A voice sounded far away, a man’s voice, calling a child. Brigid, cold and suddenly lonely, in the damp air, went back inside. She could be in trouble for going out without a coat, but she did not care. Then again, as her parents were so concerned about Francis, she might escape notice. For a moment, she almost wished Isobel was still there. She did not like her, but she knew her. That was her mother she could see inside, apron round her, working at the sink. That was her mother pushing back the hair from her forehead as she moved to the stove. It was not right. Isobel should be there. Then, she heard the front door open, and close, and sped unchecked through the kitchen: her father must be home from the office.
On Saturdays he worked only until lunchtime. He did not see her as he took off his hat and his heavy coat, but she heard the rustle of paper and saw a brown-paper parcel in his hand – a new book for Francis, probably. He did not know that Francis did not want to read. From the kitchen door, she watched his long legs go up the stairs, steadily, firmly. In the kitchen she smelled shepherd’s pie. There would be plenty of the burnt, brown, crispy furrows across the potato. She saw the sauce bottle; she saw Francis in the summer, reading French from the label. Absolument pure.
“Were you outside without a coat?” said her mother.
“I’m sorry,” said Brigid absently, watching for her father.
“You suit your sorrow. Don’t blame me when you get pneumonia,” said her mother, but she did not stop working between sink and stove.
Brigid looked at her back, moving from board to saucepan, peeling and slicing, the fragrance of apples and cinnamon floating above. Apple crumble.
Brigid was not going to get pneumonia. She was better, and she was not going to be sick again, even to get away from school. Too much time got lost with sickness. All she wanted was for everyone to be well, and stay well, and life to be the way it used to be.
She watched the stairwell, and presently saw her father come carefully down the last few steps, his hand on the newel post as if to steady himself.
In her head she said: Don’t have bad eyes again. See me. See me, and make everything right.
As if in answer, he looked up from the ground where he had carefully placed his last step, saw her, and put his hand on her head, the long fingers covering most of her scalp.
“How’s my girlie?” he said as they went into the kitchen. “And how’s the new book?”
“It’s very good, Daddy,” said Brigid, because she did not have the heart to tell him it was too hard for her. “It’s my nicest book,” she said, which was not untrue because it was certainly the most colourful.
He smiled, all the creases round his eyes appearing in their kind lines. “Good girl. Your brother has a new book too. I got him a Maurice Walsh,” he said above Brigid’s head to her mother, who was leaning to take out the pie. “He’ll like that.”
The smell of lamb and potato and apple drifted through the room.
Her mother nodded. “He will,” she said, but her voice was sad. Francis had clearly not told their father he did not want to read, and nobody else was going to do it. Nobody wanted him upset, too.
The next morning brought a change: she was to go with her father to Mass. Brigid had never before been considered suitable for Mass but, with Francis out of action, she found herself in her father’s car, travelling the school route, down to the monastery, with its great spires. It was different from school days: everywhere was quiet, like the day she met George Bailey. There were so few cars. No children played on the lamp-posts, and in the parks all the swings were looped back with chains. The whole town seemed to be holding its breath.
In the vast lofty space of the monastery, her nostrils filled with scented smoke, and singing voices floated across pictures of Heaven. Perhaps they were angels? It was very beautiful, and very strange, and Brigid did not do very well. The elastic of her hat hurt. She took it off. A lady behind her tapped her on the shoulder. “Ladies wear hats,” she whispered, and her breath smelled of sour fruit. “Brigid,” said her father, in a cold whisper she had not heard him use before, and she put her hat back on. Then, everything went on too long. The priest talked and talked, and Brigid could not understand him, though she gathered his news was not good. It was easier not to listen. If Francis had been there, she might have followed what was happening, but her father seemed to think she knew what to do. It irked him to find her watching him twirl his hat as the priest spoke, and her fascination at the practised flick with which he pulled up his trouser leg before he knelt down seemed to irritate him further. He told her to be still and Brigid, several times rebuked, hardly dared move. She tried to pass the time by counting the number of pink hats and blue hats on the ladies’ heads, but their edges softened and merged the further away they got. Then, she could not understand why only ladies and girls wore hats, and why she had to wear this tight elastic strap under her chin to keep her own hat on, while the men and boys did not. And, where was the priest? She could see a green shape moving very far away, she could hear bells and smell scented smoke, but where was the priest when he was not in the high stone well, shaking his arm and warning them?
