The Bright One (17 page)

‘Then what are you complaining about?' Molly asked.

‘There's another thing,' Breda said. ‘He has asked me would I go through Mrs O'Reilly's things – clothes and suchlike. 'Tis months since she died and he has done nothing about it, not even made a start. I wonder would you be after helping me, Mammy? You would know better what to do with things.'

‘He might not wish me to do it,' Molly said. ‘I thought he might have asked Mrs Milligan.'

‘That he would not hear of,' Breda said. ‘But you he would not mind a bit. He likes you.'

‘Very well,' Molly said. ‘We will do it on Wednesday afternoon when the shop is closed, if that will suit.'

When she told James what she had promised to do he was not best pleased.

‘Why should not Mrs Milligan do it?' he asked. ‘She worked for his wife.'

Molly shrugged. ‘I don't know. Didn't I ask Breda the very same thing? She said he would not hear of it.'

Then, as she was leaving the house after dinner on Wednesday, James said, ‘What is in your basket?'

‘A few scones and some soda bread.'

‘Are we so rich, then, that we can give food to Luke O'Reilly, who has his pockets well lined?' he complained. ‘Can't he afford to buy his own?'

‘You cannot buy what is home-made,' Molly said. ‘And I hope we are never so poor that we cannot give to a neighbour! It will cheer him up.'

James shook his head in mock despair, but he could never resist her for long.

‘Very well then! But you are too soft. You are as soft as butter!'

Luke O'Reilly was pleased with the gifts.

‘It's a month of Sundays since I tasted newly baked soda bread,' he said.

Molly was surprised. She had thought perhaps there might be a stream of widows and single ladies bringing offerings to his door. But she would not say so. He was not a man you could tease.

‘Kieran always liked my scones. I used to send them to him when he first went away,' she said.

‘And how is Kieran?' Luke enquired.

‘He is very well. Next year he will be priested. Then there will be no happier man in all Ireland.'

And Kathleen was now professed, and happy. They had both done what was right for them, but never a day passed that she did not miss them, and her other children away from her. Christmas had come and gone with Breda the only child at home to celebrate it, though the twins, according to their last letter, were all right, and looking forward to being home very soon. Moira, to her disgust, was already pregnant again.

‘Moira might be disgusted, but Father Curran will be pleased!' Molly had remarked.

‘So where shall we start?' she asked Luke. ‘And what do you want me to do with the clothes, or whatever else there is?'

‘I don't know,' he said helplessly. ‘There are clothes in the wardrobe, and other things in the chest of drawers. I just don't know what. You must tell me if anything is fit to sell, or only to give away. You would know better than I would.'

‘Then leave it to me,' Molly said. ‘It must be a painful task for you. But I won't decide anything without asking.'

Would it be painful, he wondered? He didn't know. Since Mary's death he never knew from day to day how he was going to feel about any of it. Some days he was grateful for the new freedom, as if heavy chains had fallen from him. At other times he felt incredibly alone, even in the presence of his customers. There were moments when he thought he heard his wife's petulant voice calling to him, and he would step halfway to answering it. Even though his loss would have been greater he would have been happier, he was sure, if they had had a good marriage. As it was, he felt guilt that they had not been in accord, and anger that it was partly her fault.

What he could not yet bring himself to do was to enter into his new state of being a widower, start a new life, as he knew he must. Even when he went to bed he could not allow himself to trespass on the half of the bed which had once been hers. He sometimes wondered would she ever leave him? Was it an illusion that he was free? Would he ever be?

He left Molly and Breda to it and went back into the shop. Once a month, on a Wednesday afternoon, he visited the wholesaler in Ennis, but this was not the week for it and aside from this monthly excursion he seldom went anywhere on his half day. He did his accounts, paid bills, made out orders, fried himself a rasher and an egg for his tea, and that was it.

