up. The food also put new heart into her and made her more hopeful about the future, whatever it held.

When this was all over, she thought, maybe she could make it up to her mother and father for running away and certainly beg their forgiveness. Surely to God they wouldn’t hate her for ever?

‘I’m glad you have someone to lodge with,’ Tom said suddenly, breaking in on her thoughts. ‘Birmingham, like most cities, is a depressed place. The people back home seem to think you can peel the gold from the city’s streets.’

‘But how would they know how it is?’ Bridie said. ‘Many of our neighbours have travelled nowhere all the days of their life except into town on a Fair Day.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Tom agreed. ‘Still you have someone anyway. Where’s your sister meeting you?’

‘At New Street Station,’ Bridie said. ‘At least … I must send her a telegram to tell her the times of the trains.’

‘There’ll be plenty of time when we get to Liverpool for that, I should think,’ Tom said. ‘I lived there for some time, so I know my way about.’

‘Did you? Why did you leave?’

‘Oh, there were reasons,’ Tom said. That was his cue to tell Bridie all about himself, but he said nothing and instead changed the subject. Though Bridie chatted easily enough, she parried all his questions about her home or family, knowing it would never do for him to guess where she lived and how far she’d come. Instead, she asked Tom questions about himself and was particularly interested in anything he could tell her about Birmingham.

‘But you know it already, surely?’ Tom said. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were over before?’

‘Aye, but I was a child just,’ Bridie said, ‘and my sister was expecting so we didn’t stray far from the house. I went to the cinema a few times, though, to the Broadway near to where they live. That was truly amazing to me, and my cousin Rosalyn was green with envy when I described it. We went to a place called the Bull Ring a time or two as well, though never at night, although Mary said there was great entertainment to be had there on a Saturday. She used to get tired in the evenings, though, and she wasn’t up to long jaunts.’

‘Oh, you missed a treat all right,’ Tom said. ‘The Bull Ring is like a fairyland lit up with gas flares and the place to be on a Saturday evening, if you can shut your eyes to the poverty all around. You must make sure you pay a visit this time and see it for yourself.’

‘I will,’ Bridie promised.

‘There are cinemas too of course,’ Tom said, ‘like the Broadway picture house you mentioned, but I really like the music hall and that’s what I spend my spare money on.’

‘Music hall?’

‘Now there’s a treat if you like,’ Tom said. ‘The city centre is full of theatres and they put on variety shows and some do pantomimes. Have you ever seen a pantomime?’

Bridie shook her head.

‘I didn’t see one myself until I came to live in Birmingham,’ Tom said. ‘But they are very funny, well worth a visit. There was a moment’s pause and then Tom suddenly asked, ‘Do you dance, Bridie?’

‘Dance?’

‘Everywhere you go there are dances being held,’ Tom told her. ‘There are proper places of course, like Tony’s Ballroom and the Locarno, but they’re also held round and about the city centre in church halls and social clubs. There’s often a dance hall above picture houses and even on wooden boards laid across empty swimming baths.’

‘I can’t dance at all,’ Bridie said. ‘Not like that. I know Irish dancing, I mean I can do a jig or reel or hornpipe with the best of them, but I don’t know a thing about other types of dancing.’

‘Well, if you have a mind to learn, there are schools about ready to teach you,’ Tom told her. ‘And sometimes only for coppers.’

‘It sounds such an exciting place to live in, I saw less than half the place last time. I know nothing about these other things,’ Bridie exclaimed.

‘There’s grinding poverty here too,’ Tom reminded her. ‘Sometimes the bravery and stoicism of the average Brummie astounds me. Some families we help are so poor, so downtrodden, and yet they soldier on, their spark of humour still alive. Those lucky enough to be in work fare better, but the hours of work are often long and the jobs are heavy and I can’t blame them for seeking entertainment.’

‘You seem so settled in city life,’ Bridie said. ‘Don’t you miss Ireland?’

‘Not so much now,’ Tom said. ‘I did of course, but I’ve been away from it so long. I miss the peace of it sometimes, the tranquillity that you’d never find in a city, but I feel needed there like I never was on the farm.’

‘So you’d not ever go back to live there?’ Bridie asked.

Tom was a while answering. Eventually he said, ‘Ever is a long time, Bridie. Who knows what the future holds for any of us? But, for the moment at least, my place is there.’

