Anne Bennett - Till the Sun Shines Through

Tom helped Bridie on to the train, stowing her bags on the seat beside her before saying, ‘Why don’t you take your coat off, it’s soaked through.’

‘It’s no good,’ Bridie said. ‘My things underneath are wet too. I’ve bought other things with me, but they’ll probably be just as bad. The bags are sodden.’

‘Even so,’ Tom said, unbuttoning his coat, ‘take it off and put this around you.’

Bridie did as Tom bade her and as he tucked his coat around her, he said, ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves?’ and he extended his hand. ‘I’m Tom, Tom Cassidy.’

Tom’s hand was nearly twice the size of Bridie’s. She’d thought of giving him a false name, but had rejected it. No harm in giving him her real name. It was a shame, but she doubted she’d ever set eyes on him again. ‘I’m Bridie McCarthy,’ she said and asked, ‘Where are you bound for, Mr Cassidy?’

‘Birmingham, the same as you,’ Tom said. ‘Now isn’t that a fine coincidence? We can travel together if you’d like that, and the name’s Tom. I’ve done this trip many a time. My parents have a farm that my sisters now look after. I was over because my father was ill. He had pneumonia and we thought it was the end. He had the last rites and all, you know. But he’s rallied now and on the mend, so I thought it all right to leave him.’

Bridie hardly heard Tom, because as he spoke he’d glanced at his watch and she’d caught sight of the time: a quarter to seven. Her absence would have been noted by now. In fact, while she slept on the bench at Strabane Station, her father would have struggled from his bed for the milking.

Sarah would be surprised her daughter wasn’t up. She would go into the room, maybe with a cup of tea to help rouse her, and she would see the bed not slept in and read the note. Oh God, how upset she would be. Angry yes, but first upset and confused, and her dear, kindly father too. She could hardly bear to think of what she’d done to them and she shut her eyes against the picture of them standing there, sadness and disappointment and shock seeping out of the very pores of their skin.

Tom knew he no longer had Bridie’s attention, but he also knew that it wasn’t mere inattentiveness or boredom with what he was saying that had distracted her, it was something much more. Maybe something he’d said or done had triggered a memory and a memory so painful that she’d shut her eyes against it. But before she’d done so, he’d seen the glint of tears there and the stricken look that had stripped every vestige of colour from her face.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and asked gently, ‘What is it?’

Bridie’s eyes jerked open at his words and, looking at him, she had the greatest desire to tell him everything, to weep for her own unhappiness and that she’d bestowed on her parents for it seemed too heavy a burden to bear alone.

But she controlled herself. How could she tell her tale to a stranger? And however kind Tom Cassidy was, he was still a stranger. She gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, and though Tom knew she was far from so, he felt he had no right to press her further.

He knew there was something badly wrong though. Surely no parents would let a girl set out on a filthy wet winter’s morning on her own? He didn’t know how far she’d come, but by the state of her clothes, it had been some distance. What sort of family had she to allow that? And she was troubled about something right enough.

She was obviously anxious to change the subject as she said, ‘I’m sorry, you were telling me about your family. What line of work do you do in Birmingham?’

‘I work in the Mission hall,’ Tom said. ‘The poverty there is extreme. We take food out to those living on the streets, soup kitchens and the like, and to the families we also take food and clothes – some of the children have little more than rags to cover them and they never seem to have enough to eat.’

‘I know,’ Bridie said. ‘I saw it myself when I was over before, though I was just a child of thirteen then. It must be terrible to be so hungry and cold.’ As she spoke she realised how long it had been since she’d eaten and her stomach growled in protest.

‘Are you hungry?’ Tom said, hearing the rumble of Bridie’s stomach. ‘My mother and sisters have packed me food enough for half a dozen. Please help me eat it?’

Now he knew for certain there was something wrong, for surely to God a person wouldn’t set off for such a journey without a bite with them. What manner of family did she come from at all? But again he felt unable to pry and instead began to open the various packages his mother and sisters had pressed on him.

Bridie watched Tom’s broad hands unwrap the food, while her mouth watered in anticipation, noting that his hands were unblemished and smooth and his fingernails clean and well shaped. Then her attention was taken by the food and her interest in the man fled at such a feast before her.

There were four hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham and others of cheese, and slices of thickly buttered soda bread, large pieces of barn brack and half a dozen scones. ‘I have milk too,’ Tom said, producing the bottle. ‘My mother insisted on lacing it with whisky “to keep the cold from my bones” she said.’

Bridie had never drunk laced milk before; she’d never tasted whisky at all. But she found it was very pleasant indeed and considered Tom’s mother a wise woman for thinking of it for it certainly warmed her up. The food also put new heart into her and made her more hopeful about the future, whatever it held.

When this was all over, she thought, maybe she could make it up to her mother and father for running away and certainly beg their forgiveness. Surely to God they wouldn’t hate her for ever?

‘I’m glad you have someone to lodge with,’ Tom said suddenly, breaking in on her thoughts. ‘Birmingham, like most cities, is a depressed place. The people back home seem to think you can peel the gold from the city’s streets.’

‘But how would they know how it is?’ Bridie said. ‘Many of our neighbours have travelled nowhere all the days of their life except into town on a Fair Day.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Tom agreed. ‘Still you have someone anyway. Where’s your sister meeting you?’

‘At New Street Station,’ Bridie said. ‘At least … I must send her a telegram to tell her the times of the trains.’

‘There’ll be plenty of time when we get to Liverpool for that, I should think,’ Tom said. ‘I lived there for some time, so I know my way about.’

‘Did you? Why did you leave?’

‘Oh, there were reasons,’ Tom said. That was his cue to tell Bridie all about himself, but he said nothing and instead changed the subject. Though Bridie chatted easily enough, she parried all his questions about her home or family, knowing it would never do for him to guess where she lived and how far she’d come. Instead, she asked Tom questions about himself and was particularly interested in anything he could tell her about Birmingham.

‘But you know it already, surely?’ Tom said. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were over before?’

‘Aye, but I was a child just,’ Bridie said, ‘and my sister was expecting so we didn’t stray far from the house. I went to the cinema a few times, though, to the Broadway near to where they live. That was truly amazing to me, and my cousin Rosalyn was green with envy when I described it. We went to a place called the Bull Ring a time or two as well, though never at night, although Mary said there was great entertainment to be had there on a Saturday. She used to get tired in the evenings, though, and she wasn’t up to long jaunts.’

‘Oh, you missed a treat all right,’ Tom said. ‘The Bull Ring is like a fairyland lit up with gas flares and the place to be on a Saturday evening, if you can shut your eyes to the poverty all around. You must make sure you pay a visit this time and see it for yourself.’