The Bright One (28 page)

She took her ticket out of her handbag. A single ticket, she thought. No going back. Then as she gathered together her luggage, the woman picked up the large suitcase.

‘My word!' she said. ‘What have you got in this, then? Gold bricks?'

‘Don't I just wish it was!' Breda replied. She was worried by how little was left of her savings once she had paid for the journey and bought a few essentials: new shoes, underwear, stockings. She wondered just how long her money would last, and how she would set about earning more. She couldn't sponge on Aunt Josephine.

The two of them emerged from the station into a fine, grey drizzle which cast a curtain of mist over everything. Breda, giving a quick look around, assumed that this must be the centre of the town. A long rectangle was dominated at one end by a high, Victorian Gothic building with a clock tower, and at the other end by a large church.

‘Yon's the town hall,' the woman said, nodding in the direction of the clock tower. ‘We're very proud of our town hall. The church is St Saviour's.'

‘They're most impressive,' Breda said. ‘Tell me, why are all the buildings black?'

‘Black?' The woman sounded puzzled. ‘I'd not noticed they were.' She looked around. ‘Yes, you're right! They are. I suppose it's the colour of the stone.'

Funny, she thought, she'd been born and bred in Akersfield, never lived anywhere else, and she'd always thought that stone was black, came out of the ground like that. But come to think of it, in the last year they'd put up half a dozen houses on the edge of town, built of local stone they said, and it was almost golden.

The traffic was dense and noisy: cars, buses, lorries, vans, bicycles. Not as many horses as in Ennis, Breda thought, or even as in Dublin.

‘That's your bus stop, over the other side,' the woman said. ‘Number forty-two. I'll go with you. You take your life in your hands, crossing these roads, and I dare say you're not used to it.'

‘I've been to Dublin,' Breda boasted.

She did not mention that she had made only three brief visits in the whole of her life, without ever mastering the traffic there. And this place, where she was attempting to cross the road, was a far cry from Kilbally.

‘Thank you,' she said when they were safely across and the woman had deposited her at the bus stop. ‘'Tis exceedingly kind of you. Would you be telling me your name, now?'

‘Mrs Mabel Proctor.'

‘I am Breda O'Connor.'

‘Well then, Miss O'Connor, I hope you settle well in Akersfield. It's not always as gloomy as this. And here's your bus!'

She watched while the bus bore Breda away. Pretty little thing, she thought, and such a soft, Irish voice, a pleasure to listen to. Well, she'd not be without her own kind in Akersfield. There were lots of Irish, though they were mostly townspeople by now, not countrified like this girl. They'd been coming for the last hundred years, seeking a living. They weren't liked by everyone. A bit unruly they were, especially with the drink in them on a Saturday night, and they did have very large families. Still, speak as you find, and personally she'd found nothing wrong with them. Live and let live, she believed.

Almost as soon as the bus had left the town centre it started to climb. Breda was soon to discover that every road out of Akersfield ran uphill, and most of the smaller streets ran uphill again from the roads. The bus chugged along, frequently in low gear, stopping and starting to accommodate passengers, with jerks which threatened to bring on the sickness Breda thought she had left behind on the boat. She took a deep breath and willed herself to overcome it. Only fifteen minutes on the bus, Aunt Josephine had said. Stay on until the terminus. Surely she could manage that? She would look out of the window, think of other things. There was plenty to occupy her mind.

The rain was heavier now, splashing against the windows, mixing with the dust to form grey splodges which interrupted the view; but since the view was mainly of people huddled under umbrellas, picking their way around the puddles on the glistening wet pavement, there wasn't much to spoil. She had not thought to bring an umbrella, but even if she had, she wouldn't have had a spare hand to hold it. Aunt Josephine's house, she knew, was five minutes from the bus stop. Just long enough to get soaked to the skin.

She was used to rain. There was plenty of it in Kilbally, but it was a different kind of rain there: clean, bright, soft. Nor did she usually walk out in it carrying a heavy suitcase, two large straw holdalls and a handbag.

