Till the Sun Shines Through (6 page)

‘Why doesn't she kick the man in the balls if she's so bothered about it and tell him to behave himself?' Eddie asked.

‘It's not as easy as that,' Mary said, knowing full well the dilemma Bridie would have found herself in. ‘I should have gone over to see her this summer, especially with Aunt Ellen's rheumatics starting up again and being unable to go herself.'

‘You knew nothing about this in the summer,' Eddie reminded her. ‘And then the money was an issue with Junior here taking such a lot of it. There was your aunt being laid up too. How could you have just upped and left for a week or two?'

Mary knew she couldn't have done, not really, but she felt guilty about her sister. She promised her she'd be home the following summer and until then advised Bridie to be very careful of her uncle and try to avoid situations where she might find herself alone with him and to make sure she never, ever encouraged him in any way.

At the end of the letter she suggested that she should perhaps broach the subject with her mother. But when Bridie received Mary's reply, she screwed it up in impatience.

What the Hell did Mary think? That she encouraged, even enjoyed, the advances of a man she thought of as a fatherly figure? And didn't she think she'd tried to avoid being alone with him? The fact that the farm was isolated in many areas made that almost impossible. And as for telling her mother … Well, that was a non-starter.

What had she expected, she asked herself, that Mary would come up with some plan to scupper her uncle? She didn't know, but she did know she viewed the future with dread and would continue to unless she could find some sort of solution. Each day now she woke up with a dead weight in her heart and a stomach turning somersaults in case she should have to ask for help in some area of the work. She wished someone could tell her how to deal with it.

By the late spring of 1930 the situation between herself and her uncle had got worse rather than better and she knew something had to be done, and so she decided to take Mary's advice and speak to her mother.

It was not a success. Sarah truly didn't see there was a problem, or chose to misunderstand what Bridie was trying to say. Bridie, knowing of her mother's naïvety, chose to believe the former. Not that she was experienced herself, but every nerve in her body cried out that what her uncle was doing was wrong. Yet, unless she was able to describe in detail what her uncle said and, more importantly, where he touched her, which she couldn't begin to explain to her mother; she'd never understand. ‘What do you mean, you don't like him kissing you and holding you?' Sarah demanded. ‘Hasn't he done that since the day you were born?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘But nothing, Miss. God, Bridie, I hope you're not getting above yourself, I thought you had more sense.'

‘I have, Mammy. It's just that …'

‘I hope you haven't been bothering your father with this nonsense? You know what he thinks of Francis. God, I'd hate to be the person that came between them.'

No, she'd said nothing to her father, she wasn't a fool altogether. And she didn't want to be the one that would separate one brother from the other either as her revelations certainly would. She realised in that moment that she was on her own and not even Mary's promised visit in August of that year could lift her spirits.

However, Mary believed every word her anguished sister had written to her, and with reason, and was furiously angry on her behalf. She intended to seek her uncle Francis out at the first opportunity and put the fear of God into him.

But when Mary eventually arrived back home she was the feted daughter, welcomed home with Aunt Ellen, now semi-recovered from her rheumatics, and wee Jamie, an enchanting toddler turned two years old, who enthralled Jimmy and Sarah and even Bridie.

It was almost a week before Mary got her chance to see her uncle Francis without anyone else in earshot. She'd said nothing to Bridie of her intention and now she faced her uncle across the field of ripening hay he was surveying.

Her stomach churned as she looked at him. He seemed so harmless. But she hardened her heart against him for Bridie's sake. ‘I believe you've been giving our Bridie a hard time recently?'

‘Not at all. What's she been saying?'

‘Never mind. She's said enough,' Mary snapped. ‘We won't go into it now – you'd just deny everything, I imagine, and then I'd get angry, because I'd stake my life on Bridie telling the truth. All the years of her growing up, I've never known her lie.'

‘I demand to know what she's complained of,' Francis said. ‘How else can I protest against it?'

