Till the Sun Shines Through (5 page)

By then, Terry was barely speaking to his parents, but his determination to leave had not been altered at all though everyone had thought and said he was wrong, ungrateful, neglecting his filial duty. His parents, their farm and their welfare were, they said, his responsibility. Who was to help them now if he ran away like this? Surely to God he couldn't expect his wee sister to take up the reins?

Bridie tried to keep out of it. She wanted no one to see the tears she shed, for it would be just another stick to beat Terry with. She knew she'd miss him more than anyone – it had been just the two of them for so long and she knew she'd be lonely. It wouldn't have mattered so much if she'd been going into town to work; then there would have been Rosalyn and other girls to talk to through the day, but she knew it would be the loneliness as well as the workload that might wear her down now.

‘Do you hate me, Bridie?' Terry asked, coming across her in the barn in tears. He'd fought all the people that opposed him and pleaded with him and yet it was Bridie, who had said so little, who played on his mind.

Bridie raised her face, her eyes red and swollen from crying. She knew Terry had his ticket and would be leaving in the next few days and she wanted to bang her little fists on his chest and tell him he couldn't go. What was he thinking of to leave her like this?

But how could she let her brother go with only recriminations ringing in his ears? ‘No,' she said. ‘I don't hate you, but I'm sad – I'll miss you.'

‘Oh God,' Terry said, feeling ashamed for his sister's sake. ‘I'll send for you, Bridie, when I've …'

‘You know I can't leave here,' Bridie said quietly, and she put her arms around Terry and kissed him on the cheek and left him, sobbing.

Terry left in August 1928 and, in the early weeks, Bridie often felt she couldn't go on. She saw the farm for the first time as Terry had seen it: one relentless round of work with never an hour, never mind a day, off to do with as she pleased.

At first, she sought her bed straight after the evening meal, so tired even her bones ached. However, bit by bit, her body became accustomed to the hard physical work and she had a wage to be picked up at the end of every week to look forward to, though her parents had balked at that initially.

‘But why do you want a wage, Bridie?' Sarah had asked.

‘Everyone has a wage, Mammy, if they do a job.'

‘Yes, of course, if you work outside the home,' Sarah had conceded. ‘Here you get your meals and clothes bought for you when you need them.'

‘Ah, but d'you see, Mammy, that's it,' Bridie had said. ‘You say I have clothes when I need them, but really you mean your choice of clothes when you think I need them. As for meals, wouldn't anyone working here be fed?'

‘Well, yes,' Sarah had had to agree. ‘But …'

‘There isn't any but in this, Mammy,' Bridie had said, hardening her heart against her parents' confused faces. ‘There has been no cost to you in working clothes, for I'm wearing Terry's.'

She was, too, although they had been refashioned. By taking in the crotch and chopping inches off the legs of the breeches and cutting down the work shirts, repositioning the buttons and chopping the sleeves to fit, she had her made them fit her just right.

‘I'd like the same as Rosalyn earns in the shirt factory,' Bridie had said. ‘Less what she pays in keep. I think that's fair.'

‘Fair or not,' Jimmy had said, ‘none of our other children have demanded a wage for working their own place.'

‘It's not my place, it's yours,' Bridie had reminded him. ‘And I know Terry asked for a wage because he told me. Maybe if he'd been given one he'd have stayed longer.'

‘Are you threatening me, Bridie? I'll not stand that,' Jimmy had blustered. ‘Big as you are …'

‘Daddy, I'm threatening no one,' Bridie had said gently. ‘I'm just stating facts. I'll work as hard as I'm able, but I need money of my own.'

Jimmy had knocked his pipe against the hearth, filled it with infinite slowness and drew on it. He had no wish to alienate his darling daughter ‘Well,' he had said at last, ‘I think what Bridie has suggested is only fair.'

Sarah had looked at him, open-mouthed, while Bridie had reached up and kissed her father's stubbly chin. ‘Thank you, Daddy,' she had said. ‘I appreciate you listening to me.'

