The Bright One (33 page)

‘I've told you, you can use mine,' Brendan said.

‘Why aren't you out enjoying yourself?' Grandma Maguire demanded of Breda. ‘When I was your age, they couldn't keep me in! Here there and everywhere!'

‘I'd like to,' Breda said. ‘So far I don't know anyone to go with.'

She turned to her aunt. ‘Would it be all right if I went to the pictures on my own, one evening?' she asked. ‘To Akersfield. It's Vivien Leigh in
Caesar and Cleopatra
. Or would you like to come with me?'

Josephine looked uneasily from Brendan to Grandma Maguire and back again.

‘Well, love, I'm not sure about that. I'm not one for the pictures, really – though me and Kate did go to see
Gone With The Wind
. It was very long. We took some sandwiches and a flask of tea.'

It was easy to read between the lines. Her glances gave it away. She just couldn't escape her mother-in-law and Brendan wasn't going to help her to do so. Breda wondered how in the world she had managed to visit Kilbally. Probably only because it was for a wedding or a funeral. Even Brendan couldn't refuse that.

‘I'll tell you what,' Josephine said. ‘I dare say Maureen would like to go, if she can get someone to sit with the children. She doesn't get out much. It would do her good as well as you. Shall I ask her when she calls in in the morning?'

‘Yes please,' Breda said.

‘I'm going over to the Cow and Calf for an hour,' Brendan said.

‘I think I'll go to bed,' Breda said. ‘Take my book, have an early night!'

She didn't in the least want an early night. She would like to stay out until the small hours, dancing her feet off. Instead, she had joined the local library and now got through three books a week.

‘Reading in bed again?' Brendan said, getting to his feet. ‘I don't suppose you had these luxuries in Kilbally. I don't suppose you realize electricity costs money.'

‘I'm willing to pay extra,' Breda offered. ‘Or to read by candlelight.' Hadn't she done that most of her life?

‘You'll do no such thing!' Josephine said indignantly. ‘You'll do neither of those things. I'm sure it hardly makes a penn'orth of difference, and I should know. I pay the bill!'

‘With my money,' Brendan muttered.

‘And wouldn't I like to go out to work and earn my own money?' she retorted. ‘And with the children off my hands what stops me? Ask yourself that, will you?'

If only Tony was here, Breda thought. If only he'd write to me! She had sent him three letters, with never a word in return. Had he entirely forgotten her?

‘Have you heard from Tony?' she asked her aunt.

‘He doesn't write to me,' Josephine said. ‘Not unless he wants something. But that's men all over, isn't it?'

‘I don't know, Auntie.'

And at this rate, she didn't see much hope of finding out. She decided that in any case she was not a good picker of men. Look at Rory. The thought of him brought a flush of shame to her face. Well, she'd not make the same mistake twice. She would give Tony one more chance. If he didn't reply to the letter she intended posting tomorrow then she would write him off. In fact, she might write off all men. The only one who'd been any good was Dada.

The proposed outing with Maureen was not to be. When Breda arrived home next day her aunt said: ‘Maureen would have, but little John has gone down with chicken-pox. That's kids for you. Now I expect they'll get it in turn.'

‘I'm sorry,' Breda said. ‘And it doesn't matter about the pictures. I'll go down to the library and get some more books.'

She wished she had just one friend, someone with whom she could go places on her half day, or even for a walk with in the evening. She had never found it difficult to make friends in Kilbally and she had thought it would be easy in her new job, but in fact she seldom talked to anyone.

Miss Craven was too old. Miss Wilmot was only twenty, but every minute of her spare time seemed to be spent with her fiancé, just as all her talk was of him and of the wedding they planned, though it was at least a year away. Miss Wilmot's passion was collecting items for her bottom drawer. Her shopping spree around the store each morning, which she never failed to take, always ended in her bringing back something to add to the collection – a wooden spoon, a tea towel, a lemon squeezer. The drawer must be full to overflowing, Breda thought, but with what dull things!

