by Anne Bennett
Doctor Casey was horrified when he saw the state of Bridie and immediately made arrangements to have her admitted to hospital. Bridie was unaware of what was happening to her. She never felt the ambulance men gently lift her from her bloodstained bed onto a stretcher, which they covered with a blanket. She didn’t know of their struggle to get her down the stairs and into the ambulance, with a knot of neighbours gathered about the door and others standing on their own doorsteps.
From her hidden position, Peggy heard the ringing bell of an ambulance which drew up before Mary’s door. She craned her neck to see better, but didn’t move nearer, not wishing to be spotted. She saw enough though: the stretchered girl carried from the house, followed by the solemn figures of Mary and Ellen, while the doctor scurried past her to get in his car. And like every watching woman there, she knew what ailed Bridie McCarthy.
Few judged her though. She was Mary’s Coghlan’s wee sister and Mary was well thought of. A Catholic, but not one of the rowdy kind, and her husband was not in the pub knocking it back every night and then taking it out of her when he got in, unlike many men. They were decent and respectable people and so most thought some man had taken advantage of young Bridie.
‘Ah, will you look at that,’ one woman remarked as the ambulance began moving down the road. ‘Some bloody sod’s taken that girl down if you ask me and the poor bugger’s tried to do away with it.’
‘Be a bit of luck if she ain’t done away with herself and all,’ Ivy remarked. ‘Christ, poor sod was still as death.’
Peggy thought it served Bridie right. Those bloody McCarthys always thought they were a cut above others. But she kept her thoughts to herself. Well, this was one in the eye for them. They’d bred a common little whore who couldn’t wait to get her belly filled and, not content with that, had committed a greater sin in trying to get rid of it.
‘Ah, God help her,’ another said as the women began to disperse to their own houses. ‘Sure she’s little more than a child.’
Peggy wanted to scream that she was no child. It must have been five years since she was last over and she’d been thirteen then. The girl must be eighteen if she was a day. Peggy was the mother of two weans before she reached nineteen and she’d never lifted her skirts for anyone, even Michael, until the ring was on her finger. It wasn’t always easy either, but she’d been taught right from wrong, not like that little trollop. But she said nothing to anyone and slid away down Grant Street, the darkness hiding the fact she’d ever been there.
Back in her own house, Peggy almost hugged herself in delight. She had a handle on Bridie McCarthy and intended to use it. For a start she would remind her that abortion, as well as being illegal, was a mortal sin. If she was to die without confessing and repenting of it, she would roast in the flames of Hell. Of course she might be dead already. She looked sick enough, but if she hadn’t died, she’d make her wish she had before she was done with her.
Peggy McKenna was a sad and embittered young woman. She hadn’t always been that way and certainly not at seventeen when she had married handsome Michael O’Connor who was twenty-two at the time.
Peggy’s Michael worked the farm with her father Eamomn Maguire and was set to inherit it at the older man’s death, what with Peggy having no brothers and being the eldest girl. Eamomn considered his son-in-law a fine fellow if he could just keep off the drink.
Peggy was happy, her life and future set. She knew in time they would build their own house on the farm, where they’d rear their family. However, unbeknownst to Peggy, Michael had become embroiled in the Troubles in Ireland, becoming active in the IRA cell operating from the hills of Donegal.
They’d been married less than a year when Michael had the tip-off to disappear if he didn’t want to be shot. His name was known and the British Army intended to hunt him down. Peggy was pregnant and hated to have to leave her home, but would hate even more to lose her young husband. He was given papers taken from a dead comrade, Michael McKenna, and that’s who he became when they travelled across the sea to the only relative he had outside the shores of Ireland, an uncle in Aston, Birmingham.
Peggy thought the house squalid, the area filthy and depressing, and the air fit to choke a body, filled as it was with putrid factory emissions.
She missed her home and her mammy and her gaggle of sisters though she tried, and failed, to like Michael’s relations. Living with them was a form of purgatory.