She had missed the look that passed between her parents, the one that said they'd raised a treasure, a daughter in a million, for that treasure, worn-out by hard work, had taken her weary bones to bed.

Francis wondered if Bridie had any idea of how fetching she looked as she worked the fields in her brother's cut-down clothes. She was like a wean dressing up, except no wean had a figure like the one she was developing. Her eyes were like pools of dark brown treacle and could flash fire, but mainly sparkled with laughter, and however her hair was tied back, curls would always escape. Sometimes just to look at her could stop the blood pulsing in his body. He knew he could do nothing about it but look, for the girl was his niece and yet but a child. But God, if things were different …

Francis was on his way to the McCarthy house for a rambling session with these thoughts churning in his head. In the late autumn and winter, with the harvest safely gathered in, rambling nights were popular in the country houses.

Word got around that a rambling was to be held at such a house and neighbours and friends would come from all over. The men often had an instrument with them and always a drink of some kind. It was usually poteen, which was brewed in stills in the hills of Donegal, as everyone knew but no one spoke of.

The women would bring slices of soda bread, or barn brack or similar, and sometimes a bottle of homemade wine, and in an instant a party would begin with the rag rugs rolled up for the dancing.

One of Bridie's earliest memories was of lying in her bed, her toes curling with excitement at the tantalising music and the rhythmic tap of the women's feet as they danced on the stone slabs of the cottage floor below. There'd be a break halfway through when they'd eat and drink deeply and talk. The murmur of voices would rise and fall, sometimes heated and raised in argument, sometimes quieter and gentler. But the music would always begin again and she'd go to sleep with the tunes running through her head.

Now, though, Bridie was allowed to stay up for the rambling. She had turned out of her work clothes and after a wash from the basin in her room, she had changed into her second-best dress and was ready with Sarah to greet the first arrivals.

Francis was one of the last guests to arrive and there was a whistle of approval as he drew a large bottle of poteen from beneath his coat. ‘I hope you didn't get that from Tommy Flaherty?' one of the men said. ‘I heard the Garda are after him.'

‘Christ, haven't they been after him for years?' another put in. ‘Haven't caught him yet?'

‘He's too wily a fox for them,' said the first man.

‘Anyway,' Francis said. ‘They're only cross because he won't supply them. They like a drop the same as the rest of us.'

‘The priests do at any rate, I know that,' said Jimmy. ‘I passed on a bottle to Father O'Dwyer once and he was delighted with me so.'

‘Aye,' Francis said. ‘Did you hear the one about the young curate from England who came to help out a country priest in Ireland? He'd had a man in confession admitting to making poteen. As he'd never heard of such a thing before and wasn't sure of the penance to give him, he went to the older priest and said, “There's a man here making poteen. What shall I give him?”

‘“Well, be careful now,” said the older priest. “These men would fleece the likes of you. I never give more than three and six a bottle.”'

There were gales of laughter at this. ‘It's right enough too,' one said when the laughter had died down. ‘Stingy buggers, priests.'

‘Come on,' Jimmy cried. ‘The night's running away with us and we've not played a tune yet.'

Bridie helped the women pile food onto plates on the big table, but surreptitiously watched the dancers. Mary had taught her some dances before she went away, but she'd not performed any since she'd left and was surprised how much she remembered. One of the women, seeing her watching, seized her hand and pulled her in to join them and she danced along with the rest.

She was glad when a halt was called for the food – the sweat was running from her – and she slipped outside for the night air to cool her down, walking a little way away from the house towards the orchard.

When she heard footsteps behind her she turned, expecting it to be one of the other women as hot as herself and taking the air, but it was her uncle Francis.

Bridie hadn't forgotten her earlier encounter with her uncle, but had passed it off as a one-off experience and not something to be too worried about. And yet she felt alarm as she remembered her uncle drinking deeply of the poteen that evening.

But, she told herself, she could come to no harm. She could see the light of the cottage, other people were no distance away. She was safe and so she relaxed a little. ‘I think you're avoiding me, Bridie,' Francis said, wagging his finger in the exaggerated manner of the drunk.