‘I wonder, what would
I
choose?' she said to Doreen Wilmot. ‘I mean if I was filling my bottom drawer.' She thought for a minute. ‘Well, for a start, I would have a beautiful cut-glass crystal vase, as big as an umbrella stand. Then, wouldn't I have a lamp in white alabaster with a red silk shade? And then peach-coloured satin sheets. That's what I'd choose to begin with.'

‘You're not being practical,' Doreen Wilmot protested. ‘You have to be practical.'

‘I do not,' Breda contradicted. ‘The way I'm going, will I ever need even a wooden spoon or a potato peeler?'

Miss Craven glided down from the other end of the counter as if on wheels. ‘Move apart,' she said. ‘Ye know pairfectly well that sales assistants must never stand together, gossiping. Ye have to look busy, but ready to sairve at once if required. After me of course. What would Miss Opal say if she were to walk by and see you idly chatting?'

She glided back to her end of the counter, the end farthest away from the draught.

Miss Opal walked by at least once a day. She walked around the whole store, usually accompanied by Mr Soames, the General Manager, but so far Breda had not seen her stop to speak to anyone on Fabrics.

‘You can't go by that,' Miss Craven said. ‘She'll appear to see nothing, and half an hour later there'll be a note down from the office to say that the counter is untidy, or the Second Sales has a button undone.' She gave Miss Wilmot a nasty look. ‘And who takes the blame? I do!'

So Breda more or less stood to attention and held her breath when she saw Miss Opal in the offing.

And there she was now, advancing towards them. She was a small lady, slim, upright, her dark hair greying at the sides. She was probably about Miss Craven's age, Breda reckoned, but there all resemblance ended. She walked past Doreen Wilmot and Breda without a glance, moving towards where Miss Craven stood.

Miss Craven was in the middle of a particularly severe hot flush. She felt the sweat running down her face and trickling down her back and she was sure she looked like a boiled beetroot. There was nothing she could do. Now was not the time to start dabbing at herself with a handkerchief.

Miss Opal slowed down, caught Miss Craven's eye, hesitated, then quickened her pace again and walked on. Fifteen minutes later a note was delivered to Miss Craven. ‘Will you please come and see me in my office as soon as it is convenient?'

‘Miss Opal wants to see me,' she said, turning to Doreen Wilmot. ‘I'll not be long.'

‘Whatever can
that
be about?' Breda wondered out loud.

‘Well, if it's anything we've done, she'll tell us,' Miss Wilmot said. ‘You can be sure of that!'

Miss Craven mopped her face, then knocked on Miss Opal's door.

‘Come in,' Miss Opal called. ‘Please sit down, Miss Craven. When does Mr Stokesly return from Manchester?' He was away buying.

‘Tomorrow morning, Miss Opal.'

Opal looked at her thoughtfully. She had known her as long as anyone in the store. She was a touchy woman, you had to be careful how you put things, but Opal often felt sorry for her.

‘Excuse me, Miss Craven,' she said. ‘But I couldn't help noticing when I walked past Fabrics a few minutes ago that you didn't look well.'

‘It's nothing, Miss Opal, nothing at all!' Miss Craven insisted. And she must keep calm for fear it happened again, right now. She never knew the time nor the place.

‘I understand well enough what it is,' Miss Opal said. ‘You and I are about the same age, only I seem to have been let off more lightly than you. Have you seen your doctor?'

‘I don't quite like . . . well, it's rather embarrassing . . . '

It was exactly as Opal had thought. Silly woman! ‘Then you'll be glad at my bit of news,' she said. ‘I've reappointed a store doctor. A woman. About our age. She'll spend one day a fortnight in the store, more if we need her, and anyone who wishes to consult her can do so. I feel sure she'll be able to help you.'

‘Thank you, Miss Opal. You're very kind.'

‘Shall I have my secretary make an appointment for you?'

‘Thank you, yes.' As long as she didn't have to tell Mr Stokesly what it was about.

‘How is your father these days?' Miss Opal asked.

‘Quite frail. He's not able to do much.'