And mine too, Bridie thought, but she didn’t share her thoughts with Tom. She didn’t know what the future held for her either and every time she thought of it, her stomach did a somersault.

Her silence went unnoticed, though, for the train was pulling into Derry and they began to collect their belongings together as they had to change to the normal gauge train for the short journey to Belfast and the ferries for England. Bridie tried to return Tom’s coat, but he refused to have it back and insisted she wrap it around herself, carrying her own sodden one over his arm.

It was on the train that Bridie saw Tom properly for the first time and, now that the light was better, she realised he was a very handsome man. His hair was very dark and a little curly and he had the kindest brown eyes ringed by really long lashes. His nose was slightly long and his mouth wide and turned up and it gave the impression he was constantly amused by something. The whole effect was one of gentleness, kindness, though his chin seemed determined enough.

And then, as if aware of her scrutiny, Tom smiled. It transformed his whole face and Bridie’s heart skipped a beat.

‘I’m glad we’re travelling together, aren’t you?’ Tom said.

Oh yes, Bridie was glad all right, but she thought it best not to say so and instead just smiled. She was not to know how expressive her eyes were, and that Tom was delighted she obviously liked his company, and they chatted together as if they’d known each other years as the train pounded its way towards Belfast.

‘I don’t remember being this sick last time I came,’ Bridie said, wiping her mouth.

‘Aye, but early December is not the ideal time to cross the Irish Sea,’ Tom said, and Bridie looked out at the churning grey water, at the huge rolling breakers crashing against the sides of the side in a froth of white suds.

But, Bridie thought, the extreme sickness might have been due partly to her pregnancy, for she’d been nauseous enough at times without the help of the turbulent sea, but that was a secret she could share with no one and so she kept quiet and tried to control her lurching stomach.

It was too cold and altogether too wet to stay on deck any longer than necessary, but inside the smell was appalling, although the ferry wasn’t so crowded. The place smelt of people and damp clothes and vomit from those who’d not made it outside in time. But prevailing it all was the stink of cigarette smoke that lay like a blue fog in the air and the smell of Guinness.

It gagged in Bridie’s throat as Tom upended his case for her to sit on. ‘Sit there,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you something.’

‘Brandy!’ she said a few moments later. ‘I’ve never tasted brandy.’

Tom sat on his other case beside Bridie and said, ‘Then you’ve not lived. Get it down you. It will settle your stomach.’

‘First laced milk, now brandy,’ Bridie said with a smile. ‘And at this hour of the morning. Dear God, this is terrible.’

‘Aye,’ said Tom, catching her mood. ‘Here’s the two of us turning into lushes. Now drink it down and you’ll feel better.’

‘Oh God!’ Bridie cried with a shiver and a grimace at the first taste of it. ‘It burns. It’s horrible!’

‘Think of it as medicine,’ Tom said, and Bridie held her nose, for even the smell made her feel ill, and swallowed the brandy in one gulp, which left her coughing till her eyes streamed. ‘Maybe the cure is worse than the disease,’ she said eventually, when she had breath to do so.

Tom watched Bridie with a smile on his face, but his thoughts were churning. He’d never much bothered with girls before. In truth, maybe never allowed himself to be attracted to any. He knew all about girls though, hadn’t he got three sisters? But this girl he’d just met was affecting him strangely. It wasn’t her beauty alone, though that was startling enough, especially her enormous brown eyes with just a hint of sadness or worry behind them and her creamy skin. It was much more. She was small and fragile-looking for a start and had such an air of vulnerability.

Tom couldn’t understand how she’d affected him so. Just looking at her, he’d felt a stirring in his loins that was so pleasurable, it was bound to be sinful and his heart thudded against his chest. He wanted to hold her close and protect her against anything that might possibly hurt her or upset her.

Bridie, with no inkling of Tom’s thoughts about her, suddenly yawned in utter weariness. She’d had little sleep except for the bit she’d snatched in Strabane. Her smarting eyes felt very heavy and she closed them for a while to rest them.

But she swayed on the case as sleep almost overcame her and she jerked herself awake again. ‘Are you tired?’ Tom asked, and at Bridie’s brief nod, he went on, ‘Lean against me if you want, I won’t let you fall.’

