The Bright One (11 page)

They went to the beaches, to the nearby villages where, greatly daring, she went into bars with him, drinking lemonade and sipping his Guinness. They pottered around the harbours, they walked along the cliffs and looked out over the Atlantic Ocean.

But it was not all walking. There was always somewhere to sit; on the short grass along the cliff tops, in a field or, when the rain came, in a handy barn. Anywhere.

They sat or lay close, their bodies touching. It was never long before their lips met in kisses the like of which even Moira had not known before. Barry was clearly experienced. He did things to her which set her body on fire, which made her long to give in to the demands he more and more made on her. If only she could be quite, quite sure of him! But until she was, she would never let him go the whole way.

‘'Tis not that I don't want to,' she told him.

‘Well then . . . ?'

‘There are some things I would only give to the man I marry,' she said softly.

It was not easy for her. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Also she wondered if her refusal might put him off altogether, but that was a gamble she had to take. There were only two days left.

In fact, it seemed that her virtue had made her even more desirable. He talked to her about his family, his home, his job as an under-manager in a bookshop.

‘You'd like Dublin,' he said.

‘Oh, I've been there,' Moira replied. ‘Sure, I loved every minute of it. All I want in the world is to go again!'

‘And so you shall,' Barry promised. ‘But this time with me to guide you. The theatre, restaurants, cinemas!'

‘There is a film show tomorrow in Kilbally, in the town hall,' Moira said.

Barry laughed.

‘I remember those when I was a kid!' he said. ‘Stools at the front, ninepence, chairs at the back, one and fourpence! Nothing like Dublin.'

‘It's David Niven,' she said. ‘Would you be surprised if I said you were rather like David Niven?'

He stroked his moustache with his first finger.

‘It has been said before,' he admitted modestly.

On his last day he took her to Ennis in the afternoon. There were two jewellers' shops in Ennis and he made no bones about it when she slowed to a halt in front of the windows. Everyone knew that when you started gazing at rings in jewellers' windows an engagement was close.

And then at the
céilidh
that evening, hadn't he acted all the time as though she belonged to him? Everyone could see they were a couple. She knew, oh she just
knew
, that when he walked her home afterwards he would say the words.

And now . . . if it had not been for her father . . . !

‘I hate you! I hate you!' She shouted it out loud. He couldn't fail to hear.

A small, internal voice told her that Barry could have said something at the station this morning. There was nothing against proposing in the middle of the morning. Then she told herself that Barry was romantic, he wanted the time and the place to be perfect, and the station platform, with only five minutes to go before the train left, and other people standing around, was not for him. He was sensitive.

But hadn't he taken her in his arms and kissed her, in front of everyone, before he'd boarded the train? And hadn't he leaned out of the window, blowing kisses, as it pulled out?

She rose from the bed now, and dried her eyes. She must pull herself together. All was not over, but there was no time to be lost. She would write to him, and at once, so that he would get it before he was caught up in his Dublin life again. She would tell him how she felt about him, let it all out, hold nothing back, except, of course, that she would not dwell on Dublin. She had nothing more to lose, and how could he fail to respond?

She went back to join the others. Molly looked at her keenly.

‘You'd better bathe your face before you go back to work,' she said.

‘I'm not going back to work,' Moira said. ‘Not today.'

‘But you've just had a fortnight off!' Molly said.

‘I'm not going. I am going to write to Barry and apologize for the rudeness of my family!'

‘Then Breda, you must go down to the salon and tell Miss Glenda your sister's indisposed, but she'll be back in the morning. And ask if there's anything you can do to help her in the meantime.'

It would be good for Breda to have something to do. She had left school at the end of the summer term and so far she had not found herself a job, either in Ennis or Kilbally, or in any of the villages around. There were too many school leavers and not enough work.

It was at times like this that Molly wished she had not been so independent of Patrick and Colum. At first, after they'd enlisted, they'd sent money home more or less regularly. They'd settled down well in the Army, in an artillery regiment, content at being together. She had become almost reconciled to their absence – didn't many families have a son serving in the British army, even though Ireland was neutral? – though she was fearful whenever she heard reports of the air raids in England.

Then, without warning, the two of them had turned up on a week's leave, and confessed that it was embarkation leave.

‘Where are they sending you?' she demanded.

‘We don't know,' Patrick said. ‘It could be anywhere: Italy, Egypt – who knows?'

‘But if we did know we wouldn't tell you,' Colum said. ‘It's not allowed.'

‘Wherever it is, we'll get a bit of money to you,' Patrick assured her. ‘There are ways of doing it.'

Quite suddenly she had made up her mind that she wouldn't take it.

‘I'm grateful,' she said. ‘But I can manage. Save all you can, then you'll have money to set yourselves up when the war's over.' She'd been adamant, and they'd given in.

She knew by now that they'd been sent to Burma, to the Fourteenth Army; ‘the Forgotten Army', they called it. But not forgotten by me, she thought. Never by me. She gathered and treasured every piece of news, little though there was.

Every so often a thin, blue airmail letter would arrive. Sometimes, after an interval, two came together. The letters were always signed by both of them and they told her little, but at least she knew they were alive. She read each letter a dozen times, then added it to the ones from Kieran in her treasure box. She wrote to the twins, and to Kieran, every week, and to Kathleen once a fortnight.

Breda was not keen to take the message to Miss Glenda. According to Moira she was a dragon.

‘Can't Moira write a note, Mammy, and I'll push it through the letter box?' she asked.

‘I'm not writing any note,' Moira said.

‘In any case, an apology is best made face to face,' Molly said.

‘Well then, isn't it Moira's face should be making it?' Breda objected. ‘It's pot my fault!'

‘I know that, Breda. Just be a good girl and do it. And don't forget to ask her if there's anything you can do to help.'