Brigid pulled her father’s sleeve. She had to know. “Daddy,” she said, “are we meant to be able to see the priest?”
He took her arm in a firm grip and, leaning in to her said, crossly: “Brigid, I won’t tell you again. Behave yourself. I’m surprised at you.”
Brigid was silent then, but she thought: I’m not coming here again if I can help it. Maybe they were not meant to be able to see the priest, just believe in him, like God.
She took her father’s hand when it finally came to an end – all the standing and sitting and kneeling, and the prayers in words she did not understand. She had never been so glad to see daylight as she was when they approached the great door that stood open at the back of the monastery.
Outside, she drank in the cold air like water. She stood quietly in the shadow of her father’s coat while a tall, wide, wild-haired man swung towards them in a long black frock, like a nun without the butterfly hat. That must be the priest, out of his colours. He showed no interest in Brigid but, as she was all too conscious of having behaved badly, she did not question this. The wild-haired man talked to her father over her head as if she were not there.
“How’s the young man? Been in the wars, I hear?” he said.
“Oh, he’ll live,” said her father.
“A bad business, all the same,” said the priest.
“Yes,” said her father, “but, still, it could have been worse.”
“Times are dangerous still, no matter what anybody says,” said the priest, just like Mr Doughty, just like Mr Steele.
Why did everybody have to keep saying that?
They shook their heads, then shook hands.
“We can only pray,” said the priest. “Prayer moves mountains.”
That was a new and interesting thought but, before she had time to consider it, to Brigid’s surprise, the priest put out his hand, a wide hand bigger than her father’s, and placed it hard on the top of her head. It hurt in her head and her neck, but she did not say. She would not remember the time when her head hurt.
“We’ll not make a Redemptorist out of this one. Still, I’m sure she’s a good girl, and a big help to her mammy.”
Her father pulled her close to him: “She’s the best girl,” he said, and Brigid knew she was forgiven.
Smiling her goodbyes to the priest, suddenly her friend, she caught out of the side of her eye a glimpse of a shape she knew. It was just a shape, and too far away for her to be sure, but it was so like Isobel that, in spite of herself, Brigid felt a pang. Then the figure turned round, and she was sure. Under that pink hat was Isobel’s face. She was standing beside a young man, and their heads were together.
“Daddy!” she said. “Look! There’s Isobel. She must be back from her holidays. Can we drive her home?”
To her surprise, he did not look round. “You must be mistaken, Brigi
d,” he said. “How could that be Isobel? And, in any case, I had an idea we might go somewhere – and it’s not in the direction of home.”
“Oh, where, Daddy?” asked Brigid, all thought of Isobel falling from her head. Perhaps it was unkind of her not to want to go home, but it was sad and lonely there at the moment, and Brigid did not want to be sad, or lonely. She much preferred to go somewhere and be happy.
“Well, for a start, after that long morning, I thought you might like an ice cream.”
Brigid closed her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said and, already tasting in her mind the bliss of that cold delicious shock, she jumped up and down at the side of the car until he opened the door. She climbed in, pulling off the hat with grim pleasure, and tossed it into the back seat.
And, to her joy, her father kept his word. They did not turn for home, but swung towards town, past all the little shops, quiet for Sunday, and her father parked in the bombed-out car park. Brigid was too happy to think of the sad child’s bedroom. If she did not look at it, it was not there. He walked her into the Continental Café, the only place in all the town that was open, and he bought her a large cone, the answer to her prayers. They sat in a red booth, and he drank coffee, its dark burnt smell carrying over the ice cream. She ran her tongue round the creamy loveliness, watching him. She saw him happy, drinking a very little cup of coffee and, for a small contented time, they sat quietly together.
