by Anne Bennett
Staggering, and with great difficulty, Gillian got Bridie back to the General Hospital, worried about her state of mind. The nurse she’d spoken to earlier recognised her struggling with a woman obviously in some sort of semi-collapse and hurried over. They sat Bridie on a chair and the warden said, in explanation of her condition, ‘She’s had a belly full of bad news today.’
‘Oh God,’ said the nurse in a whisper. ‘I can’t lighten it for her. Her sister, the one you asked me about, died a few minutes ago.’
‘Oh no!’
Bridie didn’t hear the words, but caught the tension and the warden’s reaction to whatever the nurse had said and came to a little and leaned forward. Gillian hesitated to tell her and yet she had a right to know. Maybe it would be as well to let her have it all in a place where there were doctors and nurses on hand and where she wouldn’t be on her own. And so, she said, ‘Your sister, Bridie, she never regained consciousness. She slipped away just minutes ago.’
It was the final straw: her lovely, beautiful sister, her rock as she was growing up, the one who’d loved and sustained and helped her in her bleakest moments, was dead and gone. Mary was the very one she hadn’t worried about. She’d thought she was all right at the hospital, and would get any treatment necessary while she found out about the others, but now she was gone and Bridie hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Suddenly, it was too much for her and she fell from the chair and keeled over in a dead faint.
Bridie came round, lying on a trolley in the hospital corridor and wished she had stayed asleep as the memories came flooding back. There was no sign of the warden and she saw by the hospital clock that it was half an hour past midnight. She struggled to rise as she realised with a jolt that Jay and Mickey would have to be told they were motherless. Tom and Eddie would also have to be sent for and the funerals arranged. She knew she’d have to push her suffering aside for a moment to help Eddie and the boys. After that, she could grieve properly for Katie and Liam.
But, she thought, how can I send telegrams or make arrangements for things when I have no idea where I’m going to live?
A nurse, seeing movement, scurried forward. ‘Doctor would like you to stay overnight,’ she said. ‘He thinks you’re suffering from shock and wants to keep an eye on you.’
‘I can’t stay here. There’s things I must do,’ Bridie protested.
‘Oh, I really think …’
‘It’s impossible. There is no one left to see to things,’ Bridie said, and then a thought struck her. ‘My sister. We’re Catholics and …’
‘We know,’ the nurse said. ‘She had a rosary around her neck. A Father Flynn gave her the last rites. He’s the priest that gives Communion and so on for the Catholics we have in here. He’s from the Mission hall.’
Bridie felt somewhat comforted for she truly liked the man and she knew Tom had thought the world of him. He’d probably recognised Mary, if not by her appearance, then by her name, as he’d met all the family.
‘He’s not still here, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I think he is,’ the nurse said. ‘He was with a dying man on the first floor a few minutes ago. Would you like to speak with him?’
‘Aye,’ Bridie said. ‘Tell him Bridie Cassidy would like a word. He’ll know me. Before the war my husband worked alongside him at the Mission hall.’
The nurse found Father Flynn, who was heart-sorry he’d recently given the last rites to Bridie’s sister. Not very long after she’d spoken to the nurse, Bridie saw him hurrying down the corridor towards her, where she’d sat on a bench waiting. The priest thought she cut a tragic figure, so small and slight and still in the ill-fitting coat and bare legs and feet thrust into battered shoes. A wave of sympathy and tenderness washed over him as Bridie rose to greet him.
She’d been trying to compose herself, to push aside her devastating loss so that she could organise the funerals and contact Tom and Eddie and her parents. However, when Father Flynn came, the sorrow in his eyes began to melt her stiff resolve and when he said, ‘Oh my dear, dear, Bridie, I am so, so sorry,’ it opened the floodgates. She sank under a paroxysm of grief, so profound and overwhelming she couldn’t see, and she groped for a hand, any hand, craving contact with another human being.
Father Flynn held her hand for a brief second before releasing it and putting his arm around her. She didn’t resist, she was not capable of resisting, but later, when the weeping had died away to hiccupping sobs, she was embarrassed at being held so close and intimately by a priest.
Father Flynn, however, showed no embarrassment and passed his handkerchief into Bridie’s hand and as she wiped her face, he pulled her down beside him on the bench. ‘I know of Mary,’ he said. ‘And young Jay injured a few days ago. What of the others?’
