by Anne Bennett
No, she couldn’t tell her the truth. ‘Och, you know these young ones, they take notions.’
‘Did she tell you nothing? Surely you asked?’
‘Aye. Aye,’ Ellen said. ‘But she said nothing definite, just that she was fed up of the farm and seeing no one, the daily grind, you know. I think she missed Rosalyn too.’
‘Why didn’t she say?’ Sarah cried. ‘We’d have got someone in to help. Oh, I know we weren’t keen at the time, but we had to get someone in when she left. Francis got us a man who Jimmy gets on fine with. His wife Beattie helps me and while it’s not the same as one of your own, it’s not so bad when all’s said and done.
‘But as for missing Rosalyn, Ellen, I’m not so sure. Oh, she was upset at the time, no doubt of it, but now … Well, Delia says she never writes. Rosalyn writes to her, but she never writes back. If she missed her that much, wouldn’t she send a wee letter now and then?’
Ellen, who knew that Bridie felt she couldn’t write to Rosalyn because she was connected to Francis, said nothing to this, but she did try to defend her. ‘She works hard, Sarah,’ she said, ‘and sometimes long hours. She doesn’t get much free time.’
‘Enough to get herself a boyfriend it seems.’
‘Aye,’ Ellen said. ‘But that’s natural enough, isn’t it?’
‘She’s too young.’
‘She’s nineteen and Tom is a fine young man,’ Ellen said. ‘Oh Sarah, you know there’s no law about this sort of thing.’
‘And she needs our permission to marry him?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, she can want,’ Sarah stated flatly. ‘We didn’t want her to go, but she pleased herself. Well, I’ll please myself and she can burn in Hell before I’d give my blessing to anything she does.’
‘Sarah, this attitude doesn’t help,’ said Ellen with a sigh.
‘It helps me, Ellen,’ Sarah said tight-lipped. ‘And what’s more, that’s my last word on the subject.’ And with that parting shot, she swept from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Ellen knew to keep on about Bridie when Sarah was in this mood would only make her dig her heels in further, so she went in search of Jimmy the following day. She was glad he was in the lower field for then she couldn’t be seen from the house – she’d told Sarah she was off for a walk.
She’d guessed Jimmy wouldn’t be so rigidly opposed to Bridie and she was proved right. He freely admitted he missed her and wished the situation could be put right between herself and Sarah.
‘Have you told Sarah how you feel?’
‘I haven’t, well not in so many words, you know,’ Jimmy said. ‘I know the power of my wife’s temper. Maybe in time she’ll come round.’
‘And what of Bridie and the young man she wishes to marry?’
‘Och, sure, I don’t want to get involved in that. Sarah is set against it.’
‘I know that, but only as a way of punishing Bridie.’
‘Not that alone. We don’t know the man. We haven’t seen him.’
‘How can you see him when you’ve virtually disowned Bridie?’ Ellen demanded. ‘I’ve seen him, and Sam and Mary and Eddie have too, and we all like him and think he’ll make Bridie a fine husband. You can even find out about the family he comes from if you’ve a mind. Strabane’s not that far away.’
Jimmy was silent a moment or two and then he said, ‘There’s no reason for the hurry, I suppose?’
Ellen faced him levelly. ‘No, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘None other than that they’re in love.’
‘And he has a decent job?’
‘Aye.’
‘Where would they live?’
‘We’d search around as soon as you gave the word. They could lodge with me for a time, but they’d need a place of their own eventually. Would you do it?’
‘Not so fast,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’ll have to look into it. Give me a day or two.’
‘I can only stay a week at most,’ Ellen warned. ‘I came here on the spur of the moment.’
‘You’ll know well before then,’ Jimmy said, and Ellen pressed him no more.
Ellen was worried about seeing Francis; not worried for herself, but afraid that by her manner, she’d show how disgusted she was with him. She thought it sinful that the man would get away scot-free and yet for Bridie’s sake it had had to be that way.