Bridie knew there was no way she should lean against some strange man, and though she liked Tom Cassidy, she had only known him a matter of hours. But she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing; they seemed to have a mind of their own and for all she tried to force them open, it was no good.

Her drooping head fell on to Tom’s chest and to prevent her falling off the case, he tentatively put his arms about her.

By the time the boat was ready to dock, Tom had an ache in his back from supporting his own weight and Bridie’s. Yet it hardly mattered compared to the pleasure he had from holding Bridie in his arms that he’d wrapped so lovingly around her.

But, when Bridie awoke, she was overcome with humiliation for allowing herself to fall asleep leaning against a man in that compromising way. She remembered the last time she’d been held by a man – it had been her uncle Francis’s arms around her and she stiffened at the memory of it.

Tom sensed her withdrawal, but he put it down to embarrassment and decided to make no comment about it.

Bridie realised when they docked in Liverpool and Tom helped her find a post office to send the telegram from before the train left that she’d never have managed without him beside her. ‘I was lucky to have met you at Strabane,’ Bridie said to him as they settled in the carriage. ‘I’d have missed this train and would have had to have waited for the next one.’

‘You’d probably have had a long wait,’ Tom said. ‘The trains are here to meet the ferries and there won’t be one now for hours.’

‘And you, the seasoned traveller, would know all about it,’ Bridie said with a smile. ‘Why did you go home so often? Were you very homesick?’

‘In a way,’ Tom said. While Bridie had slept on the boat he’d decided to himself that he would tell her what he’d been doing in Liverpool. It was not a fact he readily advertised, because he found people often treated him differently, but if he wished to see Bridie again, he felt she ought to know. ‘I was a child just when I left the first time,’ he said. ‘I was in a seminary in Liverpool, training to be a priest.’

‘A priest!’ Bridie jumped away from Tom as if she’d been shot. The thought paramount in her head was to thank God she’d not poured out her sordid story to him as she’d longed to on the train. She’d have hated to see his lips curl in disgust and the scorn in his eyes had she given in to such a weakness. But if he was a priest, why had he held her that way in the boat? ‘So you’re a priest then?’ she said.

‘No, no, I’ve never been ordained,’ Tom said. ‘I was to be, but I began to have doubts. The Bishop sent me to Birmingham to work in the Mission with a Father Flynn, a good friend of his. He expects me to work off any reservations I have and go back for ordination.’

‘And will you?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not cut out to be a priest, I know that now. My vocation was one planted and fuelled by the visiting missionaries. Once I’d actually given voice to this possible vocation, which was probably little more than a childish fancy, things were taken out of my hands. My mother had me up before the priest faster than the speed of light. He was delighted, feather in his cap, and he informed the Bishop.

‘Events went so fast after that that I had no time to think. The priest told my mother she’d given up her only son to God, the ultimate sacrifice and one she’d be rewarded for in Heaven, and I was whisked away to a seminary in Liverpool.’

Bridie nodded, for she knew how it was. Catholic mothers were often told by the priests that their first son should belong to God. Mothers would often offer prayers and novenas that their eldest son, or failing that one of his male siblings, might have the vocation to become a priest.

Fathers usually didn’t have the same yearning at all. They looked to their sons to take over the farm or family business, to give them a hand and ease their load. But even they found that if a child admitted to having a vocation to enter the priesthood, their standing in the community was raised. They would be set apart, a holy and devout family, and people would be behave differently, more respectfully before them.

She knew too that to decide to leave the seminary, to decide the priesthood was not the line a boy wanted to follow, was worse than not going in the first place. It would be disgrace on the family and so she enquired gently, ‘Do your parents know about your doubts?’

‘Yes … Well, I didn’t tell them straightaway that I’d decided to leave, but I dropped broad hints. In the end I had to come out with it though; I thought it wasn’t fair for them to harbour false hopes.’

‘And?’ goaded Bridie.

‘They refuse to accept it,’ Tom told her. ‘My mother says she will have to hang her head in shame. She’ll not be able to face the neighbours. Of course she was allowed to run up tick in the shop and my father a big bill in the pub on the strength of my becoming a priest.’

‘I tried to explain it to them. I tried to say it had not ever been a true vocation, but an idea fostered by the parish priest and the Brothers that taught at the school and magnified by the visiting missionaries, until it was easier to go along with it than not. And then of course I was just a boy. Obedience had been drummed into me. I couldn’t defy a priest, a teaching Brother or a missionary Father.’

