Till the Sun Shines Through (32 page)

Bridie shifted Liam to one hip and put the other hand on Katie's silken head and said, ‘There's the weans and Tom. How can I just go and leave them all?'

‘I can see to the weans,' Ellen said. ‘I can't go myself, Sam's too sick to leave.'

Neither girl argued with Ellen. With the onset of the winter weather, the cold Sam had caught had turned to bronchitis and Ellen was constantly plastering his chest with camphorated oil and hot flannels which she had heating on the fireguard.

‘You'll have your hands full already,' Bridie protested.

‘Not at all,' Ellen said. ‘It will only be for a few days and Mary's are at school all day. There's just your two and sure they're no trouble at all.

Liam smiled at the aunt he loved almost as much as his mammy. But Katie scowled at her. Ellen couldn't fathom why she should view staying with her for just a few days in such a bad light, when she'd always regarded it as a treat before, but then she saw her glance up at her mother and understood perfectly.

The child was altogether too bright and she vowed to try to explain things to her when she was at her house, not the whole truth of course, but something to satisfy a wee but feisty girl.

‘Tom and Eddie will be there in the evenings too,' Mary put in. ‘And it won't hurt our Jamie to do his bit. Might put some sense on him.'

Bridie laughed. ‘I hardly think so,' she said, for Jamie, who'd be eleven in January, was in some ways as silly as he'd been at three. Three times recently, he'd been brought home by a policeman: once for hitching a ride on the back of a cart and then another time for hanging onto a tram. He was thrown off as the tram went around a corner and nearly went under the wheels of a delivery van.

The policeman told Mary sternly that the van driver might never be the same man after it. That time, Jamie felt the sting of his father's belt on his backside. The last time he was brought home it was for climbing onto the roof of the laundry in Bell Barn Road, half of which was made of glass and anything but safe.

He'd been serving on the altar since he'd been nine, but even then there was a problem, as he'd been caught filling his water pistol with holy water and taking a sip of the priest's Communion wine. Bridie loved young Jamie, but had to admit Mary had her work cut out with him. Fortunately, Mickey was a much quieter child; though he admired his big brother, he'd inherited his dad's love of books and spent a lot of his free time reading. Eddie, delighted at his interest, had introduced him to the public lending library in town and Mickey had been astounded that two books could be taken out for nothing and kept for a fortnight.

‘Aye, maybe you're right,' Mary said with a sigh. ‘Nothing would put any sense in Jamie's head, but he can still do his bit. If we leave on Thursday and come back Monday – or Sunday if we can – the children will be left for the least possible time with Ellen and Sam – Eddie will be home for the weekend, or from Saturday lunchtime anyway.'

And so it was arranged and Bridie set out with grave misgivings that bitterly cold December day. Both women were sick on the boat, though it wasn't to be wondered at when white-fringed rollers, whipped by ferocious, icy winds, were constantly hurling themselves against the ferry's sides, causing it to pitch and list from side to side.

It was a bleak, cold and depressing time to travel, and too early yet for émigrés to be returning home for Christmas. Bridie and Mary were glad the carriages of both the train and rail bus were almost deserted though, for they talked a lot of Francis – the kind of man he'd been – and speculated about how he'd died. Bridie said fiercely that she wished she'd had a hand in it and while Mary understood precisely why she'd said that, it wouldn't have done for anyone else to overhear it.

As they neared their old home, Bridie began to feel even more nervous. They'd sent their mother and father a telegram detailing their arrival and she couldn't help wondering how she'd be received.

The short winter's day was nearly at an end when the rail bus drew up at the bottom of McCarthy's farm and there, in the gloom, Bridie spotted her father waiting for them. Gone were her nerves and apprehensions. She almost threw herself from the rail bus at her father and tasted the salt tears as she kissed his cheeks, lined with age and sorrow. She felt a terrific sense of homecoming and realised how much she'd missed her home, her parents, her former life.

But this trip was not for her, nor Mary: it wasn't even to bury the man who'd done his best to wreck her life. It was to bring some measure of comfort to her daddy who was truly bowed down with grief at losing his brother. His loss was compounded by the way Francis died, but this they didn't find out until later that evening as they sat around the fire.