She called in on Delia as it would have been regarded as odd if she hadn’t, but she made sure it was a day when she knew Francis was in town. The wee ones were growing up now and Delia should have been less hardworked, but Ellen saw lines on Delia’s face she didn’t remember seeing before. It pulled her mouth down into a tight thin line. She knew she was looking at an unhappy woman and wondered if Delia had any idea of her husband’s womanising.
She couldn’t ask, however, and they talked of other things, only touching briefly about Bridie. Even then, Ellen didn’t dwell on the reasons for Bridie’s flight, but just spoke of her life now in the city, her job and her love for Tom Cassidy.
‘Rosalyn shows no sign of settling down yet,’ Delia said. ‘But God knows, there’s time enough. She tells me of the great life she’s living now and she knows marriage will put a stop to those high jinks.’
She sighed and said resignedly, ‘Well, there you are. As my own dear mother used to say, “you make your bed and then you must lie on it”.’
Ellen said nothing. Whatever ailed Delia’s marriage she couldn’t help her. She got up to go. ‘Francis will be sorry he missed you,’ Delia said at the door. ‘Come again when he’s home.’
Not likely, thought Ellen, but said, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to, Delia. This is just a flying visit. I don’t want to leave Sam too long. The girls are good, but Bridie’s at work all day and Mary has her hands full with the two wee ones, especially Jamie for he’s one body’s work, that wee scamp.’
And with that, Ellen was gone. Over the next few days, she stuck close to her sister and made quite sure that if she saw Francis, for it couldn’t be totally avoided, it was always with others around her. She didn’t trust herself – the first time she’d seen his open genial face, his hand extended in a welcome, she remembered what he’d done to Bridie and wanted to hit him with something heavy. She controlled herself with difficulty and shook Francis’s hand, though the bile rose in her throat as she touched him.
She remembered how Bridie had told her she’d washed herself all over and wished she could have rubbed her skin raw after the rape. She understood that – after Francis had left, she went into the room and, pouring water from the ewer, she had washed and washed at her hands, eventually scrubbing at them with a nailbrush. She knew with a sudden realisation that while Francis lived, she could not come back again, not even for a visit.
One day while she was there, Jimmy made a trip with the horse and cart, leaving the taciturn Willie in charge. ‘Said he’s off to see some young calves,’ Sarah replied to Ellen’s question, but she was puzzled by his decision. ‘I don’t see that we need any more, but he wouldn’t listen.’
But Jimmy didn’t bring any calves back, saying they weren’t worth having. Ellen wondered if the trip had anything to do with the talk she had with him, but didn’t ask. Jimmy was not a man to be hurried – she would wait for him to come to her.
Jimmy sought her out the following day as she hung washing on the line in the orchard. ‘I’ve been to Strabane as you suggested,’ he said. ‘I thought if some man was thinking of marrying my lass, I’d find out all I could. The lad was bound for the priesthood, I heard?’
‘Aye, he was.’
‘Did he give it up for Bridie?’
‘No, months before,’ Ellen said. ‘He hadn’t even met Bridie when he made that decision. She had nothing to do with it.’
‘That’s not the talk of the town.’
‘It wouldn’t be,’ Ellen said. ‘But it’s the truth.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jimmy said. ‘His people seem respectable enough and the farm fairly prosperous. I didn’t go
to see them but I asked about.’
‘I believe they’re decent people, right enough.’
‘Will he come back to the farm? Take it up again now he’s not to be a priest?’ Jimmy said. He hoped he would; he’d love to have his Bridie just a few miles away. He knew Sarah would soon come around, but Ellen shook her head.
‘He has no interest in farming,’ she said. ‘His eldest sister is marrying a farmer and he’s left it with her and his other two sisters. He said it’s only fair. He was sent away to the seminary at twelve and now he’s twenty-three and all those years they’ve worked alongside their father. He says they have more right to it than he has.’
Jimmy sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
Ellen said gently, ‘I don’t think Bridie will ever come back here to live, but she has the chance of a decent life in Birmingham. She just needs your permission.’
