Anne Bennett - Till the Sun Shines Through

‘Well, isn’t that the point? You’ll get to know me. We’ll get to know each other.’

‘No, Tom.’

‘But why?’

‘I just … it’s just … I’m not ready for anything like that.’

‘It can be on your terms,’ Tom had pleaded. ‘We can meet just as friends if you want to?’

Oh, how Bridie had longed to say she’d love to get to know him better, to have a courtship like any girl her age would want. But she knew she couldn’t. So regretfully, she’d shaken her head. ‘Birmingham is new to me. I need to be on my own – to be free. I’m sorry, Tom, but that’s how it is.’

‘Is that your last word?’

‘It is.’

‘Then,’ Tom had said, ‘I suppose I must accept it.’

And he did accept it, though she could feel still his hurt and confusion. She’d introduced him to Mary and he’d been as polite as good manners dictated, but he couldn’t hide his unhappiness. Mary, however, had no time to worry over it. She wanted to get Bridie home as soon as possible, to get to the root of the problem, and Bridie was not averse to this either. With a bass bag in each hand, they gave a last wave to Tom before making their way to the tram stop outside the station.

The short winter day had ended and night had fallen again, bringing with it sleety rain. Bridie gave a sigh. ‘It rained nearly all the way to Strabane,’ she said. ‘Everything I wore and carried is probably ruined – my coat is still damp, even though I wore that Tom Cassidy’s coat for most of the journey and we tried to spread mine out as much as we could to dry it out on the train.’

Mary stared at her. ‘Strabane!’ she repeated. ‘How the Hell did you get to Strabane?’

‘I cycled.’

‘Cycled? All the way to Strabane?’

‘Mary, I had to go so far,’ Bridie said. ‘What was the good of me sneaking away in the dead of night and then being recognised at the first station?’

‘But still, Bridie, it was one Hell of a jaunt. God! It must be twenty miles – more even.’

‘I know,’ Bridie said ruefully. ‘My bottom can testify to it. In fact my whole body can. I’ve never ached so much nor been so cold or miserable in all my life. And I used your bike, Mary, and I had to leave it at Strabane. I’m sorry, I could see no way of getting it back to the farm.’

‘Well, it’s hardly needed there now,’ Mary said. ‘I can’t see Mammy and Daddy going out for a spin on it. Mind you, I’m surprised it wasn’t rusted away to nothing, it was second-hand when I got it.’

‘It was a bit,’ Bridie said. ‘I rubbed a lot off and pumped up the tyres, but I had to do it when I had a minute and no one else was about.’

‘How did you know the way?’

‘I didn’t,’ Bridie admitted. ‘I hadn’t a clue, I followed the rail bus tracks.’

‘God, Bridie, that was clever,’ Mary said admiringly. ‘And brave. Coming all that way by yourself in the dead of night.’

‘I wasn’t brave,’ Bridie said. ‘I was scared stiff a lot of the time, but I was also desperate.’

Her voice sounded forlorn and Mary felt so much pity for her her heart ached. She knew, however, if she showed sympathy openly, Bridie would probably cry. And so she said, ‘Never mind, pet, we’ll soon be home.’

‘Where are the weans?’ Bridie asked as they settled themselves on the tram.

‘Ellen was minding them till Eddie got home,’ Mary said. ‘I don’t take them out in weather like this unless I have to. Mind you,’ she said, ‘Eddie will probably be home now and spoiling them to death. He’s that soft with them, but then,’ she added, ‘I’d rather have him that way than the other way and the weans adore him.’

Bridie was pleased for Mary, even though she felt a stab of envy. It was obvious she still loved Eddie and that they were happy together. She couldn’t imagine anything so wonderful happening to her, not now.

‘I’ve left a stew ready to heat up,’ Mary went on. ‘You need something to stick to your ribs in this weather.’

Bridie was pleased at the mention of food. The breakfast she’d shared with Tom had done her little good as she’d deposited most of it in the Irish Sea and after her sleep on the ferry she’d woken up very hungry. At Crewe, where they’d had to change trains, Tom had bought them both tea and sandwiches, but that had been a while ago and her stomach was complaining again.

Once in the house, Bridie found it just as Mary said. Eddie was cavorting on the floor with his two wee sons and they were squealing with delight. ‘Will you get up out of that, Eddie,’ Mary said, though Bridie saw the twinkle in her eye. ‘God knows, I don’t know who has the least sense.’

Eddie got to his feet and grinned at her. ‘We’re only having a bit of a game,’ he said. ‘And I laid the table first and lit the gas under the stew. I knew you’d be back soon.’ Then he looked past his wife to Bridie and smiled at her. ‘Hello, Bridie,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Thanks, Eddie.’

Mickey hid behind his father, but Jamie remembered the young aunt who’d played with him in Ireland. ‘I’ve been to your house, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Are you coming to stay in ours now?’

‘For a wee while only. Do you mind?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘Mammy said you’re to go in the attic with me and Mickey,’ he said, and he looked disparaging at his little brother before continuing, ‘He’s just a baby. He’s scared of you.’

‘Not scared, just a wee bit nervous,’ Bridie said. ‘You were probably the same at his age.’

‘I was not!’

‘Jamie, stop plaguing the life out of your aunt Bridie and sit up to the table this minute,’ Mary said from the cooker, and Bridie felt saliva in her mouth at the thought of food.

Later, with the children in bed and Eddie despatched to the pub, Mary handed Bridie a cup of tea and sat down opposite her near to the hearth. ‘Well?’

And because there was no point in beating about the bush, Bridie said, ‘I’m pregnant.’

It was what Mary had guessed from the cryptic letter Bridie sent, but she’d hoped and prayed she was wrong. It was the very worst news any unmarried girl could deliver and with a groan Mary replied, ‘Oh God.’

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Bridie protested.

‘It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference whose fault it was,’ Mary said. ‘You know who’ll take the blame for it.’

Bridie knew only too well. ‘Why d’you think I ran away?’ she said.

‘Well,’ Mary demanded again as Bridie continued staring into the fire and made no effort to speak further.

‘What d’you mean – well?’

‘You know damned well what I mean,’ Mary said impatiently. ‘Who was responsible for putting you in this condition?’

‘I’m surprised you even have to ask,’ Bridie said in a flat, dead voice. ‘You know I didn’t exactly have the life of Riley on that farm. I didn’t have great occasion to meet men, let alone let them … well, you know.’

‘Then who?’ But even as Mary asked the question, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and an icy tremor run down her spine. A terrible, dreadful thought had just occurred to her, but she could hardly form the words. ‘It wasn’t … Oh dear God, please say it wasn’t Francis?’

Bridie looked at her, her eyes glistening with tears, her face full of misery and despair as she answered, ‘I’d like to be able to, but I’m afraid it was – my dear, sainted uncle did this to me.’

Although it was the news Mary had been expecting for Bridie to actually say those words shocked her to the core. ‘Dear Christ!’ she breathed. She covered her face with her hands for a moment and then she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me it had all started again? By Christ, if you’d just given me a hint of it I’d have come over there and wiped the floor with the man.’