It was in Bell Barn Road in the Horsefair area, far enough away from Michael’s uncle and his family to suit Peggy, that her firstborn, Denis, was joined by a brother and three sisters over the next six years.
When Ellen Doherty had had her sister’s child, Mary McCarthy over for a wee holiday, Peggy had taken an instant dislike to her. This was not for anything Mary did, but just jealousy eating at Peggy.
Mary was only three years younger than Peggy and, their parents being neighbours, they’d gone to the same school in rural Donegal. But now, while Mary was out and about enjoying herself, Peggy was tied to the house with babies amidst poverty, for Michael had lost the job his uncle had found for him.
When Mary met and married Eddie Coghlan, a fine upstanding man in steady employment, Peggy’s jealousy grew, especially when her sisters wrote and told her how wonderful the wedding had been and of the spread put on for everyone after it.
Bridie came to see Mary in 1927, just after Peggy had had her fifth child, Patricia. Mary had told her Bridie was still small and thin and she was. It was hard to believe she was thirteen, but she was obviously well nourished, despite that. Her eyes were bright and clear, her skin glowed, and her deep rich chestnut-coloured hair shone.
Peggy couldn’t remember what having a stomach full of food felt like anymore. Any food she could get hold of she gave to the weans, but they still often cried with hunger.
They often cried with cold as well in the winter. They went barefoot, for any boots they’d ever had had been pawned, and blankets for the beds went the same way. Now the children slept in the clothes they were wearing under a variety of coats. Their hair was lank, their grey faces pinched and thin, their arms and legs like sticks and their bellies distended.
Peggy told herself life was unfair. How she would have loved to have the money for one of her sisters to come on a visit, or for her to go home. She took an instant dislike to Bridie too.
Over the years, envy and jealousy turned to bitterness as her poverty grew deeper. Many neighbours bore the brunt of her verbal attacks till most left her well alone. And then Bridie McCarthy had arrived again. This time there had been no announcement and talk of it for days, even weeks, like there had been before and now she knew why.
She couldn’t believe her good fortune. After all the years of envy, it was as if Bridie McCarthy had been handed to her on a plate. She would pay, and dearly, for killing an unborn baby was something she’d burn in Hell for. But long before that, provided the girl survived, Peggy would extract her payment.
Bridie opened her eyes four full days after she’d been admitted to hospital. She didn’t know where she was and knew nothing of the battle that had gone on to save her life.
She lay still and cast her mind back. She remembered Mrs M and what she had done and the nightmare journey back home, being tucked up in Mary’s bed and then … then nothing until now. She looked around her and knew she was in hospital and was frightened, for she knew she’d done an awful thing in trying to get rid of her child.
A nurse, bustling past the door at that moment, caught the small sign of movement and went in. She seemed pleased that Bridie had her eyes open.
‘What happened to me?’ Bridie asked and saw the nurse’s lips purse.
‘Doctor will explain it all to you,’ she said primly. ‘He’ll be along to see you directly.’
The doctor was a middle-aged man with warm grey-brown eyes which he turned on Bridie and said in a soft and gentle voice, ‘You had an abortion, my dear, didn’t you?’
It was useless to deny
it, so Bridie nodded. ‘Well, I’m afraid it caused you to haemorrhage,’ the doctor explained. ‘You were very ill when you were admitted.’
‘Aye.’
‘You know, my dear, that you were breaking the law?’ the doctor said. ‘If I was to inform the authorities …’
‘Oh, please, please don’t,’ Bridie pleaded.
‘Were you so desperate?’
‘You’ve no idea,’ Bridie sobbed.
‘And the man? There was no way he could marry you?’
Bridie gave a dry, humourless laugh. ‘There was no question of it, Doctor. The man was already married, well, married with a daughter my age, an older son and a clutch of younger ones too. He was also my uncle and he raped me.’
The doctor was silent. Bridie’s eyes met his, and he knew this petite young woman spoke the truth because he saw the pain still there.
