The Bright One (13 page)

‘Do that. I'll call in on my way down to Luke's tomorrow. And think on, isn't it what's best for Breda that counts?'

Before he left for the fishing, and when Breda was out of the house visiting Deirdre O' Farrell, Molly told James what Josephine had said. Unexpectedly, he took Josephine's side.

‘She's quite right,' he said. ‘In fact it would not be the worst of ideas for Breda to go back to England with her for a spell.'

‘Oh no!' Molly disagreed. ‘All our children gone! You and me left alone!'

He grinned at her, pulled her towards him and looked into her eyes.

‘And what is so terrible about being left alone with your loving husband? No-one else to think about. Wouldn't I give you the best of times?'

‘I didn't mean anything like that,' Molly said. ‘It's just . . . '

‘It's just that you can't let your last chick leave the nest. Isn't that the size of it? Well, you will have to, sooner or later.'

‘She is only fourteen,' Molly protested.

‘Old enough to be out working,' James said. ‘Wasn't I doing just that by the time I was twelve, and I daresay you also. Anyway, there is no harm in asking Breda what she thinks. Now, give me a kiss. I have to be off.'

‘'Tis a calm sea,' Molly said. ‘You'll have a smooth night. God go with you, James O'Connor!'

‘And be with you, my Molly!'

She stood in the doorway and watched him – he had a proud walk, shoulders back, head held high – until he was out of sight. She loved this man, oh, how she loved him! And one reason she loved her children so was surely that they were part of him. He would never be rich, in her heart she doubted that he would ever be in regular work; she faced the fact that she would always have to struggle to make ends meet, to put food on the table; but it didn't matter. As she watched him walk away she knew that, all those years ago, she had made the right choice.

She was still standing in the doorway, shading her eyes against the bright rays of the setting sun, when Breda arrived.

‘I've had my supper,' Breda said. ‘I had it with Deirdre.'

‘Good! How is Deirdre, then?'

‘She has warts. Two of them, one on her finger and one on her thumb. Her mammy has rubbed them with fresh-cut potato and buried it after in the garden. Will I be getting warts, do you think?'

‘I dare say not,' Molly said. ‘But if you do, 'tis a well-known cure! What would you think of going to work for Luke O'Reilly?'

‘Luke O'Reilly?' Breda was astonished. ‘I had never thought of such a thing. Why would I want to work for Luke O'Reilly?'

‘Because you must get a job as soon as you can. 'Tis not good for you to be doing nothing. Aunt Josie is going to see him tomorrow. She could ask about it.'

Breda sat down, rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands. Her face, so framed, with locks of red hair falling over her hands, looked so young, no older than eight or nine. Her pale skin still had the same powdering of freckles, which were the bane of her life.

I wish
she
was still nine years old; Molly thought. She would gladly have lived every one of those years with Breda over again, and not only because she was the last child. Breda was the child she had enjoyed to the full. But she was not nine years old and the clock could not be put back.

‘Did you think any more about Miss Glenda's?' she asked.

They had discussed whether Breda might enquire of Miss Glenda was there any hope that she could take Moira's place, though of course she would have to start at the beginning.

Breda pulled a face.

‘Moira said not to do it at any price. Miss Glenda is a cow,' she said.

‘Breda! That is not the way to describe
anyone
!' Molly cried.

‘I didn't,' Breda said. ‘'Twas Moira said so!'

‘You and Moira are two different people,' Molly said. ‘I know she's my daughter, and your sister, but was she ever easy to get on with?'

‘But Miss Glenda might take it out on me because of Moira,' Breda objected.

In any case she would not like sweeping the floor and washing the towels. She was not even sure that she wanted to be a stylist in the end, though it sounded glamorous enough.

‘You could be right at that,' Molly admitted. ‘Though there is not much choice, is there? Perhaps we had better let Aunt Josie speak to Luke O'Reilly. We don't know that he needs anyone, but we could find out.'

