The Bright One (45 page)

‘That's in his favour,' George said.

‘And there's another thing,' Opal pointed out. ‘If you took Graham, you'd have to take Breda O'Connor. He'll not leave her behind, because the minute they can afford it they intend to marry.'

‘I'd be glad to have
her
,' George said. ‘From what I've seen, their display work needs brightening up.'

‘And I don't want to lose her,' Opal said. ‘To my mind she has great potential. But if Graham goes, I can't keep her. Anyway, think it over. But not too long, if you don't mind. It would be nice to have it settled one way or another before either Henry Prince or Graham does anything rash.

The following day Graham made an appointment to see Opal.

‘I was wondering,' he said, ‘if I could take a few days' holiday? I want to go to Kilbally with Breda. She's already asked her manager and he's agreeable.'

‘I don't see why not,' Opal said. ‘You're due for some holiday, and this isn't the busiest of months. I take it you want to meet Breda's family?'

‘I do.'

‘Well, it's none of my business,' Opal said. ‘But did you tell your father you intended this?'

‘No. Breda and I didn't decide ourselves until last night. But I'm not in his good books. He won't approve.'

‘Oh well!' Opal rose to her feet. She didn't want to get further involved. ‘Off you go to Ireland, and have a good time. And my advice to you is not to make any decisions in a hurry – I'm talking about work now. You can always stay on here a little longer until you decide what you want to do next. I told your father that.'

The following Monday Graham and Breda took the boat to Ireland and then the train to Kilbally.

‘Sure we will stop off in Dublin on the way back so you can meet Moira and Barry, not to mention my godson. And we might meet Kathleen if we're lucky, but not Kieran, for isn't he away to England now?'

For the moment, she wanted it to be first stop Kilbally. She could hardly wait to get there, and, oh, how she longed to see Mammy!

There had been excited telephone calls between Akersfield and Kilbally, with the result that both Mammy and Luke were there at the station when the train arrived.

‘'Tis so good to see you,
álainna
,' Molly cried, flinging her arms around her daughter. ‘And sure, you're not looking a day different! Except that you look more grown-up, and you're thinner, and your hair's shorter!'

‘But otherwise I'm the same?' Breda laughed. ‘Oh, Mammy!'

‘'Tis the spirit that is the same,' Molly said. But now there was more to the spirit. She had never seen her daughter happier, not since she was a small girl with her Dada, and wasn't that an entirely different kind of happiness?

‘I now have a motor car, as well as the old van,' Luke said, leading them out of the station. ‘There it is! 'Tis not the grandest in all Ireland, but it goes well. You will be able to get around while you are on holiday!'

He turned to Graham. ‘Can you drive, then?'

‘Oh, yes!' Graham replied.

I had not known that about him, Breda thought. There was so much to learn about each other, so many little things. Perhaps they would have a car one day, and if so, she also would learn to drive.

‘So how is everybody?' Breda asked when they were in the car.

‘Your Grandma Byrne is not at all well,' Molly said. ‘She is too old to live alone and she might have to come to live with us. Luke is willing, bless his heart.'

It was really not worth bringing the car for this short distance, Breda thought. They had walked it all their lives, but she guessed Luke was proud of his possession. Hardly had they settled in before they were back at the shop.

As Breda stepped inside the familiarity of it all overwhelmed her: the same smells of tea and cheese and bacon and soap; the same canisters on the same shelves. She could have found anything blindfold. She felt choked with emotion. Her eyes, meeting her mother's, were bright and shining. Why was I so keen to leave here, she wondered? And why did I dislike Luke O'Reilly, who by any standards is a nice, kind man?

But if I had not left, she thought, I would never have met Graham, and wasn't that the answer to everything?

‘The kettle is on the boil,' Molly said when they were in the living room. ‘And since you will both be as hungry as hunters I will fry you some rashers and eggs. And there's soda bread not an hour old.'

‘I could eat a piece of soda bread right away,' Breda said. ‘Haven't I longed for your soda bread!'