Bridie knew he could not, but she could also imagine Tom’s parents’ reaction, though she felt sorry for him and thought he was doing the right thing. ‘I’m glad you’re not going to be a priest if you feel that way.’

Tom smiled wryly. ‘You’re the only one then,’ he said. ‘I’m not flavour of the month at home. And then, after all the talk and explanation, my mother said to me this morning, “Don’t let’s be having any more of that sort of talk, so. Go on back now and do your duty, for it will break my heart now if you give it up.” How d’you counter that?

‘She can’t see that my work with the Mission is as worthwhile as that of a priest. The people I work with are the unsung heroes in our society, not those dashing off to save the souls of the heathens in Africa, but those who toil tirelessly and usually for little or no reward to alleviate suffering and abject poverty in their own towns and cities. I respect them so much.’

Bridie heard the fervour in Tom’s voice and the light of enthusiasm and purpose in his eyes and had great admiration for him. She knew it was not a weakness to admit he’d made a mistake, but a strength.

She’d love to see him again, but she could not. He was the first man she’d ever felt so drawn to and she sensed he would be kind and considerate, at least up to a point. She was sure that point would be reached if he had an inkling of what she was carrying, the trouble she was in. Dear God! She had a feeling she wouldn’t see him for dust. Not that she would ever put it to the test. Anyway, she told herself firmly, what right had she allowing herself to be drawn to any man when she had this massive problem to overcome.

She knew he liked her; she wasn’t stupid. Despite that, she decided after she left Tom at the station, she’d make absolutely sure she’d never see him again and she was surprised at the sharp stab of regret she felt at making that decision.

CHAPTER SIX

Mary was glad to see her young sister arrive safe and sound and thanked Tom Cassidy, whom Bridie introduced her to, for looking after her so well. She could tell that the man more than liked her young sister but that Bridie was giving him no encouragement. Quite right too, Mary thought. After all, she knew nothing about the man and if Bridie was in the condition that Mary suspected she was, a man was the last thing she needed.

Bridie, for all that she knew she couldn’t see Tom again, was sorry to see him go and even sorrier when she realised that she’d hurt him. ‘I thought you liked me?’ Tom had said plaintively when he’d tried and failed to get Bridie to agree to meet him again.

‘I did … I do.’

‘But not enough to see me again?’

‘Oh Tom, I hardly know you.’

‘Well, isn’t that the point? You’ll get to know me. We’ll get to know each other.’

‘No, Tom.’

‘But why?’

‘I just … it’s just … I’m not ready for anything like that.’

‘It can be on your terms,’ Tom had pleaded. ‘We can meet just as friends if you want to?’

Oh, how Bridie had longed to say she’d love to get to know him better, to have a courtship like any girl her age would want. But she knew she couldn’t. So regretfully, she’d shaken her head. ‘Birmingham is new to me. I need to be on my own – to be free. I’m sorry, Tom, but that’s how it is.’

‘Is that your last word?’

‘It is.’

‘Then,’ Tom had said, ‘I suppose I must accept it.’

And he did accept it, though she could feel still his hurt and confusion. She’d introduced him to Mary and he’d been as polite as good manners dictated, but he couldn’t hide his unhappiness. Mary, however, had no time to worry over it. She wanted to get Bridie home as soon as possible, to get to the root of the problem, and Bridie was not averse to this either. With a bass bag in each hand, they gave a last wave to Tom before making their way to the tram stop outside the station.

The short winter day had ended and night had fallen again, bringing with it sleety rain. Bridie gave a sigh. ‘It rained nearly all the way to Strabane,’ she said. ‘Everything I wore and carried is probably ruined – my coat is still damp, even though I wore that Tom Cassidy’s coat for most of the journey and we tried to spread mine out as much as we could to dry it out on the train.’

Mary stared at her. ‘Strabane!’ she repeated. ‘How the Hell did you get to Strabane?’

‘I cycled.’

‘Cycled? All the way to Strabane?’

‘Mary, I had to go so far,’ Bridie said. ‘What was the good of me sneaking away in the dead of night and then being recognised at the first station?’

‘But still, Bridie, it was one Hell of a jaunt. God! It must be twenty miles – more even.’