‘It must be difficult for you,' Miss Opal sympathized. She knew that for years Miss Craven had been holding down a full-time job while caring for a semi-invalid father.

‘And how is the new girl in the department?' she enquired. ‘What pretty red hair she has!'

‘She's quite satisfactory,' Miss Craven admitted. ‘Raw, of course. And since the Junior has tonsilitis she is doing her own job and the Junior's for the moment.'

‘That won't do her any harm,' Miss Opal said. ‘She'll be all the better for being kept busy.'

Almost more than anything in those first few weeks, Breda hated going into the canteen for her dinner. It was true there was no compulsion to do so: staff were allowed to leave the store as long as they clocked out and in again, but they were also expected to have a meal, and since the canteen food was infinitely cheaper than anything which could be obtained outside, most people availed themselves of it. Breda felt compelled to do so. It saved a meal at Auntie Josie's; not only the cost of it, but the rations.

She would have been happy enough if she had had someone to go with, or even if she had known exactly where she might sit without breaking the unwritten rules about which Miss Craven had warned her. It was easy enough to spot the buyers. They were all older, and had a collective air of importance, but the rest of the staff seemed much of a muchness. The one thing they seemed to have in common was that they knew each other.

What Breda did, whenever she could, and if there was one, was to sit at an empty table. That way, if a mistake was to be made someone else would make it. But too often she remained the only person sitting there. No-one joined her. She pretended to be immersed in her book, while at the same time noticing the crowded tables, people chattering to each other, laughing, sometimes she thought, glancing in her direction.

The surprise came one dinner time when she was, as usual, alone at the table.

‘Excuse me,' a man's voice said. ‘Are these seats taken? May I join you?'

For a start, the voice was unexpected: educated, musical, and definitely not north-country. She thought afterwards that she had fallen for his voice before she even looked up and saw his person. If he had been small and insignificant it wouldn't have mattered. His voice would have made up for it.

In fact, his appearance needed no compensation. He was tall – she had to tip her head back in order to meet his eyes – deep blue, smiling. His fair hair flopped over his forehead. He wore a dark suit, which was par for the course, a snow white shirt, a discreetly striped tie.

All this she took in at a glance, yet none of it registered. All she knew, and she knew for certain, was that this was the most important moment of her life so far.

‘May I sit here?' he repeated.

‘Oh, please do! Certainly!'

He had noticed her as soon as he had walked into the room, perhaps because of her glorious hair, but not entirely. He had walked straight across to her table, not for a moment considering sitting anywhere else.

Seen close to, she was even more attractive than from a distance. It was not just that she was good to look at – which she was – but there was an air of vitality, a vibrancy about her which transcended her beauty. He asked himself how a woman, sitting alone and still at a table, eating a dish of pudding, reading a book, could exude such vibrancy. Whatever the answer was, she certainly did.

Breda didn't remember having seen him before. She was conscious that she was staring at him, and at once turned her attention to her pudding and her book. She always read at the table to show the world that she didn't mind being alone. She pushed the pudding around her plate. She had lost interest in it.

‘Are you not enjoying your dessert?'

She pushed it away from her. ‘'Tis all right, I suppose, but I was never one for bread-and-butter pudding, still less for semolina, which was the only other choice. I should have made do with a cup of tea.'

She had the most delightful Irish voice, he thought. He wanted to hear more of it.

What a drab conversation, Breda thought, for a girl who feels as though she's riding through the heavens on a star! On the other hand, it was the first conversation she'd ever had in the canteen, and for that she was grateful.

It seemed as though that might be the extent of it. He fell to his shepherd's pie with gusto. Breda renewed her attack on her pudding. It would be silly to leave the table just yet.

He stood up.

‘Don't go away,' he said. ‘Promise!'

‘I promise.'

Five minutes later he returned, carrying two cups of tea.

‘I thought I'd give the pudding a miss,' he said. ‘I took the liberty of bringing you a cup of tea as well.'

‘Thank you very much,' Breda said. ‘I shall have to drink it quickly because I'm almost due back on the department.'