‘Doesn't Aunt Josephine make it?' Molly asked.

‘So she does, but 'tis not like yours!'

‘That's one thing I don't understand about soda bread,' Molly observed. ‘Everyone uses the same ingredients and everyone's turns out different.'

‘I will put your cases in your rooms,' Luke said. ‘You will not want to be unpacking them before you have eaten.'

Never had a meal tasted better, Breda thought. Because of her stomach's squeamishness she had not eaten since before they had stepped on the boat. She'd been as empty as a drum.

‘That was delicious, Mrs O'Reilly,' Graham said, having cleared his plate. ‘I understand now why Breda goes on about your soda bread. And if you'll excuse me, I'll be off to bed now.' Breda and her mother, he knew, would have things they wanted to say to each other, and not in his presence.

‘Won't I do the same?' Luke said. ‘These two women will stay up half the night talking and I have an early start in the morning!'

Breda, though she was delighting in seeing her mother, would also have liked to escape. She knew what Mammy would be saying to her the minute they were alone. She was not wrong.

‘Oh, Breda!' Molly said. ‘He's a lovely man, he is indeed, but why did you do it? Why did you not choose a Catholic man?'

‘I did not choose a Catholic and I did not choose a Protestant,' Breda said. ‘I chose Graham, and he chose me. I would have chosen him if he had been a Hottentot! Can't you understand that, Mammy?'

‘Sure I can,' Molly said gently. ‘But you must see it's wrong. It won't work.'

‘We shall make it work,' Breda said. ‘Other people have.'

‘Who do you know in Kilbally who has done that?' Molly asked.

‘Oh, Mammy! Kilbally isn't the world! 'Twould be difficult to find anyone who
wasn't
a Catholic in Kilbally!'

‘It's my world,' Molly said. ‘It was yours.'

‘It was,' Breda admitted. ‘And I love it, and always will. But it's not my world now. My world is with Graham.'

‘Father Curran will want to speak to you,' Molly warned her.

‘I don't doubt he will,' Breda said. ‘But he'll be wasting his breath.'

‘Will you be doing me a favour?' Molly asked. ‘Will you go to early Mass with me in the morning?'

‘Of course I will, Mammy. It's never been in my mind to stop going to Mass. And will you do me a favour? Will you not bring up this subject again while I'm here? We have less than a week. I want Graham to get to know you. I don't want him put on trial. And you can't change me.'

‘I suppose I never could,' Molly said. ‘But I had to say it. Isn't it my duty?'

‘Shall we go to bed?' Breda said.

Her bedroom looked exactly as she had left it, not a thing moved or out of place. The only difference was that on the other side of the thin dividing wall was Graham. It was the first time they had spent a night under the same roof. She put out her hand and touched the wall. How long before there would be no wall between them, and they would lie in the same bed?

The days flew by, each one filled with visits to places Breda wanted Graham to see, people she wanted him to meet, because they were part of her life. ‘And always will be,' she said. ‘Even though I don't live here, and perhaps will never do so again.'

She would have liked a future, though the details were hazy, in which she and Graham would live happily ever after in Kilbally, but she had enough sense to know that it was impossible.

‘Not impossible,' Graham said. ‘Not if I made a living as a painter – and heaven knows there's enough around here to keep a man painting for a lifetime! But unlikely, I grant you.'

They borrowed Luke's car only twice: once to take them along the winding coast road to Ballyvaughan, and on another day to go to Galway.

‘My Dada came from Galway,' Breda said. ‘I think he was always homesick for the sight of Galway Bay and, of course, he used to go to the races. If he won, he would bring us back presents.'

Most of the time they walked, often in the pouring rain. On the very first day she took Graham down to the strand.

‘Didn't we all play here as children?' she said. ‘And had picnics in the summer holidays. And when I wanted to be alone, or I was cross-tempered, I would climb the track and sit on the headland, and think furious thoughts.'

She showed him the small house where she had lived all her childhood. ‘How we fitted in I can't think,' she said. ‘But we were happy.'