‘I know,’ Bridie said ruefully. ‘My bottom can testify to it. In fact my whole body can. I’ve never ached so much nor been so cold or miserable in all my life. And I used your bike, Mary, and I had to leave it at Strabane. I’m sorry, I could see no way of getting it back to the farm.’

‘Well, it’s hardly needed there now,’ Mary said. ‘I can’t see Mammy and Daddy going out for a spin on it. Mind you, I’m surprised it wasn’t rusted away to nothing, it was second-hand when I got it.’

‘It was a bit,’ Bridie said. ‘I rubbed a lot off and pumped up the tyres, but I had to do it when I had a minute and no one else was about.’

‘How did you know the way?’

‘I didn’t,’ Bridie admitted. ‘I hadn’t a clue, I followed the rail bus tracks.’

‘God, Bridie, that was clever,’ Mary said admiringly. ‘And brave. Coming all that way by yourself in the dead of night.’

‘I wasn’t brave,’ Bridie said. ‘I was scared stiff a lot of the time, but I was also desperate.’

Her voice sounded forlorn and Mary felt so much pity for her her heart ached. She knew, however, if she showed sympathy openly, Bridie would probably cry. And so she said, ‘Never mind, pet, we’ll soon be home.’

‘Where are the weans?’ Bridie asked as they settled themselves on the tram.

‘Ellen was minding them till Eddie got home,’ Mary said. ‘I don’t take them out in weather like this unless I have to. Mind you,’ she said, ‘Eddie will probably be home now and spoiling them to death. He’s that soft with them, but then,’ she added, ‘I’d rather have him that way than the other way and the weans adore him.’

Bridie was pleased for Mary, even though she felt a stab of envy. It was obvious she still loved Eddie and that they were happy together. She couldn’t imagine anything so wonderful happening to her, not now.

‘I’ve left a stew ready to heat up,’ Mary went on. ‘You need something to stick to your ribs in this weather.’

Bridie was pleased at the mention of food. The breakfast she’d shared with Tom had done her little good as she’d deposited most of it in the Irish Sea and after her sleep on the ferry she’d woken up very hungry. At Crewe, where they’d had to change trains, Tom had bought them both tea and sandwiches, but that had been a while ago and her stomach was complaining again.

Once in the house, Bridie found it just as Mary said. Eddie was cavorting on the floor with his two wee sons and they were squealing with delight. ‘Will you get up out of that, Eddie,’ Mary said, though Bridie saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘God knows, I don’t know who has the least sense.’

Eddie got to his feet and grinned at her. ‘We’re only having a bit of a game,’ he said. ‘And I laid the table first and lit the gas under the stew. I knew you’d be back soon.’ Then he looked past his wife to Bridie and smiled at her. ‘Hello, Bridie,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Thanks, Eddie.’

Mickey hid behind his father, but Jamie remembered the young aunt who’d played with him in Ireland. ‘I’ve been to your house, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Are you coming to stay in ours now?’

‘For a wee while only. Do you mind?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘Mammy said you’re to go in the attic with me and Mickey,’ he said, and he looked disparaging at his little brother before continuing, ‘He’s just a baby. He’s scared of you.’

‘Not scared, just a wee bit nervous,’ Bridie said. ‘You were probably the same at his age.’

‘I was not!’

‘Jamie, stop plaguing the life out of your aunt Bridie and sit up to the table this minute,’ Mary said from the cooker, and Bridie felt saliva in her mouth at the thought of food.

Later, with the children in bed and Eddie despatched to the pub, Mary handed Bridie a cup of tea and sat down opposite her near to the hearth. ‘Well?’

And because there was no point in beating about the bush, Bridie said, ‘I’m pregnant.’

It was what Mary had guessed from the cryptic letter Bridie sent, but she’d hoped and prayed she was wrong. It was the very worst news any unmarried girl could deliver and with a groan Mary replied, ‘Oh God.’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Bridie protested.

‘It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference whose fault it was,’ Mary said. ‘You know who’ll take the blame for it.’

Bridie knew only too well. ‘Why d’you think I ran away?’ she said.

‘Well,’ Mary demanded again as Bridie continued staring into the fire and made no effort to speak further.

‘What d’you mean – well?’

‘You know damned well what I mean,’ Mary said impatiently. ‘Who was responsible for putting you in this condition?’