‘Not at all,' she said.

‘Oh, I think so,' Francis said. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. ‘Are you afraid of me?'

‘No. No …'

‘I don't think that's true,' Francis said. ‘Have I ever hurt you?'

‘No.'

‘Am I likely to then?'

‘I don't suppose so.'

‘So you won't object to giving me a kiss?'

‘No,' Bridie said. ‘But only on your cheek.'

‘Jesus, that's a wean's kiss,' Francis said and, before Bridie could respond further, clasped her tight against him again, but this time his other hand caressed her breasts and began fumbling at the fastenings of her dress before she managed to break free. Her dress hung half open, the bodice underneath exposed and the hair she'd spent hours putting up hanging in untidy strands around her face, which was red with shame.

‘You mustn't do such things,' she said, turning her back on her uncle to fasten herself up and tidy her hair. ‘What if I was to go to the house and say?'

‘Say what?' Francis said. ‘I'd say you led me on. You left the house first, remember. What if I say you'd arranged it all. No one will blame a man for taking what's on offer.'

‘You wouldn't do that!' Bridie cried, swinging round to face Francis again. ‘You wouldn't be so cruel!'

But as she looked into his face she knew he would and, what's more, she knew he'd be believed above her. Maybe her parents would believe her, but even then there would be doubt and suspicion. ‘Why do you hate me so?' she cried in distress.

‘Hate you!' Francis said incredulously. ‘How can you say such a thing, Bridie? I love you. You are incredibly beautiful. It almost hurts to look at you, but you're a temptress. You tempt men with those big eyes, with those long eyelashes you flutter so seductively, your luscious figure, your young beautiful breasts, your …'

‘Stop it! Stop it,' Bridie commanded. ‘You mustn't talk this way, Uncle Francis. It's the drink talking.'

‘Aye, maybe it is at that,' Francis said, but he knew this feeling he had for Bridie never went away, it was just when he was sober he could keep it in check.

‘I'm going back to the house now,' Bridie said. ‘Don't follow me, please …'

Francis said nothing as she walked away and once in the house, she pleaded a headache and said she was ready for her bed. ‘I thought the air might clear it,' she said, explaining her previous absence. ‘But it didn't.'

‘I wondered where you'd disappeared to,' Jimmy said. ‘Did you see Francis on your travels?'

‘Yes,' Bridie said. ‘He's over by the orchard,' and then she fled to her room, closing the door before she let the tears fall.

By the time Bridie was sixteen she was beginning to feel desperate about Francis, for try as she might to avoid him, he seemed to find many occasions when he would get her on her own. Even when he just ogled her, it made her feel sick, but sometimes, usually when he'd had a drink, he wasn't content with that alone.

Bridie didn't know what to do, where to go for help or advice. She was at her wit's end when she decided to write to Mary, though she knew it would be hard to commit such words to paper for even to think of them made her face flame with embarrassment.

Dear Mary
,

Please help me. I am having trouble with Uncle Francis and I don't know what to do. He looks at me funny and sometimes touches me and kisses me. I've told him to stop and that I don't like it, but it makes no difference. I've even said that I would tell Auntie Delia, but he just laughed. He knew I would never do that, but what should I do, Mary?

She couldn't totally avoid her uncle because she couldn't physically manage some of the jobs on the farm. Frank had readily agreed to help her with the heavy stuff, but it was usually her uncle Francis who came to give her a hand, giving the excuse that Frank was busy with something or other.

Mary had become angry as she'd read the letter and more by what her sister didn't say than the words she actually used. It brought back to her mind the time she was fourteen. ‘Dirty bloody pervert!' she exclaimed, tossing the letter to Eddie. ‘Read what our Bridie has written. God, it's almost unbelievable. Uncle Francis, for God's sake!'

Eddie jiggled his baby son in his arms as he scanned the page. ‘She doesn't say much,' he said at last.

‘Well, she wouldn't, would she?' Mary cried. ‘What d'you want, that she explains it to you chapter and verse? What she says and hints at is quite enough to tell me what's going on.'