The Bright One

About the Book

Molly O'Connor's life was not an easy one. With six children and a husband who earned what he could as a casual farmhand, fisherman, or drover, it was a constant struggle to keep her family fed and raised to be respectable. Of all her children, Breda - the Bright One - was closest to her heart. As, one by one, her other children left Kilbally, Kathleen and Kieran to the Church, Moira to marriage, the twins to war, so Breda, the youngest, was the one who stayed close to her parents. Breda never wanted to leave the West of Ireland. She thought Kilbally was the most beautiful place in the world.

Then tragedy struck the O'Connors and the structure of their family life was irrevocably changed. Reeling from unhappiness and humiliation, Breda decided to make a new life for herself - in Yorkshire with her Aunt Josie's family. There she was to discover a totally different world from the one she had left behind, with new people and new challenges for the future.

About the Author

Elvi Rhodes was the eldest of five children brought up in the West Riding of Yorkshire in the depression between the wars. She won a scholarship to Bradford Grammar School and left to become the breadwinner of her family. A widow with two sons, she lives in Sussex. Her other novels include
Opal, Doctor Rose, Ruth Appleby, The Golden Girls, Madeleine, The House of Bonneau, Cara's Land
and
The Rainbow Through the Rain
. A collection of stories,
Summer Promise and other stories
, is also published by Corgi Books.

This ebook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Epub ISBN: 9781446463789

Version 1.0

  

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd

Bantam Press edition published 1994

Corgi edition published 1995

Corgi edition reprinted 1999

Copyright © Elvi Rhodes 1994

The right of Elvi Rhodes to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd,

61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

in Australia by Transworld Publishers (Australia) Pty Ltd,

15–25 Helles Avenue, Moorebank, NSW 2170,

and in New Zealand by Transworld Publishers (NZ) Ltd,

3 William Pickering Drive, Albany, Auckland.

This book is for Mollie Prior
,

Contents

Many people, both in Ireland and in this country, gave me help in researching
The Bright One
.

I wish particularly to thank Veronica Steele, who answered scores of questions and also accompanied me to the scenes of her childhood in the West of Ireland.

I also wish to thank Veronica's mother, Mrs Mary Corbett, who looked back for me over a lifetime of more than ninety years, and Mary's son, Paddy Corbett, who shared his reminiscences and sang and recorded songs for me.

I also wish to include other kind friends in County Clare who gave us such warm hospitality.

Once again, I thank my son, Anthony Rhodes, who accompanied me on my research trips. With the utmost patience he took me wherever I wanted to go, and joined in in all my research.

She sat on the grass at the top of the cliffs; damp grass, because the rain came and went, came and went, day in, day out, seldom more than a day or two without at least a shower, usually heavy, which was why the grass was of a green which dazzled the eye with its brilliance. In spite of the wind which always blew around the cliff top, the grass never had time to dry out. In any case, the wind was laden with spray from the sea which, at high water, swirled around the base of the cliff, pounding against the rock with vicious intensity, as if determined to smash it.

The sea was roaring in now, great waves as high as walls, which broke on the strand in wide bands of white foam, frothy as whipped-up egg-white. Close into the shore the sea was slate grey, but only a little further out it was the deep, dark colour of blue-black ink, the surface broken, because the wind was fresh, by galloping white horses, ridden by adventurous seabirds.

The sea stretched away in the distance until the sky came down and met it, until you could hardly tell one from the other. It looked like the edge of the world, and Breda had once thought it was; but now she knew differently. The world did not end there because the sea was the Atlantic Ocean, and it went on for thousands of miles. Her Dada had said so and she could not but believe him, though today he had her so annoyed that she would have preferred not to believe a word he said. However, Miss McCleary had also said the same thing. She had pointed it out on the map of the world, which covered a fair-sized area of the classroom wall. Miss McCleary was never wrong.

The waves which left Ireland, Dada had said, finally broke on the shores of America. In which case, Breda had replied, America must be a very wet place, with all that water.

‘'Tis not so at all,' Dada had said. ‘It all comes back again to Ireland.' When she'd asked how this could work he'd changed the subject.