Then, Brigid said: “Daddy, where is Dover Street?”
He inclined his head a little to the side: “Just up there, a little way up the road. We passed it on the way down. Why do you ask?” He looked at her, but his face held no expression she could read.
“Just the name,” she said, carefully. “I just like the name.”
“I doubt your brother does,” he replied.
“Oh, no,” Brigid heard herself say, too late to stop it, “he does.”
“How do you know that?” said her father, in surprise.
She could smell his coffee-breath, and her ice cream was melting.
“He told me,” she said.
“Did he?”
“Yes,” said Brigid. “And he said we are all children of other lands, but I don’t know what he meant.”
Her father looked away, then down at his hands. “I think I know what he meant.”
Brigid’s hopes rose. “Well, Daddy, will you tell . . .”
Then she stopped. The door had opened, the mist of the warmth inside dispersing to show two figures. One was the housekeeper from next door and, at her side, reluctant, truculent, dark hair tumbling, breathing hard as if he had been running, stood Ned Silver. If her father was surprised, he did not show it. He rose to his feet, and invited them to join them.
Ned slid in beside her, and, to her surprise, Brigid heard her father say: “This is a coincidence! Mrs Mulvey, with your permission, I’d like to take your young charge with us on a little outing I’m planning for my daughter. It would be nice for her to have company, when her brother’s not well. Would you allow him to go with us?”
Mrs Mulvey lifted a hand to her brow. “Mr Arthur,” she said, “at this moment, I’d give him away with a packet of cornflakes. He has come home from school a little . . . shall we say, a little early. His father, I’m sure you know, is not at home, and I am finding this young man . . .”
Here, Ned turned and looked straight at her, and Brigid could not help noticing how blue his eyes were, deep like the sea, and cold as ice.
Mrs Mulvey checked herself. “He needs interesting things to do until he goes back to . . . back to school.”
Ned snorted. It was a new noise to Brigid, and she resolved to try it as soon as she could.
“Perfect,” said her father. “Then we can have a proper trip to the country, and Mrs Mulvey can have a rest. How will that do for a surprise, Brídín?”
Before she could respond, he rose and went to the counter, holding up his hand to get the attention of the waitress.
Mrs Mulvey took her handbag, said, “No, Mr Arthur, please, let me,” and propelled herself towards the counter to stand beside him.
Brigid, suddenly unprotected, was almost too taken aback to speak. She swallowed, and tried to think what was not right about this, but she could not. Her mind was a muddle. She rather wanted to go home, now that she had had her ice cream, but she also wanted the surprise of . . . a surprise.
Then, Ned dug his sharp elbow in her ribs. “Mulvey took me to the monastery,” he said, and he snorted again. It really was an impressive noise.
“Me, too,” said Brigid. “Don’t poke me.”
“Yes, but you’re a Catholic. I’m not. There’ll be hell to pay when my father finds out. I wasn’t poking you. ”
“Ned, you’re not allowed to say –”
“Oh, shut up, Brigid. I want to tell you something.”
“What?”
“In the car.”
“What about? Tell me?”
“For a start, about your Isobel.”
“I thought I saw her at the monastery!”
“I know,” said Ned. “You did. Me too. But that’s not all.”
“What, Ned, what?”
“In the car,” said Ned and, smiling in such a way that for a moment his eyes looked warm, and soft, he took the ice cream Brigid’s father handed him.
Chapter 10: Isle Lecale
Still uneasy, Brigid found herself in the back of the car with Ned Silver, heading out of town past the gasworks, through the markets, all shut down for Sunday. The town might be asleep, but she was not, and Ned Silver was to tell her something she wanted to hear. Yet, to her annoyance, as soon as Ned felt the motion of the car, he lay back and closed his eyes.