‘Don't even think you can,' Mary answered scathingly. ‘If you examine your conscience, you'll know what Bridie has complained of. And I'm telling you it has to stop, here and now. You think if she complains she won't be believed, she's even told me that. Well, let me tell you, if this doesn't stop, the letters she's sent to me, telling me what you try to do and what you say, will be given to prominent people in your life. Aunt Delia, for example, or Father O'Dwyer. Believe me, if you do not leave my sister alone she will not be the one painted black in this instance because I'll tell my tale too. Some people might then begin to wonder about Sally McCormack so think on, Uncle Francis.'

Francis began to bluster. ‘Mary, for God's sake. You know there was no proof that I'd ever touched that gypsy brat. As for your sister … Well, let's just say she has a vivid imagination.'

‘And me? Have I a vivid imagination too?'

‘You misunderstood me.'

‘Like Hell I did,' Mary spat out.

‘Look, Mary, Bridie has got the whole thing wrong, out of proportion. That's all it was and that's all I'm prepared to say on the subject.'

‘Well, it isn't all I'm prepared to say,' Mary barked out angrily. ‘I don't care what label you put it under, or how you try to justify it, if she writes to me in the same vein again, you will have cooked your goose as far as your family, your wife and your standing in the community are concerned. I hope you understand that.'

Francis understood all right. He stood at the crossroads of his life and he knew if he was to go forward, Mary would ruin him. Somehow, he had to control the fascination Bridie held for him in order to keep the life he had and, though he made no reply, Mary knew she'd frightened him and dearly hoped it was enough to help her sister.

Mary never told Bridie of the conversation she had with their uncle Francis and the threat she'd issued, so Bridie didn't look for any significant change in his behaviour once Mary left for home.

But at the harvest, which the two families had always worked together, Uncle Francis was quite curt with her, when he spoke at all. She didn't see why he should seem so annoyed with her, but preferred that attitude to his previous one, so didn't bother worrying over it.

She still viewed the coming winter – the rambling season and Christmas – with apprehension, but she needn't have worried. Francis made no attempt to waylay her, or even say anything slightly suggestive, but rather seemed to avoid her if he could.

She was able to say this in a letter to Mary, who was glad she hadn't Bridie to worry about for that autumn she had discovered she was expecting again. The baby was due in April and she knew she'd have her hands full soon enough.

In the New Year 1931, Father Dwyer began a fortnightly social in the church hall for young Catholic boys and girls over the age of sixteen. There was to be no strong drink, but it was a place to meet and chat and dance to the records played on the old gramophone belonging to the priest.

It hardly headed the list of exciting places to be but, as Rosalyn said, it was better than nothing and might brighten up those bleak winter months. Nearly everyone in the place was known to them anyway – most of the girls they'd been at school with, while the boys were usually their brothers or cousins, or friends they'd known for years.

Bridie could have been in great demand and yet as the winter came to an end, she'd given none of the boys the slightest encouragement to take an interest in her. ‘What's the matter with you?' Rosalyn asked, as they walked home together one night. ‘It isn't as if you don't know the boys. You even know most of their families.'

‘I know.'

‘Don't you like any of them?'

‘Not particularly. Not the way you mean.'

‘Don't you want to be kissed and held and … well, you know?'

Oh how well Bridie knew and she also knew she'd had enough of that sort of carry-on with her uncle to last her a lifetime. There was anyway no point in it.

‘You'll never get married the way you go on,' Rosalyn told her.

‘I might not want to get married.'

‘Oh God, Bridie, you can't want to be an old maid?'

‘Look, Rosalyn,' Bridie said. ‘Say I really liked one of those farmers' sons at the social tonight and we began walking out together. If we should decide in time to get married, where would I live? If I moved out of the farmhouse what would happen to Mammy and Daddy?'

‘They'd get someone in to help them. Lots have to do that,' Rosalyn said. ‘You can't stay with your parents all the days of your life, Bridie. It's not healthy.'

