Till the Sun Shines Through (8 page)

After the harvest was safely in, they all visited the peat bog together. Again, Bridie remembered her trips as a child, with her and Rosalyn thrown into the back of the cart, with her father and Francis up in front, and Terry and Frank walking behind. Uncle Francis would sing rebel songs all the way there, his voice rising in the mist of an autumn morning.

Bridie had always loved the damp mossy smell of the bog and the way the spade slid so effortlessly into the peat. Usually black sludge would seep along it, squeezing between her bare toes and slapping up her legs. She liked the feel of it and never minded the icy coldness. She remembered how her mother would often give out when they arrived home and have her stand in a basin of warm water to be washed down before any of them were given a meal. It was part of her childhood; the time she thought would go on for ever with no change.

Now she walked alongside Frank and there wasn't the hint of a song from her often morose uncle. The fun had gone out of it as it had gone out of a lot of things. These were now just chores to be done in order to get by for another year.

However, at last, the day of the Harvest Dance arrived. Frank was to take them up to it and bring them home afterwards, but at the last minute he went down with flu and wasn't able to. ‘We can go ourselves,' Bridie insisted. ‘Haven't we often enough for the socials?'

‘Not tonight,' Sarah said. ‘Some of these young fellows will have the drink on them. Lord knows what they'll be up to once the night's over.'

‘Well, sure I'll take them up,' Jimmy said, ‘and go to collect them.'

‘Aye, but you'll not know when it might be finishing,' Sarah said. ‘Ask Francis. He often goes up to the dance himself.'

Bridie wanted desperately to protest. She wanted to say she'd have anyone but Francis, but remained silent, afraid of what her uncle might say if she spoke aloud her fears. She resolved to stick to Rosalyn and her friends like glue.

Later, when her uncle Francis called for her, he stood speechless in the yard, wondering if Bridie had any idea how tempting she looked dressed in her finery as she stood framed in the doorway with the lamp behind her. Her eyes were sparkling and her face aglow with excitement at the thought of going to her first real dance and her dark brown hair, which she had rinsed in rain water earlier that day, shone as it bounced on her shoulders.

The blood coursed through Francis's veins as he stared at her. He caught a glimpse of one bare shoulder as she adjusted the beautiful stole about her and picked up her bag where she had put the soft kid boots, wrapped in paper. These boots were the loveliest footwear she'd ever owned and she had no desire to tramp across the bog and rocks of Ireland in them, her old working boots would do well enough for that.

Many must have had the same thought as Francis, for Bridie was in great demand all night at the dance and had such a good time that she barely noticed her uncle at the bar, drinking steadily and watching her broodingly.

Lots of the young girls had their eye on some fellow or other and Bridie knew a lot of couples often began walking out from the Harvest Dance. ‘Anyone you fancy?' said a girl in Bridie's ear. ‘You have plenty of choice anyway, for you've seldom been off your feet all night. You must have danced with half the men in the room.'

But none of the men had stirred Bridie in any way. Quite a few had asked if they could see her again, begin walking out with her, and she'd immediately shied away. She had no wish to be unkind, and just said she was not ready for that level of commitment yet, but she saw the disappointment on all of their faces.

She refused to worry much about it though. She was here to enjoy herself and that's what she intended to do and she told Rosalyn the same as the two went arm in arm back to the dance floor after the Harvest Supper.

It was as they came back into the hall that a girl said to Rosalyn, ‘Won't you miss all this?', the sweep of her arm taking in everything.

‘I suppose,' Rosalyn muttered, her eyes avoiding those of her cousin.

‘What did she mean?' Bridie asked when the girl was out of earshot.

It was obvious that Rosalyn was uncomfortable. Bridie saw her lick her lips nervously before she replied, ‘Didn't your Aunt Ellen say? I saw her talking to Mammy when she came over and I thought

‘What are you on about?'

‘I'm … I'm leaving.'

‘Leaving?'

‘Leaving here. Leaving Ireland.'

‘Leaving Ireland?' Bridie repeated. ‘Why, in God's name? And don't you think if I'd had just one sniff of that, I'd have been around to your house straight off to ask you about it?'