The bus gradually emptied until, looking around, she saw she was the only passenger left on the lower deck. When it stopped for the last time, the conductor called out to her, ‘This is as far as we go, love!'

He helped her off with her case, deposited it on the pavement, then climbed back and took out a flask of tea. The rain was heavier than ever. Breda looked at her suitcase in despair. How was she going to manage it? And in which direction was Waterloo Terrace? She would have to ask a passer-by, except that there didn't appear to be any.

Why did I ever leave Kilbally, she asked herself? Why would I not have stuck it out with Luke and Mammy for another year or so? She could have been married in that time to some nice Kilbally fellow, and have a home of her own. Sure, she hadn't thought much of the local talent when she'd been there, she was always looking for something superior, but looking back, there were some decent fellows: Eamonn Pinch, or Bernard O'Laughton. If either one of them, she thought, was to come up to her this very minute and propose marriage she'd accept at once, and take the next boat back to Ireland.

Well, 'twas not likely to happen and she had better make a move to get out of the rain, not that she could ever get any wetter than she was now!

Not seeing the man walking towards her, she bent down to pick up the suitcase. When she stood up again he was standing in front of her, in Army uniform, one stripe in his sleeve.

‘Could you be telling me where Waterloo Terrace is?' she asked.

‘Ah! Then if it's Waterloo Terrace you're wanting, you must be Breda O'Connor! There can't be many Irish girls with this amount of luggage looking for Waterloo Terrace on this very afternoon.'

‘I am so, Breda O'Connor,' she said. ‘And you are . . . ?'

‘I'm your cousin Tony, Tony Maguire. Hand over that case.'

‘'Tis more than pleased I am to do so,
and
to meet you,' Breda said. ‘Though I would not have recognized you, since the only photograph I have seen of you, you were a small boy in short pants!' And rather fat, she thought.

‘That was years ago,' he said. ‘And the only one I have seen of you, you were in your first Communion dress.'

‘Which was ten years ago,' Breda said. ‘Sure, haven't we both changed? And I did not know you were a soldier.'

There was nothing of the round-faced, dumpy little boy about this man, not that she could see much of him because of the rain. He was tall and, underneath his uniform, broad-shouldered. There was an air of strength about him which was emphasized in the easy way he swung the suitcase, and then took one of the straw bags from her. From underneath his uniform cap his black hair fell wetly over his forehead. His eyes, meeting Breda's, were of so dark a blue as to be almost navy.

‘We'd better get a move on,' he said. ‘There's no point in getting wetter than ever.'

He set off at a smart pace. It was not easy to keep up with his long strides. Every so often she had to do a skip and a jump so as not to fall behind. Also, the rain was running down her face and, even worse, in cold trickles down the back of her neck and inside her collar. In quantity, it was the equal of any rain she had seen in Kilbally.

‘How did you know when to meet me?' she gasped. ‘I did not say.'

‘I didn't know. It just happened I'm home on leave and Ma said I might as well go down to the bus terminus, just in case. She reckoned you must be due about now.'

‘Well, I'm glad you did. I don't know how I'd have managed,' Breda said. She didn't tell him how much she had wanted to turn around, and go right back home.

As they reached the corner of Waterloo Terrace the rain began to ease off, then stopped, and from behind the grey clouds the sun put out a few weak rays. Wasn't that surely a good omen, Breda asked herself?

Waterloo Terrace, when it was built more than a hundred years ago, had been a place of genteel importance, its houses occupied by mill managers, head teachers, even a doctor or two, and a solicitor. Servants in uniform had scrubbed the front steps and polished the brass knockers; nursery maids had emerged, pushing smart perambulators to the nearby park. But these were past glories. Waterloo Terrace had long since come down in the world. Where the steps were scrubbed, and edged with white scouring stone, it was now done by the lady of the house herself (or more likely by the eldest child). The only thing which remained the same was that the houses still sheltered large families, though now it was those who couldn't afford something more up-to-date and convenient.