But Bridie knew her father would hate to get a stranger in to help him on the farm. He'd rather break his neck trying to do it all himself than that.

‘Daddy said you're wasting yourself,' Rosalyn said.

‘Oh, did he?' Bridie retorted. ‘What does he know?'

‘He was only concerned about you,' Rosalyn said. ‘You know how fond he is of you.'

Fond, Bridie thought grimly, is that what they call it these days? ‘Your father should mind his own business,' she cried angrily. ‘He should look to his own life and keep his nose out of my affairs.'

‘Look here, Bridie.'

‘Leave it be, Rosalyn,' Bridie said. ‘I'm away home.'

Rosalyn looked after her cousin's retreating figure and couldn't for the life of her think what she'd done or said to upset her so much.

Bridie was ashamed of her outburst and glad that Rosalyn was not one to bear a grudge, for she couldn't wait to show her the latest letter from Mary telling her of the birth of another boy whom they'd called Mickey after Eddie's father. There was also one from Ellen saying her and Sam would be over for a wee holiday later than usual, maybe September time.

When they arrived, the hay was all safely gathered in as the summer had been glorious and Ellen came with tales of the hungry baby Mary could barely satisfy. ‘She's feeding him every minute and he's so big, you'd never believe it,' Ellen said. ‘I've told Mary that child doesn't need milk, he needs good roast meat and potatoes, that one. And as for Jamie, I tell you that child is one body's work. Dear Lord, Mary often doubts he'll ever grow up, he's in so many scrapes.'

‘We're all longing to see them,' Sarah said.

‘Maybe next year I'll come with her to give her a hand – Jamie will surely fall overboard the minute her back was turned.'

‘He sounds a handful right enough.'

‘He's full of life and fun, that's all,' Ellen said. ‘They have only the streets to play in too, remember. You can't always be at the park.'

‘There's more space here.'

‘Aye, that's true,' Ellen said. ‘But there's dangers too. Jamie might easily sink into the midden, or drown in the river, or fall down the hillside.'

Bridie laughed. She longed to see Jamie and the new baby and wondered as the work slowed down for the winter whether she'd be able to go over to see them. Even a week, or failing that a few days, would be better than nothing.

But the trip wasn't to be. Ellen and Sam had only been gone home a week when Sarah tipped a kettle of boiling water over her legs and feet as she attempted to fill the teapot on the hob. The scalds were bad enough and needed the services of a doctor, but a more longer-lasting concern was why it had happened in the first place. It appeared that Sarah's left arm had given way on her.

As the scalds healed, the arm got steadily weaker and the doctor was able to offer no reason for it, or treatment, or possibility of a cure. Gradually, Sarah was able to do less and less and Bridie had taken on more, until she knew even to take a day off now would be out of the question. Her mother's disability had tied her even more firmly to the farmhouse and yet Sarah could hardly be blamed. It was just the way of things.

Bridie lifted the burden of the house onto her narrow shoulders and found as time passed she had scarcely a minute to call her own. Even those winter months that usually weren't so frantically busy on the farm were not easy for her. There was still the washing to be done, the cooking and breadmaking and the dairy work, which her mother had always taken the brunt of previously.

Christmas and the New Year passed in a flurry of activity and even more cooking than usual and Bridie looked forward to 1932 with little enthusiasm, although she would be eighteen in February. This year she'd be able to go to the Harvest Dance. It was the highlight of the year – Rosalyn, being a year older, had already been there the once and had hardly stopped going on about it for weeks afterwards.

Some parents had allowed their daughters to go at sixteen, but Jimmy, Francis and Delia had been adamant that the girls were not to go till they were eighteen, for drink was served there, and that Frank should take them there and fetch them home again.

Bridie was more excited than she would normally be; since her mother had scalded herself, she'd not even been to any of the socials, though Rosalyn had urged her to. ‘Come on,' she said. ‘It's the only chance we'll have to do things like this. My aunt Maria said if she knew what she knows now, she'd have stayed single longer.'