‘I’m surprised you even have to ask,’ Bridie said in a flat, dead voice. ‘You know I didn’t exactly have the life of Riley on that farm. I didn’t have great occasion to meet men, let alone let them … well, you know.’

‘Then who?’ But even as Mary asked the question, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and an icy tremor run down her spine. A terrible, dreadful thought had just occurred to her, but she could hardly form the words. ‘It wasn’t … Oh dear God, please say it wasn’t Francis?’

Bridie looked at her, her eyes glistening with tears, her face full of misery and despair as she answered, ‘I’d like to be able to, but I’m afraid it was – my dear, sainted uncle did this to me.’

Although it was the news Mary had been expecting for Bridie to actually say those words shocked her to the core. ‘Dear Christ!’ she breathed. She covered her face with her hands for a moment and then she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me it had all started again? By Christ, if you’d just given me a hint of it I’d have come over there and wiped the floor with the man.’

‘It wasn’t like that, ‘Bridie protested. ‘Don’t you think if it had begun again, I would have done just that? He’d done nothing, or even said anything the slightly bit wrong for ages. This came out of the blue, the night of the Harvest Dance.’

Mary was puzzled. ‘But Mammy said you went up to the dance with Rosalyn.’ she said.

‘Yes, and Frank was to leave us up, but in the end, he was ill and couldn’t do it, so Francis took us.’

‘Mammy said that in her letter,’ Mary said with a nod. ‘I must admit I was surprised when you barely mentioned the dance in your letter, I thought you’d be full of it.’

‘I left early,’ Bridie said. ‘I’d just heard about Rosalyn leaving for America and I was upset so I went outside so no one would see me crying. I decided to go for a walk before making for home – the dance was still going on and I didn’t want to go home too early.

‘Uncle Francis followed me into that small copse by the hall and he raped me.’ Bridie’s eyes filled with the tears at the memory. ‘After that, I didn’t want to tell anyone of the Harvest Dance, I wanted to forget what happened. Then I missed a period. Mammy noticed, but put it down to my being upset at Rosalyn leaving. After I missed my second period, I started being sick and Mammy was talking of asking the doctor to look me over.’

‘Does she suspect?’

‘Oh no,’ Bridie said. ‘Such a thought would never occur to her. She thinks I’m working too hard and need a tonic. That’s what I’ve let her believe too in the letter I left.’

‘Well, that’s one good thing at any rate,’ Mary said. ‘Now what are we to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Bridie said. ‘I thought you’d have some idea.’

‘What, Bridie?’ Mary snapped. ‘D’you think I’m some sort of bloody magician?’

Bridie felt crushed. Her one overriding thought when she realised she was pregnant was of getting to Mary. She’d thought no further than that. Now she realised, with a sense of shock, that the problem still existed: she’d just moved it from Ireland to England. Mary couldn’t work miracles, she had no magic solution, and she was as worried and pain stricken as Bridie.

‘Oh God, Mary, help me,’ Bridie pleaded. ‘There is no one else and to nowhere else I can turn. What am I to do?’

Mary’s heart constricted in pity for her young sister. She’d always had the solutions to Bridie’s problems. Even when Bridie had written about Francis interfering with her, she’d gone over to Ireland and sorted it out. But there was no easy way out of this problem, no get-out clause, and it would do Bridie no good to let her think there was.

There was only one thing to do, though her mind recoiled from even voicing the thought and when she did, she said it in little more than a whisper. ‘Bridie, have you considered the possibility of getting rid of it?’

‘Get rid of it!’ Bridie repeated in shock. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

‘’Course it is,’ Mary said. ‘But I know people who’ve had it done. It can be dangerous though, not something to do unless you understand all the risks involved.’

‘It’s a mortal sin,’ Bridie said quietly.

‘Aye, there’s that to think about too,’ Mary agreed. ‘We’ll discuss all the options and then decide. All right?’

Bridie nodded her head and Mary said, ‘We must make our minds up quickly though. If you decide on abortion, we can’t delay. The later you go, the more dangerous it will be.’

‘How dangerous is it? What do they do?’ Bridie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Mary admitted. ‘I’ve never been near such a place to know what they do, but I’ve known desperate women who have and, God, you’d have to be desperate to do such a thing. I just know it’s usually better to go to someone you know has done it before successfully.’

‘Well, God knows I don’t want to go through with it at all.’