‘She’ll never get Sarah’s,’ Jimmy said. ‘But I spoke to the parish priest in the village and he said just the one of us could do it.’
‘And will you?’
‘Aye,’ Jimmy said. ‘I want my girl to be happy.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bridie couldn’t believe that Ellen had gone over to Ireland and succeeded in getting her father’s permission for her to marry Tom Cassidy. But still she shook her head glumly. ‘Wasted journey for you, Aunt Ellen, for I’m not for marrying the man now.’
‘Away out of that!’ Ellen said sharply. ‘It’s me you’re talking to, not some dumb chuck. I know you’re eating your heart out for him.’
‘I am not!’
‘Oh yes you are,’ Ellen said emphatically. ‘And if you toss Tom Cassidy aside with your heart crying out for him, you will have played right into Francis’s hands. Why are you so stiffnecked?’
‘You don’t know it all.’
‘I know of the letter his parents sent that you were so upset about,’ Ellen said. ‘Mary told me you’d mentioned it. But tell me honestly, Bridie, did you expect them to be any different?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘You’re not marrying them.’
‘I know that,’ Bridie cried. ‘It’s just … Oh God, Aunt Ellen, Tom, could find himself some nice girl, one who hasn’t been through what I have.’ She looked up at her aunt and said, ‘I think he deserves better.’
‘He deserves to have his wishes attended to,’ Ellen snapped back. ‘He deserves to have you take him seriously when he says he loves you and wants to marry you. Tell me, was his decision changed by the letter?’
‘He … he was upset by it,’ Bridie said at last. ‘But no, his opinion hadn’t changed.’
‘No, and it wouldn’t be,’ Ellen said. ‘Listen to me, Bridie. When you’re a child, you need your parents’ approval for things you do, but, as an adult, your life is your own and what you do with it is your business. It’s nice if your parents are pleased with the way you live it, but just as you can’t change their way of life and opinions, they have no authority over yours either. Sometimes you have to go against them for the sake of your own happiness.’
Ellen’s words made an impression on Bridie. She thought of her life with Tom and then imagined life without him and knew which one she preferred. Mary, when Bridie asked her opinion, certainly agreed with Ellen. But she went further. ‘Did you throw Tom over totally because of the letter his parents sent, or was it about something else?’ she asked.
‘Well, I suppose it was about Mammy and Daddy not giving permission as well.’
‘Anything else?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you what I mean,’ Mary said. ‘What Francis did to you that time in the wood, does it … did it … Look, what I’m trying to say is when you and Tom get intimate does it bring it back? Did you break it off with him because you’re afraid of remembering?’
‘No!’ Bridie cried fiercely. ‘I’m not just afraid of remembering, I’m afraid I won’t be able to let Tom touch me. What sort of marriage is that, Mary? As for being intimate, well, that’s a laugh, we just don’t get intimate. And I don’t see how I’ll feel better because a priest mumbles some words over me and Tom puts a ring on my finger.’
‘Oh, my love,’ Mary said sympathetically. She wrapped her arms around her sister and thought if she had Francis before her this minute, she’d chop him into pieces and take joy in it. ‘Have you talked this over with Tom?’ she asked at last.
Bridie gave a sniff. ‘Aye.’
‘And?’
‘He just says there’s plenty of time.’
‘Well, he’s right.’
‘I know, but … Well, what if it doesn’t come right?’
‘If it doesn’t, then you’ve let Francis destroy your life totally,’ Mary told her sister. ‘Are you prepared to let him do that?’
Mary, watching her young sister’s hurt and confused face, made a sudden decision to share her secret with Bridie. ‘Look, Bridie, I never doubted a word you said when you wrote to me about Francis. I didn’t want to believe what you were telling me,’ Mary said, ‘but, inside, I knew it was true.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of what happened to me too, when I was fourteen.’
‘You mean …?’
‘Yes, Bridie,’ Mary said. ‘And not a soul has ever been told about it until now. I wasn’t raped, nothing as awful as that, but what he did was bad enough.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He … It was the summer of 1919. I was fourteen and crying because of the wee ones dying. You mind how it was then.’