Breda half hoped that he would not, though she knew it was wrong of her. She must take whatever work she could get.

Didn't Mammy desperately need the money? As each of them had grown they had looked forward to earning a bit, putting something in the purse. It was the way with every family, and now it was up to her and she couldn't shirk it.

It was strange, going to bed that night. She drew the dividing curtain aside as far as it would go. She had this fear, though she knew it was stupid, of what might lurk behind it. She would ask Mammy if she could take it down for good tomorrow.

The trouble now was that the room was bigger than she had ever thought it. Two wide beds, and instead of five or six of them like sardines in a can, only herself filling less than half of one. How often she had envied Deirdre, with her very own bedroom, but now that she had it herself she didn't like it at all. She longed for a sister or a brother. Even Moira would have done.

She was still wide awake when she heard Mammy come to bed, but she would not call out, she would
not
!

She did not have to.

‘Are you still awake?' Mammy whispered, coming into the room.

‘I can't get to sleep, Mammy!'

‘It's strange, isn't it,
dote
? I know. Don't think I don't feel the same!' She stood by the bed and looked at her daughter. What would become of this one?

‘I'll tell you what,' she said. ‘Since Dada's on the boats, why don't I join with you? Only for tonight, though. Anyway, we'll both feel better by tomorrow, sure we will! I won't be a minute!'

She went to her own bedroom and got into her nightdress. To undress in front of any of her children was not to be thought of. It had taken all James's persuasion to get her to do so in front of her husband.

She slipped into the bed beside Breda, then stretched out an arm and snuffed the candle. It was not quite dark in the room; a shaft of moonlight splashed the floor. She pictured it lighting up the sea, where James was. Thank God for a calm night, though James didn't mind when the sea was rough. He was in his element on the water. Of all the jobs he had, the fishing was his favourite. God keep him safe and bring him home to me, she thought.

‘I was thinking,' Breda said. ‘I was thinking what I would do if I didn't work for Mr O'Reilly or Miss Glenda. If I could choose.'

‘And what would you do? If you could choose anything in the whole world?'

‘Well . . . ' Breda considered. ‘Well . . . I could be a nurse . . . '

‘You would make a good nurse.'

‘I'd like the uniform. And a grey cloak, lined with scarlet! Or I could be an actress, or a film star!'

‘Hey! Come down to earth!' Molly cried.

‘We said I could choose
anything
,' Breda reminded her. ‘Or paint pictures, or write books; or a dancer. A dancer would be nice!'

‘Very nice!' Molly yawned. It had been a long day.

‘
Or
I would marry a rich man, very handsome, and have a big house in Kilbally, and seven children – seven is my lucky number – and you and Dada could live with us . . . and then . . . and then . . . '

‘Good night, Breda,' Molly said.

But Breda was already asleep.

Only the earliest of early birds was on the wing when James walked back from the harbour next morning. There were lights in a farm two field lengths away, and as he passed the creamery there was the rattle and clanking of milk churns. Nothing more.

He let himself into the silent house, poked the fire into life, and went through to the bedroom. He could not believe it when he saw the empty bed, not slept in, the covers smooth and undisturbed. Sudden fright gripped him until he saw Molly's day clothes folded and draped over the chair, the way she left them every night. Then he slipped off his boots and tiptoed into the other bedroom.

She was there all right, Breda sprawled across most of the bed, a red head and a dark head side by side on the pillows, both of them fast asleep.

Gently, he stroked Molly's face until she opened her eyes and saw him.

‘Come back to your own bed,' he whispered. ‘Come back where you belong!'

She took his hand and went with him.

Breda was still in bed when Josephine called in on her way to Luke O'Reilly's.

‘She should be up and doing by now,' Josephine said. ‘You mustn't let her get into bad habits.'

‘Oh, Josephine, surely you remember what children of this age are like!' Molly protested. ‘They could sleep the clock round!'

‘If you let them,' Josephine said. ‘Well, she'll not be able to do that when she gets a job – which is why I am here. Will I speak to Luke O'Reilly, then?'