‘But don't expect her to pay you for it,' Moira put in. ‘She's too mean to draw breath!'

Breda hesitated outside the hairdresser's shop, then pushed the door open and went in. She was met by a cloud of warm air, heavily scented with the cheap perfume of shampoos and setting lotions. How lovely, she thought, breathing deeply. Miss Glenda kept her waiting while she tied up her client in a pink hairnet and put her under the dryer, then she turned to her.

‘I've come about Moira,' Breda said quickly. ‘She's sorry, she can't come back today. She's . . . indisposed.'

‘Indisposed, is it?' Miss Glenda said angrily. ‘May I ask in what way she is indisposed?'

Breda searched her mind for the answer. ‘I think she's
emotionally
indisposed,' she said.

Miss Glenda stared at her. ‘
Emotionally indisposed
? And what might that mean?'

‘She's upset,' Breda said.

‘Upset! And what about me? Isn't every bit of the work to fall on me? Why wouldn't
I
be upset? Tell me that!'

‘Mammy said I should ask you would you be wanting me to lend a hand?'

Breda made the offer reluctantly and was much relieved when it was refused.

‘You can tell your sister she had better be here at eight o'clock in the morning or 'twill be the worse for her!' Miss Glenda threatened.

Walking back, Breda met Moira on her way to post the letter to Barry Devlin.

‘You should put “SWALK” on the back of the envelope,' Breda said. ‘It means “sealed With a loving kiss”.'

‘I know what it means,' Moira said. ‘It's childish! Aren't I a grown woman?'

She had composed a letter she felt would move a heart of stone, one which Barry would find it impossible to resist.

She had been careful to make no demands, she'd simply told him how wonderful he was, how much she loved him, how already she was suffering deeply from their parting. She had so composed it that he could hardly fail to reply, but as an added insurance, before dropping it into the box, she drew her finger over it in the sign of a cross and made a short, impassioned prayer to the Holy Mother herself.

Breda gave her Miss Glenda's message.

‘Haven't I more to think about than that woman?' Moira said dismissively.

Nevertheless, she would have to go back to work soon. She couldn't go on without money, not until she knew what her future was to be. She calculated how long she must wait before Barry replied. If he received the letter tomorrow, if he replied at once (and how could he not?), with luck, and if her prayers were answered, she could hear the day after that.

She did not have to wait so long.

When Molly answered the knock on the door and saw the telegram boy she almost fainted. The world went black, and spun around, so that she had to clutch at the door frame for support.

‘'Tis for Moira,' the boy said.

The words came to her from a long way off.

‘'Tis for Miss Moira O'Connor,' he repeated. ‘'Tis not for you, Mrs O'Connor.'

Molly's world slowed down as he handed her the telegram.

‘I'm sorry. Thank you. She's at work. Breda will run down with it at once,' Molly said.

When Breda, out of breath, burst into the hairdresser's, Moira was shampooing a client. The woman was bent over the basin, the lather thick and creamy on her hair. Moira broke off at once, dried her hands down the front of her overall, and snatched at the telegram.

Seven words only. The sweetest, most wonderful words she had ever seen. She gave a shriek of delight.

‘I love you. Will you marry me?'

She took hold of Breda and started to waltz her across the salon, towards the door.

‘Where do you think you are going?' Miss Glenda yelled.

‘What's happening?' the customer wailed. ‘Somebody see to me! The soap's going in my eyes!'

‘I'm going to the post office!' Moira called out. ‘I have to send an urgent telegram.' She was out of the door by now, but turned back for a second.

‘I will not be back! I will not be back at all, at all!'

Barry came on a flying visit the following weekend, bringing with him the engagement ring he had chosen for Moira in Dublin. It had two small diamonds side by side, set in gold.

‘Oh, but it's quite beautiful!' Moira said. ‘And it fits perfectly. Oh, you have such good taste, Barry!'

To her certain knowledge, no-one in the O'Connor family had ever had a diamond before, let alone two.

The wedding was fixed for three weeks ahead. There was no point in waiting, Barry said, and he couldn't keep travelling from Dublin to Kilbally; he was too busy in his job. They would live with his parents for a short time, only until they found a place of their own. Moira was in total agreement. Except that she wanted a proper wedding, with a long dress and a veil, she would have been glad to leave Kilbally within the hour.

‘It's very short notice,' Molly said. ‘I've your dress to make. We can't afford to buy one.'

‘And mine!' Breda reminded her. She was to be the only bridesmaid and wear apricot taffeta, long to her ankles, and a wreath of lemon and apricot flowers in her hair.

‘You will look a treat,' Molly said. ‘But 'tis not a dress will be suitable for anything afterwards!'

‘Perhaps someone else will want a bridesmaid,' Breda said hopefully. Couldn't she hire herself out, so to speak?

‘There'll be those who will wonder why Moira wants to get married in such a hurry,' Molly said to James in the privacy of their bedroom.

‘And if they jump to conclusions, won't they just be disappointed!' James retorted.

His navy suit, which he had had for years but not often worn, was taken to the dry cleaners in Ennis, and Molly went with him to buy a bowler hat.

‘The father of the bride must wear a hat,' she said. ‘And anyway, it suits you. You look very smart, very handsome.'

Heaven alone knew what she would wear, let alone how she would afford it, but she wanted to be a credit to Moira. And hadn't both Kieran and Kathleen been given permission to come home for their sister's wedding, and wasn't her own sister Josephine coming all the way from Yorkshire?

In the end it was her mother who went into her hidden savings and provided the money for both Molly's and Moira's outfits. It came as a tremendous relief.

‘My family have always held their heads high,' Mrs Byrne said. (She would not have said as much for the O'Connors.) ‘My granddaughter shall have the best of weddings.'