Sarah had been rather stiff with both her daughters at first. If she'd have had a say in it at all, she'd have asked just Mary and Ellen, but the intensity of Jimmy's grief had frightened her and when he had said he wanted Bridie to come over as well, she had felt compelled to agree – she was afraid Jimmy might have gone to pieces altogether if she had opposed him. And yet, she couldn't fully welcome the girl who'd broken their hearts apart. Sarah fervently wished Ellen had been able to come to ease the tension between them all.

Bridie was tired and hungry and so was more upset by her mother's attitude than she would have normally been, for she knew her mother and had guessed how she would react. A meal restored Bridie's spirits, but though Sarah thawed towards Mary, her resentment at Bridie was still openly on display.

Later, as they sat around the fire, Mary produced photographs of all the children which Ellen had taken with the camera she'd bought for Jamie's First Communion. Although Jimmy was pleased to see how his namesake Jamie and his brother Mickey had grown, when he saw Katie and Liam for the first time, tears streamed from his eyes.

Looking at Katie was like looking at her mother at the same age, while Liam was more like his cousins, but with the podginess of babyhood still clinging to him. ‘Daddy, don't cry,' Bridie pleaded, patting his hand.

‘I'm grand, child,' he said, pushing a gnarled weather-beaten hand across his face. ‘It was just seeing your weans like that for the first time. Look after them well and you too, Mary – guard your sons, for the world's a wicked place.'

That cryptic remark was later explained when Sarah told them how Francis had been found beaten up in a ditch. ‘It wasn't the beating that killed him,' she said, ‘it was the weather too. If it had been warmer, he'd have probably survived it.'

‘But who beat him up?' Mary asked.

‘No one knows,' Sarah said. ‘Nor does anyone know where Francis had been that night, or where he was returning from. I don't know if it had anything to do with it, but gypsies were seen in the area some days before and you know they haven't been here for many a year. They were blamed, of course, especially as they suddenly disappeared the next day.'

‘That's their way though,' Jimmy put in. ‘Sometimes I think the gypsies are blamed for things they haven't done because it's easy. I'm not saying they're angels or anything, the gypsies, it's just … Well, let's say I don't think Francis's killer, or at least the one who beat him up, will ever be caught. People think it was a gypsy and it will be left there. Whoever it was, I hope at least he'll rot in Hell when his time comes.'

Bridie and Mary exchanged glances and later in bed, Bridie asked, ‘D'you think it could have been Sally McCormack's family after all this time?'

‘Maybe,' Mary replied. ‘But then again, like Daddy said, it might have nothing to do with them. Let's just say if I ever found out who it was, I'd shake him by the hand. After what happened to you and young Sally, I'd think he or she has done the world a service.'

The next day though, for their parents sake, Bridie and Mary put their grieving face on along with their black mourning clothes and followed the coffin to the church for Requiem Mass. Later, at the wake, while the beer, whiskey and illicit poteen flowed freely, Bridie heard constantly what a grand man her uncle had been.

He'd been the kindest and most generous man you could ever wish to meet. Nothing was too much trouble; for God's sake, the man would give you the shirt off his back if he thought you had need of it. And then wasn't he full of fun? Never a dull moment with Francis. He didn't take life seriously, always ready with a joke and a laugh. He liked a drink, they said, there was no denying that, but no harm in that at all, and though he could drink many a man under the table, he was a good provider, a wonderful father and husband. His family would miss him sorely and so would his friends. God, but it was a terrible tragedy! A great loss! An awful great loss!

‘God, next they'll apply to have him canonised,' Bridie hissed to Mary. ‘It makes me feel sick. How soon can we get rid of people?'

‘Not for hours yet,' Mary whispered back. ‘And it would reflect badly on the family if you were to disappear, so don't think of it. He's six foot under and can hurt you no more, so hang on.'

So Bridie gritted her teeth. She commiserated with Frank and Delia and the little ones who were little no longer. Rosalyn was now married to a man called Todd Fleming but couldn't be there because she'd been unable to get a flight out in time for the funeral. She was sure her mammy would understand.