“Ned,” she said, elbowing him as he folded, catlike, into the seat, “what were you going to tell me?”
Ned shifted, languidly. He opened his eyes. They were navy blue now, telling her nothing. He said: “Did I say I was going to tell you something?” He closed his eyes again, and a slow smile curved upwards from his mouth. “I wonder what it was.”
Exasperated, Brigid snorted. It was a good snort, for a first effort – but it was a mistake.
“Brigid!” said her father. “Behave yourself, or I’ll turn the car and there’ll be no visit to Granda.”
“Are we going to see Granda?” said Brigid, surprised.
“Haven’t I just said so?” replied her father, and drove on in silence.
Brigid sat back beside Ned, conscious in spite of her annoyance of his sleepy warmth. Dark buildings streamed past her, shuttered windows and empty streets. She watched the town turn into scattered houses, barren roads. Above her waved a few forlorn leaves on cold trees, and she remembered with longing the delicate dancing green of summer mornings. Then the close, tight-packed houses cleared away and there, spread out before her, rising and falling in little hills, was the countryside.
“I’ve never been in an aeroplane,” her father said suddenly, “and I don’t intend to be, but I have heard the county of Down, if you see it from the air, looks like a basket of eggs. I can’t say.”
“Yes, it does,” said Ned, unexpectedly. “I have.”
“And me,” added Brigid, not to be left out.
“Liar,” said Ned, and turned his shoulder away from her.
“What did your mama tell you about drumlins, Brigid? Do you remember?” said her father, as if Ned had not spoken.
“Ice,” said Brigid. “It left . . . a basket of eggs.”
“Fool,” muttered Ned, from the far side of the seat. “I did this in school. The ice age left them behind – sheets of ice across the land.” He yawned and, turning a little towards Brigid, opened his eyes. “Thousands of years ago. When it melted, there were drumlin hills. In France too. Even in America.”
“Well done, Ned,” said Brigid’s father. “That’s a powerful school they sent you to, isn’t it?”
Ned, eyes closed again, folded his arms and lay back in silence. Brigid looked at her father’s eyes
in the mirror and saw his admiration for Ned’s knowledge. She felt, as Ned had said, a fool, yet still she was entranced by the light through the autumn branches, bright moments like happy thoughts in the time before school. She loved to see the trees marching up the hill on the road outside the town of Tonaghneave. Her father said it meant “the field of saints”, though why the saints were in a field she could not fathom, unless the saints were the people she saw in the trees, old and gnarled, young and dancing, many legs and arms in joyous movement. Sometimes one or two stood whispering together, and others waved branchy arms at them, or changed shape, playing with them, just as they came close enough to see their faces, suddenly shifting or else just standing like a tree, just standing as if that was all they did. The warm car purring, the leather seat soft and giving as a pillow, Ned’s breathing slowing beside her, Brigid let time and place subside.
It was with surprise that she found herself suddenly in the town of Downpatrick, unable at first to know why she was in the back of her father’s car, or why Ned Silver lolled sleeping beside her. His hands lay loosely clasped in his lap, and one skinned kneecap swung towards her. His legs were longer since the summer. He had long fingers, too, slender and delicate and, somehow, that was perplexing. Then Ned’s knee jerked as the car swung past the old gaol, and hit Brigid’s own knee. It was hard, and it hurt. She wished she had a pin, or a sharp pencil.
“Nearly there,” said her father, and his voice came as a shock in the humming silence. “If anyone’s awake, we’re in Isle Lecale.”
Ned opened his eyes, and shot upright as if he had never been asleep.
“But it’s not an island, is it, Mr Arthur?”
“Hello, again, Ned. I thought you two were out for the count.”
Ned’s face, eager and alive, closed up again. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, as though he were at school.
“There’s no need to be,” said Brigid’s father. “It’s a good point you make. Once it was an island, surrounded by water, and it was called Isle Lecale. It’s an old place and our family is part of it. My father courted my mother here.”
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