The Bright One (25 page)

‘As soon as you like,' Molly said. ‘Will I wet the tea now?'

‘No,' Luke replied. ‘I will open a bottle of sherry. We will drink to the future, yours and mine.'

From the corner cupboard he took two of the best glasses; delicately-cut Waterford they were, which Mary had brought with her when she first came to Kilbally. Molly had never seen them used before.

Rory walked with Breda as far as Luke's house. I will ask him in for tea, she thought. Why not? Surely no-one will mind? But when she did so, he refused.

‘I have to get back,' he excused himself. ‘Uncle Dermot is getting ready for stocktaking and I promised to help. But I will see you during the week, sweetheart!' He gave her a squeeze of the hand, and was gone.

When she went into the house she was met by the unusual sight of the sherry bottle on the table, and Luke and her mother, who was slightly flushed, with her hair uncharacteristically untidy, drinking from the best glasses.

‘Let me pour you a glass, Breda,' Luke offered quickly.

‘Why? What are you . . . ?'

‘We have news for you,' Molly broke in.

She glanced nervously at Luke, then back again to Breda. She was not sure how to break it, but in the circumstances there seemed only one way.

‘Luke and I are going to be married!'

Wide-eyed with horror, Breda stared at her mother. Molly looked back at her steadily. No-one would know that beneath her calm exterior she felt afraid, her heart pounding in her chest. She was not afraid of her future with Luke. From the moment she had accepted him she knew that that was going to be all right. Breda was another matter.

Luke fetched another glass, half-filled it, and placed it on the table in front of Breda.

‘We want you to drink to our future,' he said. He raised his own glass.

Without even looking at him, her eyes fixed on her mother, Breda picked up the glass and flung the contents full in Molly's face.

‘Never!' she shouted. ‘Never, ever! How
could
you!'

Then she threw the glass across the room, where it splintered into a hundred pieces against the stone hearth.

While it seemed that Breda's words still hung on the air, in the same moment that the sherry glass splintered, thrown with such force that shards flew in all directions, embedding themselves in the hearthrug, one fragment cutting into Molly's ankle – though she was too stunned to notice it until later – Breda observed the sherry running in golden-brown rivulets down her mother's horrified face, smelled the strong, sweet reek of it in the room, saw the anger on Luke's face as he moved swiftly towards Molly.

For that moment, which was short, but seemed to go on for ever, she was rooted, unable to move, shocked by the announcement her mother had made, and by the enormity of what she herself had just done. Then, suddenly, life came back to her and she turned and ran out of the room. She had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get out of the house as fast as she could.

She slammed the house door behind her, and continued to run, passing two women she knew well – they were customers of Luke's – without so much as a word. They turned and stared after her as she shot up the street. Out of sight of Luke's house, she slowed down to a walk. She wanted no-one asking was there something the matter.

But where was she bound for, where would she go? She had fled without an idea in her head except to escape.

Would she go down to the strand? Would she sit on the cliff top above the beach where, as a child, she had so often gone to work off a temper? But this was more than a temper. This time there was nothing she could do to cool the boiling rage inside her. Nothing could change the awful prospect of her mother marrying Luke O'Reilly.

Or would she make for the church? Would she speak with Father Curran? But what would she say to him? He would disapprove of her anger, and she wanted comfort, not a lecture.

Then, halfway along the road, she realized she was on the way to the pharmacy. Of course! Where else would she go other than to Rory? Who else would give her the understanding and sympathy she deserved and craved?

She began to walk more quickly, then broke into a run, so that when she reached the shop door she was out of breath.

The door was locked and the shop blinds drawn down. She had overlooked the fact that it was past closing time. She banged on the door, rattled the latch, desperate now to be admitted.

‘I'm coming! I'm coming!' It was Dermot Brady's voice, not Rory's.

She waited impatiently – it seemed an age – while he drew back the bolts, turned the key in the lock, then opened the door a few inches and peered out.