‘You are too full of questions,' he'd complained.

America was where her Uncle Fergal and Aunt Cassie lived with her cousins. They had gone over the water more than ten years ago so that, in fact, Breda had never set eyes on them, but there was more than one proof that they existed.

For a start, there was the photograph of her uncle and aunt, with the four children they had had in Kilbally, on the sideboard, flanked by likenesses of the three who had been born to them in America, and a more recent one of Uncle Fergal taken when he had been promoted to sergeant in the New York City Police Force.

There were photographs in almost every home in Kilbally of relatives who had crossed the water to America or to England. ‘And not only in Kilbally,' Mammy said. ‘'Tis the same all over Ireland. You can tell how long they have been gone by how much the photograph has faded. Many are those who have died in a foreign land, God rest their souls!'

Another proof of the existence of Breda's relatives in America was the parcels of clothing which arrived twice a year, as regular as clockwork; hand-me-downs from Breda's cousins, one of whom was only a year older than she was. Lovely clothes they were; so smart, so stylish. Last winter a warm coat, its collar trimmed with glossy, dark fur; for this summer crisp cotton dresses in floral patterns, with fancy touches – braiding and piping, tucks and pleats – which made them stand out a mile from the serviceable, everyday clothes of her friends. All they needed was to be shortened but this Mammy refused to do. ‘You'll grow into them soon enough,' she said.

'Twas a pity. 'Twas a pity also that her mother made her wear a pinafore over the dresses. Without it she might have been the best-dressed girl in Kilbally. She would have liked that.

She was wearing one of the dresses at this moment – a blue and white checked gingham with a full, gathered skirt and a white collar embroidered in blue cross-stitch – though she should have been doing no such thing since it was school holidays and for that Mammy said any old clothes were good enough. The best ones, the latest arrivals, were kept for Mass on Sundays, and the second-best for term time, though even then she had to change out of them the minute she was home from school.

‘If you want to look smart when it matters,' Mammy said, ‘– and don't we all know you're as vain as a peacock, the way you prink and preen in front of the glass – then you'll learn to look after your things. 'Tis the way you will always be having some fit to wear.'

'Twas not easy to prink and preen, Breda thought. The only looking-glass in the house was one foot square, and though it stood on the dresser in the living kitchen for the benefit of all, Breda was not tall enough to use it without standing on a stool. Even then she could only see bits of herself, never the whole picture.

Earlier in the summer she had been invited to tea at Deirdre O'Farrell's house and there, in Mrs O'Farrell's bedroom, was an oak wardrobe with a full-length mirror in the door. Breda had gazed upon herself in her full glory, a sight so far only seen by others, frowning critically at her curly red hair, which was common in these parts. She would have preferred it to be black, and dead straight, like Mammy's. She was not displeased with her blue-green eyes, which Dada said were like the sea on a good day.

Seeing the whole picture she realized that she was not as tall as she liked to think herself. Deirdre, standing beside her, was a good two inches taller, though the same age. Also, Deirdre had black hair and a beautiful name, and was that rare thing, an only child. Nor were the O'Farrells, who ran a small farm, as poor as everyone else, else why would they have a wardrobe like this? Deirdre was so lucky!

And my legs are too thin, Breda thought. But still and all she was not totally dissatisfied. Wasn't there a certain something? She struck a pose, head tilted, right arm raised in a graceful curve, toe pointing forward like a dancer.

‘Would you come away from that mirror now,' Deirdre said. ‘Else it's the Devil himself will jump out and get you!'

But now she was sitting on the top of the cliff, her arms clasped around her knees, her head shrunk into her shoulders, and if she could have seen her eyes they would have shown dark with anger and frustration. She hated her father, and with good cause. Had he not promised that the next time he went to the races she should go with him? And this was the day.

Last night, before going to bed, she had washed herself from top to toe so as not to have to spend time this morning, and as soon as she had wakened, though it was annoyingly later than she had planned, she had put on the gingham frock, clean white socks and her best shoes with double straps across the instep, outgrown by her American cousin, and hurried downstairs.