‘Aye, I know,’ Mary said. ‘I’d feel the same.’

‘But I feel nothing at all for the child,’ Bridie said, almost fiercely. ‘I want nothing and no one belonging to Uncle Francis. That bloody man’s near destroyed my life and that of our parents. I hate him and I’ll go to my grave hating him and I know I’d hate the fruit of his loins too.’

‘Don’t cry, Bridie,’ Mary said, dropping to her knees and cradling Bridie to her. ‘I know how you feel about him and no one could ever blame you.’

‘Everyone would blame me, Mary, that’s the point,’ Bridie said, pulling herself from her sister’s arms. ‘But abortion is against the law.’

‘I know that.’

‘What if it was found out and I was put in prison, Mary? I’d never be able to bear that.’

Mary’s own stomach lurched at that thought.

‘And there’s the sin of it all,’ Bridie said forlornly. ‘There’s nothing I can do to atone for this if I go through with it but if I don’t …’

‘If you don’t, you’d be an object of derision and scorn to everyone and with the best will in the world I couldn’t let you stay here.’

Bridie stared at her sister, horrified. ‘Don’t look like that,’ Mary pleaded. ‘Don’t you see what would happen as soon as your condition was discovered? Ellen would have to be in the know and you never know how she would react to news like that, especially not being able to have children herself.’

‘But it isn’t just Ellen I’d worry about,’ Mary went on. ‘There are people around the doors from all over Ireland – Donegal even. There’s a woman known as Peggy McKenna not far from here at all. You’d hardly remember her from home, but she was the eldest of five girls – Maguire was her name then – so you may remember her sisters. Her people lived near Barnes Gap – they’d all have been at Barnes More School with you.’

Bridie cast her mind back. ‘There were Maguire girls I remember,’ she said. ‘They were all older than me and Rosalyn, not particularly friends or anything.’

‘Aye, well, it would do you no good being friends with this Maguire or McKenna either, for she’s a gossip and a troublemaker, a malicious old cow altogether. She’d love just to have a hint of something amiss. Oh, I tell you, Bridie, she’d make hay out of it, so she would.’

Mary saw the blood drain from Bridie’s face at her words. ‘Don’t worry about her,’ she told her sister. ‘We’ll have thought of something long before it becomes obvious. Peggy McKenna and her like will know nothing about any of this.’

Bridie knew, however, that it wasn’t just Peggy McKenna she had to worry about. If she decided to have this baby here, somehow or other, her parents would get to hear of it. Ellen or Mary might easily let something slip in their letters home to make her mammy suspicious, or indeed the priest might say that Mammy had a right to know and take it upon himself to tell her. Bridie had seen coming to Birmingham as a partial solution to her problems, a safe haven where no one would know her. Now she saw quite plainly that it wasn’t far enough away. She felt very frightened and alone as she looked at her sister, her eyes misted over again with tears. ‘But where could I go, Mary, if not here?’

‘Well, that’s it, love,’ Mary said. ‘There are few places. There are these bloody awful homes run by the nuns where you can hide away till the baby’s born and they take it from you and give it up for adoption. From what I heard from a girl who went in one of them, it was like a prison camp. They made them work hard, even while they were in labour, and were constantly reminding them of the sin they had committed and urging them to get on their knees and beg forgiveness.’

‘Oh God,’ Bridie said. ‘Is that what I must do to save my immortal soul?’

‘Bridie, love, it’s just deciding what’s best,’ Mary said. ‘Now, if you don’t like the idea of abortion, then the home might be the only alternative.’

‘It’s not just that I don’t like the idea of abortion,’ Bridie said. ‘I’m scared, and if I was to die, Mary, I’d go to Hell.’

Mary knew that too: the Church’s teaching ingrained into them both was clear. Abortion was murder and the murder of an innocent child … God! It was a desperate thought altogether. Both women were silent for quite a while, each busy with their own thoughts while the fire settled in the grate and the gas lamps hissed. Eventually, Bridie asked, ‘Does Eddie know?’

‘Yes, Bridie,’ Mary said. ‘Or at least he knows what I suspected from your letter.’

‘Aunt Ellen?’

Mary shook her head. ‘If she knew the half of this, she’d take the first boat home and punch Francis on the jaw,’ she said angrily. ‘And while we might all want to do that, it wouldn’t help at all.’

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