The Bright One (23 page)

She followed him to the living room.

‘So, I have decided I do want a housekeeper,' he said at once. ‘And to come straight to the point, I think you would fill the bill.'

Relief surged through her.

‘The only thing is,' he went on before Molly could speak, ‘Mrs Hanratty has been to see me. Did you know that Mrs Adare was leaving?'

‘Indeed I did,' Molly confessed.

‘So you see, Mrs Hanratty is also looking for a job, and as we both know she is very experienced. She has been housekeeper to the Adares for years.'

‘'Tis true,' Molly agreed. ‘But I had thought she meant to retire, go to live with her son in Derry.'

‘She did not mention that to me,' Luke said. ‘So you see, I have to make a choice.'

There was not the slightest doubt in his mind where his choice lay. Who would pass over a woman like Molly O'Connor in favour of Mrs Hanratty, experience or no experience? But he had another card to play. ‘The difference is,' he said, ‘that Mrs Hanratty is agreeable to being a resident housekeeper, indeed she would prefer it. And there is no denying it would be much better for me.'

‘But I would look after you just as well, coming by the day,' Molly insisted. ‘You would not be neglected.'

‘It would not be quite the same.'

‘I have Breda to think of,' Molly said.

‘And as I told you, Breda would be very welcome here. We are not short of space; you would each have your own room. You would have your own leisure time, when you could come and go as you wished. You would be comfortably housed,
and
paid a wage.'

‘How much would that be?' Molly asked.

He named a sum which, though not extravagant, was reasonable. She had always thought him to be a fair man, and so he was.

‘In addition you would be fed,' he said. ‘Both of you, well fed.'

‘I must think it over,' Molly said. ‘I must consult Breda.'

‘Then let me know tomorrow,' Luke said. ‘Mrs Hanratty is anxious for an answer. I don't want to keep her waiting.'

When she left, Luke showed her out of the house door, so it was evening before she saw Breda – not that she could have tackled her in the shop.

‘I had the feeling you wanted to tell me something on my way in,' Molly said.

‘I did so. 'Twas that Mrs Hanratty had been. But perhaps it made no difference.'

For herself, she would prefer Mrs Hanratty to be given the post, but she felt obliged to think also of her mother.

‘It made all the difference in the world,' Molly said.

She told Breda of Luke's ultimatum, for ultimatum it was, there was no doubt of it.

‘Oh, Mammy,' Breda cried. ‘I don't want to go! I don't want to live with Luke O'Reilly!'

‘I'm not sure that I want to go,' Molly said. She felt in a turmoil. ‘But we would not be living with him, only living in his house.'

‘I don't see the difference, Mammy!'

‘There is a big difference.' She was not thinking of the property now. If Mrs Hanratty, a woman on her own, considered it proper, then it must certainly be so for a woman who would be accompanied by her daughter. ‘The difference is that we would always be free to leave. If a better chance came, we would be free to take it.'

For the life of her she could not think what that other chance might be, but there was always the hope.

‘How can we leave this house?' Breda pressed her. ‘Oh, Mammy, how can we?'

But this house will never be the same to me, without James, Molly thought. Every inch of it spoke of him, was a constant reminder, yet without him in it, it was, and never would be again, any more than four walls and a roof; an empty shell, though how could she expect Breda to feel that?

‘Shouldn't you ask Kieran, or Kathleen, for advice?' Breda said. She was clutching at straws.

‘Even if there were time,' Molly replied, ‘which there isn't, what advice could either of them give me? I know the situation, they don't.'

‘But to leave here would be like leaving Dada!' Breda cried. ‘How can we leave Dada?'

She slumped into the nearest chair and burst into noisy tears. Molly drew her to her feet and took her in her arms.

‘I know, sweetheart! I know! But Dada is not here, not any longer. He has left us, but can we not take him with us wherever we go?'

She could not tell Breda about the moments of fierce and inexplicable anger which welled up inside her at the thought of James's death; anger against James, as if he was somehow to blame for leaving her, though she knew he was not. Anger against God for allowing it. Breda would not understand that. She could not understand it herself.