‘Well, last night she was deciding between being a dancer and a film star, until such time as she found herself a rich husband,' Molly said. ‘But I reckon this morning she'll have to settle for a job with Luke O'Reilly – if he has one, that is.'

‘I'll do my best,' Josephine promised.

Little more than an hour later she was back again. Breda was peeling potatoes; James was in bed.

‘Will you be taking a cup of tea?' Molly asked Josephine. ‘And the soda bread is warm out of the oven.'

‘I will have both,' Josephine said. ‘Not a bite nor a sip did I have at the O'Reillys, but there is good reason for it. Luke is busy in the shop and 'tis clear that Mary is not fit to do a hand's turn! I never saw a woman go downhill so. You never mentioned it,' she rebuked Molly.

‘What do you mean?' Molly asked. ‘When I go in the shop I always ask after her. Only last week Luke said she was much as usual.'

‘It's what he always says,' Breda put in.

Josephine nodded. ‘In fact, that's what he said to me. I said to him would I go through and see her. I can tell you I was surprised when I did.'

‘She always looks pale,' Molly said. ‘And thinner than she once was. But hasn't she always enjoyed poor health, ever since he brought her here? She was delicate as a bride, all those years ago. Mary O'Reilly is a creaking gate. 'Tis Luke everyone is sorry for.'

‘I am wondering how many people go and see her, or if the doctor calls,' Josephine said doubtfully. ‘She looks more than a creaking gate to me.'

‘The doctor not as often as he used to, I dare say,' Molly said. ‘Will you stay and have your dinner with us? There's plenty, though 'tis mostly potatoes.'

‘I'll get back to Mammy,' Josephine said. ‘I'll come this afternoon when she takes her rest.'

She has said nothing about the job, Breda thought, cutting up the potatoes, putting them in the pan. Perhaps there isn't one. She was glad and sorry, both at the same time.

‘However, 'tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and in this case the good is to Breda,' Josephine said. ‘I persuaded Luke that Mary needed more attention than he could give her. Also that himself could do with help in the shop. The upshot is that he will take on Breda and she will do whatever and wherever the work is.'

Breda's heart plummeted. So this was it! But Josephine's next words cheered her a little.

‘He will pay you ten shillings a week, which is not bad, seeing you are as green as grass, no experience at all.'

Ten shillings! She would give it all to Mammy, with the hope that she would give her back at least ninepence a week for pocket money, and perhaps the material for a new dress. The thought quite cheered her up.

‘That is wonderful!' she said. ‘Ten shillings!'

‘He will make you work for it,' Molly said. She remembered how hard he had worked Kieran and Patrick. But then, hadn't he sent them home with two ounces of this and two ounces of that on top of the wages? And ten shillings, less what she would give Breda, was a decent sum, and regular. There would be no worry about the rent.

‘You can start as soon as you like,' Josephine said. ‘So why not tomorrow?'

‘Does he not want to see Breda about it first, make sure she will suit?' Molly asked.

‘It seems not. He said he could trust any child of Molly O'Connor's to work well.'

‘And he
has
known Breda all her life,' Molly said. ‘All the same, I still think you and I, Breda, should go down and thank Mr O'Reilly, tell him you are willing to start tomorrow. We want him to know that you have the backing of your family.'

All the details having been thus settled, Breda presented herself at the shop at eight o'clock the following morning. In a brown paper bag she carried a dean apron, one of her mother's which Mammy had cut down to size the previous evening, and, wrapped in a piece of paper, two thick slices of soda bread in case she was not allowed to slip home at dinner time. She hoped she would be. The shop kept open until eight in the evening, which would make it a long day.

Walking down the street she had wondered, for the hundredth time, what it would be like. She was not particularly fearful about the shop part. Sure, she could weigh out tea and sugar, peas and beans, currants and raisins if there were any to be had, which Mammy said was unlikely. And she could take the money and give the right change. Hadn't she always been good at the sums?