Of course Rosalyn knew: telling Bridie was what she'd dreaded most about the whole affair. ‘Why on earth are you leaving?' Bridie demanded. ‘Do you mean really leaving, or just going away for a wee while?'

‘No!' Rosalyn couldn't let her think that. ‘You know my aunt Maria, well, Uncle Aiden has somewhere for them all in America now. But Maria can't face the journey alone and is afraid of something happening to the weans, so she's offered to pay my fare to go over with her.'

‘To what?' Bridie cried. ‘Here you have a job – a life. What would you get in America?'

‘Experience,' Rosalyn said. ‘Oh, I don't know.' She knew Bridie was hurt and upset and she wanted to explain it to her, make her see what a chance it was. Bridie knew, or she'd realise when the hurt had eased, that Rosalyn would never have been happy in rural Ireland all the days of her life. God! She'd made that plain enough from when they were in their early teens.

Now her young aunt had handed her the means to leave on a plate and her mother, far from opposing it, had urged her to go. She told Bridie this. ‘Mammy's all for it. She says it's a chance that might never come again. 'Course, the weans are older now and able to help more. Nora's only a year behind Declan at ten. I was a fine hand in the house when I was ten and there's no babies to see to now either. Mammy says I must go. She said these are opportunities that you must take when you're single.

‘As for a job, I'm sure I could get one over there soon enough if I wanted one. Maria doesn't want me to work, not at first anyway. Aiden earns good money and he wants me to stay with her too, for he says Maria is bound to feel strange at first. He thinks she'd settle better with someone of her own beside her.'

Bridie couldn't believe it. Neither Terry leaving, nor Mary moving to Birmingham, had affected like this. Rosalyn had been living next door to her since they'd both been babies and they'd been inseparable ever since. She couldn't visualise life without her. Even when Rosalyn began work and had been in town during the day, they'd still seen each other in the evenings and at the weekends. Unlike Rosalyn, who'd made other friends at work, Bridie had had no opportunity to do that. It had never bothered her. She'd never really needed anyone but Rosalyn.

Hurt and frightened of the loneliness she'd feel at her cousin's departure, she spat out sneeringly, ‘Oh, that's it then, you'll be a skivvy for your sister-in-law. Fine job that will be.'

‘Don't be like that, Bridie!' Rosalyn cried. ‘I'm sorry I'm going, for your sake, and I'm going to miss you like crazy, but …' She shrugged. ‘Maria can't go on her own, not with the three weans so small. If your Mary asked you for help, you'd break your neck to do it and you know you would.'

She might like to, Bridie thought, but knew she couldn't up sticks like Rosalyn could, no matter what fix Mary was in. The heavy cloak of duty and responsibility kept her successfully on the farm. A lump lodged in Bridie's throat and she was scared she was going to cry. She fought to control herself; she couldn't bear to make a holy show of herself like that. She swallowed the lump and suddenly she felt anger at the unfairness of life course all through her and turned once again on Rosalyn. ‘Go to bloody America then,' she snapped. ‘And I hope it stays fine for you.'

‘Bridie …'

But Bridie turned away from her cousin. Tears had begun to seep from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks and she ran from the place lest anyone should see. She knew she had to move well away. Anyone could be about the hall outside: people out for a breath of air to cool off, courting couples – anyone. There was a little copse of trees not far from the hall so she made for there and leaned her head against a tree trunk. She could still see the twinkling lights of the hall and hear the laughter and tantalising music from inside and it cut into her very soul. It felt like a mockery, especially as she remembered how excited she'd been about the dance. At the thought of that, the tears came in earnest, almost bursting from her in a torrent.

She had nothing with her to wipe her eyes; she'd run in a panic, leaving behind her bag, her work boots and her stole. But she couldn't go back for them, she'd look a sight and she knew her eyes would be puffy and red from crying and everyone would know something was wrong.

But then what should she do? She couldn't go home yet; her parents might still be up and would wonder why she was back so early. They'd know she'd have been upset by something and wouldn't rest till they got it out of her.