All the same, to Breda's eyes, used to the single-storey, whitewashed cottages of Kilbally, the whole terrace was splendid, and in a way she was right. The general air of shabbiness – peeling paint, broken paving stones on the front paths – could not hide its excellent proportions, the large sash windows and solid front doors.

‘What nice houses!' she said to her cousin.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Though they've never looked the same since the Government took away the iron railings and ornamental gates to turn them into planes or tanks. Elegant, those gates were, and whether they were actually used, or left lying around in gigantic scrap heaps, who knows?'

Number 52 was near the far end. It stood out from its neighbours on either side by the whiteness of its net curtains and the neatness of its small front garden, with a square of grass surrounded by narrow borders filled with dahlias and Michaelmas daisies.

As they drew close, the curtains twitched. ‘Ma's been looking out for you for hours!' Tony said.

Josephine had seen them. As they walked up the path, the front door opened and she stood there on the top step, a beaming smile on her round face, her arms open wide.

‘Welcome, our Breda!' she cried. ‘Welcome to Akersfield! And have you noticed, the sun's come out for you?'

She led the way into the hall. The tiled floor, intricately patterned, was chipped and cracked but shining clean. A wide staircase led up on the left, and on the right-hand side doors gave, presumably, on to rooms. As Breda followed her aunt into the first of the rooms, seven heads turned in her direction, seven pairs of eyes fixed themselves on her.

‘Here we are, then,' Josephine said. ‘Cousin Breda, all the way from Kilbally in Ireland!'

Four of those looking at her were children, quite small, two of them no more than toddlers, sitting on the floor. There were two young women, who gave her a welcoming smile and, in the best chair, close to the fire, sat a very old woman. There was no smile from her. She stared hard at Breda, scrutinizing her from top to toe. Breda had no doubt who she was: Granny Maguire, about whom Josephine had only ever spoken in despair.

‘This is Grandma,' Josephine said. ‘My mother-in-law, Mrs Maguire.'

‘Mrs Maguire
senior
,' the old woman emphasized.

‘Pleased to meet you!' Breda was about to add ‘I've heard a lot about you', but she realized that none of it had been good, so she smiled and bit back the words.

‘You're very young.' It was an accusation.

‘I'm seventeen, going on eighteen,' Breda said.

‘When I was eighteen I was married with one child, and another one on the way!' the old woman said.

One of the young women rolled her eyes at Breda.

‘I'm Kate Cormack,' she said. ‘And this is my sister, Maureen Denton, though we're both Maguires . . . '

‘And the two boys are mine. John is five, and Larry's just two,' the younger woman said.

‘And the two girls are mine,' Kate said. ‘Kitty and Peggy. We've each got two more at home . . . '

‘And as you can see, I'm expecting again,' Maureen added.

Breda nodded at everyone in turn.

‘I hope you'll excuse me if I don't get all the children's names right, just at first.'

‘Don't let it worry you, love.' Kate had a strong, comforting voice. It was good to see she was Josephine's daughter. She had the same easy way with her. ‘We don't always get them right, do we, Maureen?'

‘Mine learn to answer to anything!' Maureen said.

‘And that's not the end of it,' Kate said. ‘There's Michael's brood, two so far, and if Betty has anything to do with it, which she usually does, more to follow.'

‘Why are we sitting in the front room?' Grandma Maguire demanded suddenly. ‘We don't usually sit in here. I prefer the kitchen. This place never gets properly warmed up.'

‘You know why we're in here. It's because it seemed a nicer way to welcome Breda,' Josephine said patiently. ‘But if you want to go back in the kitchen, that's all right.'

‘Not on my own! I haven't reached my eighty-fourth year to be shunted off on my own, though I dare say that's what you'd like.'

‘Wouldn't we just!' Maureen spoke quietly, through clenched teeth.

‘What's that you said? Speak up!' Grandma Maguire ordered.

‘I said I'll have to be going,' Maureen said. ‘If I'm not there when Peter gets home for his tea, there'll be ructions. Though he'll be a bit late because there's a meeting after school.'