Bridie nodded. Oh yes, she remembered all right. She’d only been five, but she remembered that dreadful time. Grief had enveloped the house. The keening of the women seemed constant and was echoed in many houses throughout the north of Ireland at that time. It was no wonder Mary cried. God! Everyone cried.
‘I’d stolen away from the house,’ Mary said, ‘not wanting to upset Mammy further, and I’d climbed up the brae to that hollow in the hills by Doolan’s farm. I was lying on the grass crying when Francis came upon me. He said he’d been walking the hills, but afterwards I didn’t believe that. The hill couldn’t be seen from our house, but from his you would have a good view of me toiling there on my own, though the hollow would be hidden. I think he saw me and followed me. He’d know where I’d be making for, I’d done it many a time. ’Course, I didn’t think that at the time. I was too sad to think anything at all. I just turned to him and said something like, “Isn’t it awful?”
‘He agreed it was and knelt on the grass beside me and started to stroke my arm. It was nice, comforting just to know someone cared about me and how I was feeling. For so long, with Seamus and Johnnie ill, then Robert and Nuala and Mammy so worried about you getting sick she’d hardly let the wind blow on you, I’d felt neglected. I never said a word, nor would I – to tell the truth, I felt awful even thinking about myself and I loved Uncle Francis for making me feel better.
‘Then he started stroking my leg with his other hand and I didn’t like that so much, but didn’t want to make a fuss with him being so nice and all. He started asking me how I was feeling and did I like what he was doing and said that he could make me feel a lot better if he had the mind to.
‘It was like a litany. He just went on and on, saying the same things and it became quite soothing. I was tired, for I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep for some time, and had a muzzy head from crying for hours, the sun was hot and with Francis’s hands caressing me gently and his soft voice, I’d fallen into a semi-sleep.
‘And then suddenly, one hand was underneath me, fondling my breasts, fumbling at the buttons of my dress, while the other had snaked up my leg and was inside my bloomers. God, I woke up quick, I can tell you.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I slapped his hands away and shot to my feet, doing up my buttons, and told him to get away.’
‘Did he tell you it was your fault, like he did me?’
‘In a way,’ Mary said. ‘He said I was enj
oying it, or I would have complained earlier and he was only offering me what all girls wanted.’
‘It’s horrible, isn’t it, especially afterwards when they say things like that? You begin to doubt yourself,’ Bridie said.
‘Aye,’ Mary agreed. ‘After that one time, he was always at me. But I had one weapon you hadn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Sally McCormack.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘The daughter of a gypsy that used to camp in the meadow by the stream in the town. Sally had long, raven-black hair and dark flashing eyes that could cloud with anger or scorn, but usually sparkled with good humour. She was very beautiful and wore long flowing clothes, jangly necklaces and bracelets, and was often barefoot.
‘The gypsies used to stay all summer. They did every year, but that particular year, Daddy noticed Francis seemed to have a lot of business in the town which kept him going in, night after night. Auntie Delia used to complain about it. She was getting over a miscarriage at the time and Francis told Daddy it was his way of coping. He said he’d been broken up by Robert and Nuala’s death and then Delia’s miscarriage and he drank to ease the pain. No one connected him to the gypsies. They were just a feature of the summer and tended to keep themselves to themselves unless they were hawking around the doors.
‘That’s how we got to know Sally of course. They’d drive up in a cart and the women would be selling clothes pegs and woven baskets, while the men offered to sharpen up scythes and sickles before they’d be needed in the autumn. Sally always came with the women and she often went round in the late summer to help pick the crops. She was usually full of fun and she seemed to have such freedom. The rest of us girls about the same age often envied her.
‘With the nip in the air of late September, the gypsies were gone,’ Mary said. ‘And we young ones were sad, because they were a colourful addition to our rather mundane lives. But then one bleak November day, a caravan rolled up before Francis’s farm. It was Sally’s family. Her father got out, mad as anything, and said Francis had taken his daughter down and she was having his baby and what was he going to do about it.