She stroked Breda's hair, took out a handkerchief and dried her eyes, as if she was a small child.

‘We should both go to bed,' she said gently. ‘Sleep on it. Pray that we'll both feel better in the morning.'

When she wakened next morning she did not feel better, but she knew what she must do.

‘I shall take the job,' she said to Breda. ‘I
must
! I'm sure it's for the best and I'm sure it will work out. And we'll be together.'

Breda sat at the dressing-table in her bedroom. She had never before had a dressing-table. This one was, in fact, no more than a wooden top, coloured with a walnut stain, with shelves fixed to the wall underneath; but from around the top ran a valance, gathered full, in a pretty flowered cretonne. It hung to the floor, completely hiding the shelves and all the bits and pieces with which she had filled them. The mats on top, one large oval, two small round ones, were of the same material as the valance, but edged with lace which her mother had come across in one of Mary O'Reilly's workboxes, and Luke had said she might have.

‘Take anything of that nature,' he had said. ‘Sure, what would I be wanting with it?'

‘You are very generous,' Molly had replied.

That much was true, Breda conceded, studying her appearance now in the large oval mirror on the wall over the dressing-table, confirming that the shorter haircut her mother had given her looked really quite stylish and that what she had thought might turn out to be a nasty spot on her chin had not, after all, come to fruition. Also, at seventeen, she had left behind her brief period of puppy fat and, in spite of demolishing all the good food her mother put before her, was once again as slim as a wand.

Parts of her bedroom were also reflected in the mirror: the pale blue distemper of the walls; the curtains at the window, which matched the dressing-table and the bedspread; the fringed lampshade. Even though she had made all these things herself, and had distempered the walls, it
was
Luke's house and he
had
allowed her to do it. So why, after a year of living here, could she still not take to him?

Her mother had settled in quickly. There was a lot to be done. The house had been neglected for years, except for Flora Milligan's weekly lick-and-a-promise, and she had given in her notice soon after Molly's appearance on the scene. Now whatever was to be done, cleaning, cooking, sewing, baking, Molly got on with, was immersed in. Sometimes Breda thought her mother had forgotten all about their previous life. How could she? Had she forgotten Dada so soon?

On a day when she was downcast – it was Luke's Wednesday for Ennis so he was out of the house – Breda put the question to her mother.

‘Mammy, you haven't forgotten Dada, have you?'

Molly looked up from her ironing in astonishment, but when she saw the look on Breda's face, pity welled in her. She put the iron down on its stand.

‘Forgotten Dada? No, sweetheart, I have not forgotten Dada, nor will I ever be forgetting him. What makes you ask?'

Breda hesitated. ‘It's just . . . well, is it not that you seem so settled here, as if we had never had another life?'

Molly shook her head.

‘It is not like that,
dote
. I will not forget that other life. Did it not give me you, and all my other children? But it is over, and that is not of my choosing. I have to make the best of things, and so have you. It worries me that you do not like Luke. I know he is not Dada, but . . . '

‘He is
nothing
like Dada!'

‘I know that. He is himself. He is honest, he is hardworking, and he is kind. You cannot say that he is not kind, and to you as well as to me. Look at what he has let us do in the house to make it comfortable. Only think about the sewing machine! What a kindness that was.'

He had seen Breda struggling to make curtains, watched Molly turning sheets side to middle to save him the cost of new ones, with the old machine they had brought with them, the thread constantly snapping, the tension slipping.

‘Would it not be nice, now, to have new curtains in the living room?' Molly had said. The present ones were a dull, dark green, and had seen better days. ‘Not to mention a chair cover or two. But there is no way I can be making them on this old thing!'

She had truly not thought that anything could be done about it and it came as a great and wonderful surprise when, on his next trip to Ennis, Luke brought back a new sewing machine in the back of his van. Not new, exactly. It was second-hand, but in good working order.