She'd take a walk, she decided. Her kid boots would be ruined, but no matter. It was precious few dances she'd go to after this one.

One person, the one who'd watched Bridie all night, had seen the altercation between her and Rosalyn. He'd seen Bridie's flight and Rosalyn biting her bottom lip in consternation.

But he didn't approach his daughter. Instead, he'd slipped outside and stood by the side of the hall and then, hidden by the velvety darkness, had begun to move forward. He'd watched Bridie approach the edge of the copse and had heard her tears, but he had not moved closer until he seen her enter the small wood and then he began to follow in earnest.

When Bridie heard the snap of twigs behind her, she told herself not to panic and stop imagining things. This was the wood not that far from her home that she'd walked in and played in as a child many a time. It was also the home of many small animals and birds and the rustling and cracklings around her were them going about their business, or settling down for the night.

She did stop once and looked around surreptitiously, but she saw nothing and chided herself for her foolishness. Even when she thought she heard breathing behind her, she thought she'd imagined it.

So when a hand shot out and grasped her bare shoulder, she jumped and opened her mouth to let out a scream, but the other hand, already clasped firmly over her mouth, effectively stifled it. ‘Don't be frightened, Bridie,' a familiar voice said. ‘It's me – Francis.'

That hardly made Bridie feel better and her heart was hammering in her ribs. She told herself not to overreact, to act as normally as possible. Whatever had ailed Francis a couple of years before had effectively passed and so she said sharply, ‘Uncle Francis, what are you doing? You could have given me a heart attack.'

‘I was looking out for you,' Francis said. ‘You shouldn't be walking home alone. I promised your mother …'

‘I'm perfectly all right,' Bridie snapped. ‘I'm a wean no longer. And if you wanted to walk me home, why didn't you call out? Why did you creep up on me like that?'

‘If I'd have called out, you'd probably have run away,' Francis said. ‘And break your neck likely as not because you're nervous of me, aren't you?'

‘If I am, it's with reason.'

‘Ah no,' Francis said, slipping an arm around Bridie's shoulder and beginning to caress it gently as he continued, ‘I'd never hurt you, Bridie.'

‘Don't,' Bridie said impatiently, trying and failing to dislodge her uncle's hand.

‘Don't be mean to me,' Francis said. ‘Sure aren't you the loveliest thing to walk the earth?'

‘Stop it, Uncle Francis!' Bridie said. ‘It's the beer talking.'

‘Aye, the beer,' Francis agreed, shaking his head sagely. ‘The beer unlocks the flood of words I've longed to speak to you. Words like “love” and “adore”. Words like “bewitch”, for that's what you do to me.'

‘I won't listen to this,' Bridie declared. ‘It's wrong. You're drunk and you'll regret all this tomorrow, if you remember it at all.' She glanced around furtively to see if she could break away from him. But even as she thought of it, she rejected it. Francis had been right about one thing: the wood was inky, pitch black. The harvest moon must have been covered by cloud, for no light from it penetrated through the canopy of leaves and she knew she'd probably fall headlong before she'd gone any distance. In fact, the only thing she could see in the dark was the strange light dancing in her uncle's eyes and then the flash of his teeth as he opened his mouth and said huskily, ‘I'll regret nothing. I just want to remember you just as you are tonight.'

Oh God, Bridie thought in annoyance. The bloody man was a pest and the only thing to do was humour him. She wasn't exactly frightened, she was unnerved, but knew better than to show him that. ‘Go home now, Uncle Francis,' Bridie pleaded with a sigh of impatience. ‘Go and sleep it off, for God's sake.'

‘Sleep off this madness I have for you?' Francis cried. ‘The thing that gets between me and sleep, my work, my peace of mind? Dear Christ, Bridie, you don't know what you do to me.'

That's it! Bridie thought, angered at last. This sort of talk had to stop and if Francis wouldn't listen to reason, maybe he'd listen to fury. How dare he think he could just accost her whenever he had the notion and spout such rubbish? ‘Now look here, Uncle Francis …' she began angrily.

She got no further for suddenly her mouth had been covered by his. But this kiss was different from the others, for she felt her uncle force open her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.