‘No one would have believed me,’ she went on. ‘There would always have been doubt and it would have destroyed us all. Then I found I was having a child and I was in a panic. I ran away and came to my sister’s. We talked about it for hours and I wrestled with it all night. It seemed the only way.’
‘I see,’ the doctor said. ‘You realise you might have died?’
‘I knew there was a risk,’ Bridie admitted. ‘And one I was prepared to take. Please don’t tell the police.’
The doctor pondered for a while. The woman who carried the act out at least should be prosecuted for what she did, but that couldn’t be done without involving the young girl, who he thought appeared to have gone through enough already. Anyway, it was doubtful they’d ever find the woman. They’d probably not even known her name and although they’d know where the house was, that probably wasn’t hers. He’d heard such women often borrowed houses from friends.
Why should this young girl have to suffer the shame and humiliation of giving birth to a bastard child through no fault of her own? She’d taken the only course open to her and he wasn’t going to shame her further. ‘No, my dear,’ he said at last. ‘Set your mind at rest.’
Bridie’s relief was transparently obvious and the doctor went on, ‘Now, I want you to stay with us for a little while. You’re far from recovered yet and really I’d like to see more flesh on your bones.’
‘That’s something my mother’s been hoping to see for years,’ Bridie said, and the doctor smiled at her before he left the room and Bridie closed her eyes again.
‘Are you resting yourself?’ asked an unfamiliar voice in Bridie’s ear, jerking her awake. She opened her eyes to find herself looking into the watery blue, bloodshot ones of Peggy McKenna.
She was surprised, very surprised. She hardly knew the woman, and she’d expected no visits from neighbours. It wasn’t their way to visit hospitals at all, and to visit Bridie would be acknowledging that they knew what she’d done. They did of course, although they’d keep quiet to protect their own, but because Bridie had broken the law and then had to be admitted to hospital, the authorities, maybe even the police, could be involved. No one wanted to get mixed up in that. They merely sent their good wishes for her recovery with Ellen and Mary.
But Peggy McKenna had a reason for visiting Bridie. She’d written to her sisters the day Bridie had been taken to hospital, telling them of Bridie’s arrival at Mary’s house, but mentioning nothing of the abortion. In their reply they told her of Bridie’s flight from her home in the middle of the night and how she’d left her parents in the lurch. Few could understand why she’d done such a thing. It had, they said, been the talk of the place. Peggy had received their letter just that morning.
She knew full well why Bridie had done such a thing and now knew that her parents were unaware of any of it. This petted and pampered McCarthy girl had done a wicked, shameful thing with some boy or man who’d taken his fun and then couldn’t, or wouldn’t, marry her. She could bet that Bridie would pay dearly to keep her parents in ignorance of what she had done. Well, time would tell. Today, she’d just sow the seeds.
Despite Mary’s warning, Bridie had no reason to be wary of a neighbour and so she said a little hesitantly, ‘H … Hello, Mrs McKenna.’
Peggy seemed not a bit awkward as she settled herself on the chair beside the bed and leaned forward. ‘How you feeling now?’ she asked solicitously.
Bridie pulled away from the woman and her mouthful of foul-smelling, rotting teeth, and replied, ‘I’m fine. Getting better, you know.’
‘Ah yes. Glad you’re feeling stronger. More able to face what you’ve done?’
‘What?’
‘It’s common knowledge, Bridie,’ Peggy said, and leaning closer she went on in a hissing whisper, ‘abortion, wasn’t it?’
Bridie looked around to the main ward she’d recently moved into to see if anyone had heard, but most people were either asleep or had visitors of their own. She didn’t know how to answer Peggy McKenna. Should she deny it? What good would it do? The woman had said it was common knowledge and she was probably right, so a denial would be useless.
Before she was able to say anything, Peggy said, ‘Terrible thing that, to kill a baby.’
‘You know nothing about it,’ Bridie replied tight-lipped.