‘Oh, it's Breda! Has your mother been taken ill, then? What can I do?'

If it was as serious as the look on her face, then why hadn't she run for the doctor? People came to him because he was cheaper, but an emergency was an emergency.

‘Mammy is not ill . . . ' Breda began.

‘Then Luke, is it? Has he had an accident?'

‘No, Mr Brady. It is not Luke . . . at least . . . What I want is to see Rory. Will you be letting me in?'

Dermot opened the door, and she entered. Rory is it, he thought? And what has he been up to? The girl was in a fine old state.

‘He has not been home many minutes,' he said, ‘though he was supposed to help me with the stocktaking. I will give him a call, so.'

He opened the door at the back of the shop and shouted through. ‘Rory, will you come here this minute, then?'

Deliberately, he gave no reason. Rory would take it that he was impatient to get on with the stocktaking, and so he was, but more than that, if there was trouble afoot he did not want to give the lad time to think up some fancy excuse. He had discovered quite soon after Rory had arrived in Kilbally that his charming nephew could wriggle out of most things.

A minute later Rory came into the shop wearing his white coat, ready to start work. He was speaking as he entered. ‘I'm sorry I am late, Uncle. I was delayed. You know how 'tis when you cannot get away from someone!'

The words were out of his mouth before he saw Breda, but fortunately she seemed not to have heard them, full as she was of her own trouble.

‘Oh Rory!' she cried. ‘I had to see you! 'Tis the most awful thing, you'll not believe it!'

Dermot gave his nephew a sharp look. ‘What would this be about, then?' he asked him.

He was apprehensive.
Not
Breda O'Connor, he prayed.

‘I'm afraid I don't know, Uncle!'

He raised his dark eyebrows in two question marks. He was genuinely puzzled, but his conscience was clear, though it might not have been had she not turned out to be such a prude. He had misjudged her there all right, and it
was
disappointing because she was lovely and desirable, the pick of the locality, there was no denying that. Also, she was in love with him. But like the small-town girl she was, she had her sights on marriage, and that was not for him. Still, there were plenty of fish in the sea, especially along this coast.

So why was she in a state and, more to the point, what could it have to do with him?

‘Could I be seeing Rory alone?' Breda pleaded with Dermot.

‘Why?' Dermot asked bluntly. Then he turned to his nephew and repeated the question. ‘Why?'

Rory shook his head. ‘I don't know why at all.' He turned to Breda. ‘There's nothing which can't be said in front of Uncle Dermot, is there?'

In fact, he thought, wouldn't he just as soon have his uncle there? He didn't know what she was up to.

Breda hesitated only briefly. She had hoped that Rory would lead her off into the back room, take her in his arms and kiss and comfort her, but there was something in his voice which made her uncertain. In any case, Mr Brady would have to know. There was no keeping it secret. Wasn't it something the whole of Kilbally would know in no time at all?

‘It
is
Mammy,' she confessed. ‘And it is Luke, but not the way you mean. The awful thing is, they are going to be married! 'Tis the most terrible thing that ever happened, except when Dada died. And if he had not, 'twould not have happened at all, and that's the truth of it! I cannot possibly be living in the same house as them, though I should not have thrown the glass, not at all, nor the sherry at Mammy!'

Tears ran down her face like drops of bright summer rain. Dermot and Rory glanced at each other. There was relief in the hearts of both of them.

‘Is that it?' Dermot said in a kindly manner. ‘But 'tis surely not all bad? Your Mammy and Luke O'Reilly have known each other since they were children, and now they have both lost their partners in life. They will be comfort for each other. It is entirely natural. I would say it is good.'

Breda scarcely listened. It was not what she wanted to hear. ‘I don't like him,' she persisted. ‘I never have.'

‘Plenty do,' Dermot said. ‘Luke is a good man. Though 'tis unfortunate that you do not like him, 'tis of no real importance.'

‘No importance?' She heard that all right. She stared at him in astonishment. What did he mean?