‘There's some good stuff here,' Molly said looking through the wardrobe. ‘Good quality. Of course it's not up-to-the-minute fashion because it's a few years since Mary O'Reilly stopped going out of the house. But anyway, who is out-and-out fashionable in Kilbally?'

‘I would be if I could!' Breda sighed.

Molly smiled at her.

‘I know you would. Haven't I told you, you should learn to make your own clothes? You could study the pattern books. That might help.'

‘Perhaps I will,' Breda said. ‘Mammy, if there was anything of Mrs O'Reilly's you would like for yourself, I'm sure Mr O'Reilly would give it to you.'

‘Perhaps so. And there are one or two nice things. But I wouldn't fancy them.'

She had not really liked Mary O'Reilly in life; she felt guilty that she had seldom had a good word to say about her. To wear the dead woman's garments would be hypocritical, unacceptable.

‘But it would be different for you,' she said. ‘You liked Mary and I think she liked you. Probably she would want you to have something and Luke has just not thought about it. You would suit this green jacket, for instance. Here, try it on.'

Hesitantly, looking around at the door in case Mr O'Reilly should enter – and what in the world would he think if he did – Breda slipped her arms into the jacket.

‘I feel awkward doing this,' she said. ‘But I never saw her wear it, so it doesn't
quite
feel as though it belonged to her.'

‘I wonder, did she ever do so? 'Tis like new,' Molly said.

She was on her knees, sorting through the drawers now, but she broke off, sat back on her heels and appraised her daughter.

‘Yes indeed, you
do
suit it. The sleeves would need shortening, but that's no trouble.'

Molly returned to the contents of the drawer.

‘Good gracious!' she said. ‘There are lengths of quite new material here. I wonder why she hoarded these? Well, I suppose we shall never know!'

Breda, wearing the jacket, studied her reflection, at least that part which was not blocked out by various ornaments and vases of artificial flowers, in the mirror over the sideboard.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I do like it. All the same, there is no way I could ask for it. If he were to mention it, that would be different.'

She took off the jacket and draped it over a chair, the second before Luke O'Reilly came back into the room.

‘We have almost finished,' Molly told him. ‘We have sorted things into different lots. The clothes on the armchair you might manage to sell. They seem almost new.'

She was wondering when and where Mary could have bought them. It was a long time since she'd been as far as Ennis and there was nothing like these in Kilbally.

‘She bought things by post, from Dublin,' Luke said, answering the question in Molly's face. ‘She bought them and never wore them. But I didn't deny her. I never denied her anything. No-one can say I did!'

‘I'm sure you didn't,' Molly said kindly.

Except what she needed most, which was love and understanding, Breda thought, with wisdom beyond her years, wisdom born of daily observation.

‘You will need to take them to the second-hand clothes shop when you go to Ennis,' Molly told Luke. ‘It's near to the church. They will give you something, though perhaps not what they're worth.'

‘I wonder if you could . . . '

She guessed what he was going to say, and interrupted him.

‘I couldn't do it for you, Luke. I'm sorry. I seldom go to Ennis.'

That was true. It cost money to travel to Ennis, and money to spend when you got there, but the real truth was that James would have a fit if she did this further thing for Luke O'Reilly.

‘Anyway,' she said, ‘being a man you'll no doubt get a better price than I would. Now these two piles here I think will be suitable for the church jumble sale. They'll be glad of them. And the shoes.'

There were ten pairs of shoes. In all my life I have never had more than one pair of shoes at a time, Molly thought. But never mind that, she admonished herself, haven't I been far happier than Mary O'Reilly, who never had the pleasure of buying a pair of shoes for a child of her own?

Luke gazed at the shoes.

‘She had tiny feet.'

‘Yes,' Molly agreed. ‘Size three!'

When he had first met her, Luke thought, she had had dancing feet. ‘Twinkletoes,' he had once called her. Where had all that gone? He pulled himself together.

‘If there is anything you would like . . . ' he said to Molly.