‘Don’t have to, do I?’ Peggy said. ‘I know enough. Thing is, I was wondering do your parents know? See, according to Mary, when we were at school, you were the golden girl, especially after the other two wee ones died. Mary said your mammy and daddy thought the sun shone out of your arse.’ Peggy shook her head from side to side and regarded Bridie sorrowfully. ‘If they could see you now, I think the pair of them would be destroyed, so they would.’
‘You wouldn’t tell them, sure you wouldn’t?’ Bridie said in panic. ‘It would achieve nothing.’
‘That’s in your opinion,’ Peggy said. ‘But I’ll bide my time for now.’ She sat back in the chair, her hands by her side, and said, ‘Intend to confess, do you?’
Bridie had no intention of confessing it. She’d told no priest anything about Francis’s earlier encounters, never mind that one dreadful night, and she had no intention of doing so now.
‘I mean they can’t know, can they?’ Peggy said. ‘If they’d known you were sick in hospital, they’d visit you. Prayers would be said at church and Mary and Ellen would have Masses dedicated to you. I bet they’ve said nothing of this and that’s wrong too. You can’t just get away scot-free without confessing and asking God’s forgiveness. If you were to die without atoning you’d tip straight into the fires of Hell.’
She watched the blood drain from Bridie’s face as she leant back on the pillows. ‘What do you want of me, Peggy?’ she asked wearily.
‘Well, first I want you to feel disgusted and ashamed of yourself,’ Peggy told her.
‘I did. I do.’
‘Good,’ Peggy said. ‘You’ll never forget what you’ve done, you know. Never. All the days of your life, it will haunt you. And God may have his revenge yet. Perhaps you’ll never be able to bear another child. Think on that, Bridie McCarthy.’
Bridie thought of it. Peggy wasn’t to know how low her self-esteem was anyway, nor as she began to recover, how guilt had begun to eat away at her. She had asked God’s forgiveness over and over, but not through a priest, not in the confessional box. ‘I’ve thought of all this myself, Mrs McKenna, so you’re telling me nothing I haven’t faced,’ she said. ‘And if I do as you say and confess all to a priest, will you give up this idea of writing to my parents?’
‘I won’t give up,’ Peggy said. ‘But I’ll hold fire for a bit.’
‘Please,’ Bridie pleaded.
‘Let’s get this clear,’ Peggy said briskly. ‘You are not in a position to bargain with me. You go to confess when you’re out of this place and then we’ll see.’
When she’d gone, Bridie lay with her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling and wondering why her life was so difficult. She’d have to go to confession, she knew that, to keep the wretched woman at bay for a little longer. She could not risk te
lling Mary or Ellen about Peggy McKenna’s visit, or what she’d said to her. She knew they’d be incensed on her behalf, but if they upset Peggy McKenna, she might well carry out her threat and there was nothing anyone could do about that. After all she’d gone through to protect her parents, she didn’t think she could bear that.
All this had come about because of her bloody uncle, she thought, and she didn’t care how wicked it was, she prayed earnestly for the man to die.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The wards were being decorated for Christmas when Bridie left hospital. It was just over a week away and she was going to her aunt’s home for she had more room than Mary.
Ellen’s house was exactly the same as Mary’s. The living room was small but warm and cosy. The floor was covered with brown lino with beige and yellow flowers on it and a soft deep brown rug was pushed against the brass fender. A small two-seater settee and an armchair in light brown material and covered in gay handmade cushions was pulled up before the fire. The mantelpiece had few ornaments, but for the two silver candlesticks to each side of it and the little red lamp that was often lit in front of the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that hung above the fireplace.
Bridie was to have the attic, the only other available room, but while Bridie had been recovering in hospital, Ellen had been busy. She’d taken up the lino she’d had put down when Mary had first come and replaced it with a nice pale blue one and on the floor bedside the bed was a bright rag rug. The wardrobe and dressing table had also been bought for Mary that time she’d come over with Ellen and Bridie was grateful for places to put her few things.
Every effort had been made to make her comfortable and welcome and normally Bridie would have been delighted with such a room, if she hadn’t been burdened down with guilt and shame for what she had done.