‘Not really.' He spoke calmly, as if they were discussing the weather; would it rain before morning. ‘Not really. The important thing is that your Mammy likes him. 'Tis she who will be marrying him, when all is said and done!'

‘How
can
she?' Breda implored. ‘How can she do it? He is
nothing
like Dada!'

‘Which is just as well, especially for Luke. Who would want to go through life with a woman, being compared all the time with her first husband? No, Breda, 'tis better the way it is. And you will get used to it.'

‘I will not, so!' Breda said vehemently. ‘I will never get used to it. And I cannot possibly live there!'

‘Then perhaps you will go to your Grandmother Byrne,' Dermot said reasonably. ‘She is an old woman. She might be glad of your company.'

He knew what he was saying. Sure, wasn't Mrs Byrne the most awkward old woman in the whole of Kilbally? No-one would want to live with her.

‘I could not possibly do that,' Breda said. ‘We are like chalk and cheese!'

A thought struck her. ‘Could I not come here, and look after you both? I would do it very well, and charge nothing except my keep.' She would also see Rory every day.

Asking the question of Dermot, she did not see the alarm on Rory's face.

‘'Twould not be possible,' Dermot said firmly. ‘'Twould not be right. Two single men in the house, and you a beautiful young lady!'

Breda looked from Dermot to Rory, who so far had not spoken.

‘I agree with Uncle Dermot,' he said. ‘'Twould not be fitting.'

‘So it seems either you go to Grandmother Byrne, or you go back to your Mammy and Luke,' Dermot said. ‘There is nothing else for it. So what was it you said about the sherry glass a minute ago? I didn't understand that.'

Breda told them what she had done. Dermot gave a long whistle; Rory opened his eyes wide. She had more spirit than he'd reckoned.

‘So how can I possibly go back?' she asked.

‘Oh, I am sure they will both forgive you!' Dermot said easily. ‘Though I think it might be a good idea if I were to go back with you; to congratulate them, you understand. Perhaps I will take Luke to the Harp for a celebration, while you make your peace with your Mammy.'

‘Luke does not go to the Harp,' Breda said.

‘Sure, I might persuade him!' Dermot sounded confident.

He took off his white coat, lifted his hat from the peg behind the door, and was ready to accompany Breda.

‘I might be an hour or two,' he said to Rory. It was quite a while since he had been in the Harp. ‘There's plenty of work you can get on with.'

‘Speaking of work,' he said to Breda as they set off, ‘would it not be rather awkward for you to work for Luke, as you do, if you were to cut yourself off?'

‘So 'twould,' Breda agreed miserably. ‘I had not considered that.'

In fact, she had considered nothing in her desire to escape, and though she was not the least bit happy about her mother and Luke, and never would be – the whole idea was abhorrent to her – Dermot's words made her think. Apart from her job, where else would she live, if not in Luke's house? Grandma Byrne was not to be thought of, and who else was there?

‘Would you rather I did not go home with you? Would you rather do it alone?' Dermot asked.

Breda pictured herself stepping into the house, walking into the living room with them both sitting there; finding the right words to say to them. She could not face it.

‘Oh no, Mr Brady! 'Twould be much easier if you were there. The only thing is . . . ' She hesitated.

‘What?'

‘What will Mammy be saying when she finds out I ran to you?'

In fact, she had run to Rory, but Dermot Brady had taken charge. Rory had had surprisingly little to say.

‘I dare say she will not hear of it, unless you choose to tell her. Why would you not have met me in the street and given me the news? But in any case, that is not what she will be thinking about. There are matters more important to your Mammy.'

‘You mean like the sherry, and the glass?'

Dermot suppressed a smile.

‘I was not thinking of that, though it was a foolish thing to do. Really, more the action of a child than that of a young woman.'

How could she tell him – she did not know him all that well – that she felt like a child, and a frightened one at that? She almost wished she was, so that everyone would pet her and comfort her, the way they once had.