‘Well, since you mention it, I was looking at this green jacket,' she confessed. ‘I would buy it from you if you didn't want too much.'

‘It's yours,' Luke said. ‘You are welcome to it. I don't want anything for it.'

‘Thank you very much,' Molly said.

‘You will suit it,' Luke told her.

‘Oh, it is not for me! It is for Breda here!'

He was disappointed. For a moment, giving the jacket to Molly O'Connor, he had felt good. He would have seen her wearing it to church. He was not sure that he would have given it to Breda. 'Twas not that he had anything against the girl; she was pretty and pleasant, and a good worker, though by rights there was not enough for her to do, and he must think seriously about that. But he knew, though no-one else ever would, that he kept her on for the sake of her mother.

‘And there are some lengths of material in the bottom drawer,' Molly said.

‘Take them!' Luke said. ‘Take what you want!'

When he had gone back into the shop she and Breda made their pick of the materials.

‘Now is your chance,' Molly said. ‘Here is a navy wool which will make you a smart skirt to go with the green jacket . . . '

‘And a navy and white spot for a blouse. It's lovely fine cotton. Oh, you will make them for me, won't you, Mammy?'

‘I will not!' Mammy said firmly. ‘Sure, I'll buy the pattern, and I'll show you how to do it, but you will make both garments yourself. And unless you're willing to do that, we'll not take the materials.'

‘Oh Mammy! Supposing I make a mess of it!'

‘You won't,' Molly said. ‘I'll show you every step. But it's high time you learned to make your own clothes. So what is it to be? Will you take the materials or not?'

‘Then I'll take them,' Breda said.

Already she could see in her mind's eye how she would look. If there was enough material she would make the skirt in gores, flaring out to the hem, and the blouse with a neat collar, and small white buttons down the front and on the cuffs. She could see the picture, but could she ever do it?

‘And since Luke said take what you like,' Molly said, ‘though I don't want to be greedy I will have this nice white cotton. It will make me a Sunday blouse.'

A week later the telegram came. The delivery boy thrust it into her hands and departed quickly. He didn't like to be there when people opened telegrams. They were mostly bad news.

Molly's heart raced. While she tried to open it – her hands were trembling and clumsy – she thought of a dozen catastrophes which could have befallen her family. Kieran was seriously ill. Kathleen had been knocked down, crossing a busy Dublin street. Moira had lost the baby. It could not be the twins because, she hoped and believed, they were by now on the high seas on their way home. But Patrick could have fallen overboard and Colum jumped to save him!

All these thoughts rushed through her mind in the time it took her to open the telegram and make out the words.

It
was
from the twins. They had not fallen overboard. No calamity had befallen them. She read the words silently, and then out loud. ‘“Landed in England. Expect us home Saturday. Patrick and Colum.”'

She had to tell someone. She could not possibly wait until James and Breda came home from work. She wanted James, who was helping Mr O'Farrell with the harvest. She wanted Breda, who was down at the shop. She had to tell them, she just had to.

Tears were streaming down her face, and her legs were suddenly so weak that she felt they would not hold her; nevertheless she ran out of the door and away down the street, waving the telegram.

She ran in the direction of Luke O'Reilly's shop because it was closer than the farm. She ran straight past neighbours she knew, not really seeing them, not aware that they had to jump out of her way.

She burst into the shop and scattered two women patiently waiting their turn, only coming to a stop as she hit against the counter, behind which Breda was serving a customer.

‘They're coming home!' she shouted. ‘Patrick and Colum! They're in England. They'll be home on Saturday!'

She thrust the telegram at Breda, then she laid her head on the counter and burst into sobs. Breda ran around and eased her mother into a chair, knelt on the floor with her arms around her, and joined her tears with Molly's.

Luke rushed in from the back. ‘What's happening? What's the noise about?'

He saw Molly and Breda crying in each other's arms. ‘Something's wrong!' he cried. ‘What is it? What's wrong?'