‘Sure, I admit he is kind,' Breda said. Though hadn't he in the end, she thought, what with the new curtains, tablecloths and the like, felt the benefit as much as anyone?

‘Then try to remember that,' Molly said. ‘'Twould be easier all round if you got on with Luke.'

How could she tell Breda that Luke had asked her to marry him? It had happened several weeks ago. She had, of course, refused him. James had not been dead a year then; she was not ready for marriage. It was not in her plans. What would people say?

But he would ask her again, she felt certain of it. He would not give up. And when he did ask her she was not at all sure what her answer would be, not convinced that it would still be ‘no'.

I am forty-six, she thought. If the Lord so decides, I might well live another forty years. It was no longer entirely a question of security, she was sure she would have the job with Luke for his lifetime, but wasn't he coming up to his sixtieth birthday, though as hale and hearty as any man in Kilbally? But no, it was truthfully not just the security. She was a woman who needed marriage. She recognized that in herself. She needed its closeness and its intimacy. She needed to belong. And she liked Luke; hadn't she always?

He loved her. He had declared it. It was possible, she supposed, that she could come to love him. She longed for love, for a man's love.

‘Why is it that you do not take to Luke?' she said to Breda. ‘Why will you not try?'

‘I do try,' Breda said.

It seemed to her that she was no longer as close to her mother as she had once been. She missed the conversations – carefree, lighthearted – they used to have before Dada died. There was not so much laughter now. This she put down to the fact that, until quite recently, almost every evening had been spent in the company of both her mother
and
Luke, and however kind he was, no-one could call Luke O'Reilly a jolly person, and her mother seemed to be settling into his ways.

Or perhaps her mother was just growing old. After all, she was forty-six, no longer young!

‘Then try a little harder,' Molly said. ‘To please me!'

But now life had taken on a new shine, and it was entirely due to Rory Nolan. He had come from Dublin, all of a sudden it seemed, and for an unspecified period of time which might even be permanent, to help his uncle, Dermot Brady, who owned the pharmacy in Kilbally. Yet no-one remembered Rory visiting his uncle as a small boy.

‘Why do you think Rory did not come to Kilbally sooner?' Breda asked.

The question was seemingly out of the blue. Weren't they talking about Breda's attitude to Luke? However, these days, Molly thought, Breda could bring the name of Rory Nolan into any conversation.

‘'Tis not certain why,' Molly answered. ‘Though his mother quarrelled with her brother Dermot when she went off and married in Dublin. I don't remember that she ever brought Rory here as a child.'

The other question was, why had he come to Kilbally now, at the age of twenty-three? The reason given was that Dermot Brady, who had never married and therefore had neither chick nor child, needed help in the pharmacy and fancied his own kith and kin over a stranger. But since Rory had been a stranger all these years, it did not wash with Molly.

And what does Rory Nolan get out of it, Molly asked herself? What compensates a young man for leaving the bright lights of Dublin for a place like Kilbally?

Well, at the moment one compensation was certainly Breda. He was doing a line on her all right, and how could she not fall for it? He was tall, dark haired, fine-featured, broad-shouldered, well dressed, and with a wide smile and a gift of the gab. Business had never been so brisk in the pharmacy, with half the mothers and daughters of Kilbally queuing up to be served with headache powders, face creams, cough mixtures and babies' dummies. It was as if a star, straight from Hollywood, had shot into their midst.

Nor, as Molly reluctantly reminded herself, was there a single thing to hold against him. He was unfailingly polite to one and all, chucked small babies under the chin, and was regularly at Mass. There he sat a little in front and to the side of Breda, so that she enjoyed the pleasure of his perfect profile, yet was conveniently placed when, from time to time, he turned around and looked straight at her, turning her knees to jelly.

On the Sunday following her conversation with Breda about Luke, Molly, sitting beside her daughter, caught Rory at it, but when he knew himself caught he at once turned his warm gaze, with the hint of a conspiratorial twitch at the corners of his mouth, upon the mother. Molly looked away quickly, as if it was she who had been caught.