They walked the path by the high cliffs, where Breda terrified Graham by standing too near the edge, looking down at the turbulent sea. They visited the small harbour, watched the boats going off for the fishing.

‘Dada went on his last trip from this place,' Breda said.

The only fly in the healing ointment of the whole week was the short time she had spent with Father Curran, who had asked her to stay behind after Mass on that first morning. He had lectured her severely but she remained politely immovable.

‘Then if I can't put the sense into your head, perhaps you'll be bringing the young man to see me?' he said.

‘I will ask him,' Breda said, though in fact she didn't do so. It occurred to her, both at the time, and later, that if Father Curran had been more understanding, mixed even a little warmth with the doing of his duty, she might well have asked Graham if he would consent to meet him. As it was, she had no intention of submitting him to Father Curran's hostility, and said so, in private, to her mother.

‘Sure, you have got it wrong,' Molly said. ‘He is not hostile, not at all. He is concerned about you.'

‘And are you still concerned about me, Mammy?' Breda asked. ‘I mean, about me and Graham?'

‘Less than I was,' Molly admitted. ‘Graham is a good man, and he loves you. I can see that. But you know what my concern is and I shall pray for you both about that.'

On the last morning a tearful Molly saw them off on the Dublin train. ‘Give my love to Moira and Barry, and the children. And Kathleen. I'm glad you'll be able to see her.'

She waved until the train was out of sight, then turned and left the station.

She wished she was going to Dublin with them. She missed her children sorely, and knew she always would. When would she see Kieran again, now that he was in a far away place called Sussex? As for Patrick and Colum, she was almost resigned to never seeing them, though Luke still promised that one day they would visit America.

Opal said nothing of her plans to Graham before he and Breda left for Kilbally. He might just have a change of heart when he saw Breda in the bosom of her family. It would be a far cry from Reigate. But that was unlikely, she thought. He was intent on marrying Breda and she doubted if anything would stand in his way.

But aside from that, she must give herself more time for thought, though not about opening up in Hebghyll. She was rock-solid certain about that and could hardly wait.

‘I thought of Graham on impulse,' she admitted to George Soames. ‘There was a problem there, and it seemed to be the solution. Now I have to think about whether it was the right one. And it's even more important for you, George. You must be happy with the idea before I breathe a word to Graham.'

‘I don't see any obstacles,' George said. ‘But you're right. It bears thinking about. Anyway, we have a week before he's back from Ireland. Do you intend to speak to Henry Prince first, or to Graham?'

‘Henry will expect me to put him first,' Opal said. ‘But I shan't do so. It's Graham's business. It's up to him to tell his father when he's made his own decision.'

‘There is one thing,' George said. ‘If we agree Graham will be suitable, and if he agrees to go to Hebghyll, he must, right from the first, be seen as my deputy as well as my assistant. He must be given the authority he'll need for the job. He mustn't be seen as a trainee, even though you and I know quite well that he still has a lot to learn.'

‘Certainly,' Opal agreed. ‘And whatever extra training he needs, it will be up to you to give him. But now let's get down to other matters. When do you think we can open, for instance? We must fix a date and work towards it.'

Two days later Opal took a call from Henry Prince. He sounded tetchy, uncomfortable. ‘I wanted to speak to Graham,' he said, ‘but his landlady isn't on the telephone. Well it's Miriam, really.
I
thought, still think, that the whole thing is best left to simmer down for a bit, but Miriam won't have that. She wants him to come home for the weekend, preferably without the girl, but bringing her if he must.'

Opal kept silent in the pause which followed. For a supposedly clever man Henry, with language like that, was going the wrong way about things.

‘If you can't bring him to the telephone, which I'd quite understand,' Henry went on, ‘then will you tell him to call me at home, Opal?'

‘I'd gladly do either of those things,' Opal said, ‘except that I can't. Graham has gone to Kilbally – Breda's home. They'll be there for the rest of the week.'