Delia understood only too well and Bridie was relieved: she'd been worried about meeting Rosalyn again and was glad their first meeting wouldn't take place on this occasion, when she was fraught enough, especially as she guessed Rosalyn, who had thought the world of her father, would be incredibly upset and might think Bridie's behaviour odd.

Bridie and Mary left early Monday morning, exhausted, having had to act as though sorry for Francis's death when really they would have preferred to dance a jig on his grave. Bridie had got no closer to her mother either and, still not able to explain fully why she'd upped and left in the way she had, Sarah couldn't begin to understand her actions.

Bridie didn't know if she'd done her father much good either by coming until he enveloped her in a bear hug just before she was about to mount the rail bus. ‘Thank you for coming, my bonny lass,' he said. ‘I've missed you sorely.'

‘And I you, Daddy,' Bridie replied sincerely. ‘And I'm sorry for everything.'

‘Nay, lass. Don't let our parting words be ones of apology,' Jimmy said. ‘I only wish I could see more of you and my grandchildren too. If there's war in England, I want you to come here and bring the two wee ones with you,' he added suddenly, full of concern. ‘And,' he said, reaching out to Mary. ‘That goes for you too. Now don't forget.'

Bridie and Mary were moved by their father's concern. Both felt too that though it would take him some time to really get over Francis's death, their presence and the danger of war that hung over them had shifted the emphasis a little and might help take his mind off it.

‘Not that we'd take him up on it, of course,' Mary said as the rail bus chugged its way towards Strabane.

‘Aye,' Bridie said, catching her sister's mood. ‘We can just be glad that we live close enough to be a support to one another.'

‘Amen to that,' Mary said. ‘You hold me up and I'll hold you up.'

Bridie was glad to reach home. The low clouds that had hung about all day had made the day dark and now with evening upon them, it was nearly pitch black. The streets' gas lights made little impression in the murky gloom with wisps of fog swirling through it and Bridie shivered. They'd sent a telegram to Ellen telling her of their arrival time and she'd been up to both houses and lit the fires, leaving them banked up with slack for safety.

Bridie crossed to the hearth and poked life into the fire and it was as she raised her head to lift the coalscuttle that she saw the figure pass the window. She groaned; the shambling gait of the shawl-clad person meant there was no mistaking who it was and a few minutes later she faced Peggy McKenna who'd come in the entry door.

‘I came to sympathise with you on your loss,' she said.

‘My loss!' Bridie said blankly. She almost told Peggy that it was no loss, but a blessing, but she didn't: for Peggy didn't know who the father of the child she had aborted was and she'd never know, it would only be more ammunition for her. So she quickly collected herself and said, ‘Aye, my father was very cut up.'

‘Invited you back to the fold and all,' Peggy said sneeringly. ‘Wonder if they'd be so pleased with you if they knew what I know?'

Bridie knew they'd be horrified. It would be no good telling them about Francis now. He'd turned into a demi-god after his death. Never speak ill of the dead, people said, and that certainly applied to Francis. If the news of her pregnancy and subsequent abortion got out now, she'd be castigated more than ever if she tried to tell the truth. Francis was more powerful from the grave than if he'd still been alive.

‘Peggy, what do you want?' she cried. ‘Your husband is in work now.'

‘Aye, he is,' Peggy agreed. ‘But the man has a terrible thirst on him. Sure, there's little left for the rest of us. Your man must get a good screw, all the overtime he does, and isn't he a fine and sober man. You can spare a few coppers, I'm sure.'

‘I gave you three shillings before I went to the funeral,' Bridie protested.

‘Three shillings – what good is that?' Peggy said. ‘I want at least ten bob a week now.'

Bridie gasped. ‘Peggy, I could never manage that. I only have housekeeping. I couldn't lose ten shillings a week … Maybe I could stretch to five,' she said weakly.

‘Ten,' Peggy said. ‘Or those people of yours will be getting a letter from me.'

Bridie suddenly heard her children approaching. Mary had offered to collect them from Ellen's and Bridie could hear the high-pitched voice of her daughter and the shouts of Mary's boys.