Bridie, her voice still trembling and husky, told the priest of finding Ellen and Sam dead, and Mickey injured in Lewis’s basement. There was a pause and Father Flynn read the raw pain in Bridie’s eyes and the bleak look upon her face and, dreading the answer, he asked, ‘And the little ones, Bridie? What of Katie and Liam?’
‘Dead, Father,’ Bridie said. She shut her eyes against the pain of it and said again, as if she couldn’t quite believe it, ‘Dead! But I’ll have no grave to mourn at, Father, for there are no bodies. They are either in bits at some funeral directors, waiting to be assembled, or crushed under tons of masonry.’
Father Flynn felt tears trickle from his eyes. Bridie had adored those children. Oh dear God, how ever would she stand this? And Tom, the devoted father, as yet unaware of his loss. ‘We must send a telegram to Tom,’ he said. ‘And Eddie, of course.’
‘And my parents too, Father. But I have nowhere to stay; Tom won’t be able to find me.’
‘Why, you must stay at the Mission,’ Father Flynn said. ‘There is no question of you going anywhere else. And,’ he added, ‘We have clothes banks there. We have volunteers touring the richer areas as yet unaffected by the bombing and it’s amazing the quality of some of the clothes they bring back.’
Clothes were the least of Bridie’s concerns, but she knew the priest was trying to be kind and so she said nothing, but followed him into the dark night, grateful that she had somewhere to lay her head, though she doubted she’d sleep.
Bridie was given a room in the priest’s private quarters, the room that Tom had used in fact. She was fed too, for a meal had been left for Father Flynn and he readily shared it with her. It was a vegetable stew, with a hint of meat – the normal wartime fare – and though she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten she still didn’t feel hungry. She felt marginally better though with food inside her, but she was so still so deathly tired her whole body ached, despite the scant hour or so’s sleep she’d had at the hospital, ‘Get yourself to bed now,’ the priest said. ‘Try not to worry about anything. I’ll see to the telegrams and make the arrangements for the funerals. I’ll contact Father Shearer in the morning’
‘Oh thank you, Father,’ Bridie said gratefully.
‘Not at all,’ the priest said dismissively. ‘It’s my job to help. Anyway, Tom would expect me to look after you. You go up and try and sleep, my dear, and let’s hope Jerry has a night off tonight.’
When Bridie had fainted at the hospital, Gillian had sat beside her for some time. By the time the clock struck eleven, she had realised she’d been sitting there for nearly an hour and had dozed herself, despite the hardness and lack of comfort of the chair. She was bone weary and full of sadness and she’d already been on duty for well over twelve hours. She had known if she was going to be any use to anyone, she needed to sleep and eat. She had also felt confident leaving Bridie in the safe hands of the doctors and nurses in the hospital and so she headed for home.
By eight o’clock the next morning she was back at Bell Barn Road for she knew the rescue and levelling work there would take some time. She been there about an hour or so when she was hailed by the man who’d suggested she accompany Bridie to the hospital the previous evening
. ‘How did it go with the woman looking for her people?’ he said.
‘Ah, I felt so sorry for her,’ Gillian said. ‘She found her sister at the General, but she never recovered consciousness and died. Her one nephew is in the same hospital and the other one was in Lewis’s basement. Her aunt and uncle were killed too, but what’s really cut her up is that there’s no sign of her children. It’s hard to think of two wee children in bits or buried alive.’
‘It is indeed,’ the man said, casting his eyes over the stack of rubble. ‘How old were they?’
‘Little,’ Gillian said. ‘The girl’s six, and the boy four. Not much chance with that lot on top them.’
‘There were two little uns taken out early on,’ the man said. ‘Before you got here. They were so small, I think they was took up the Children’s Hospital. Don’t know for sure, like.’
‘A boy and girl?’
‘Dunno, didn’t dig them out myself. Someone told me about it. Said they looked in a bad way. Didn’t look like they’d make it. But they might be her kids. She ought to know.’
Gillian agreed, but when she went back to the General Hospital, Bridie was gone and no one knew where. The staff had changed shifts, and the new staff didn’t know Bridie, nor of her meeting with Father Flynn.
She could be anywhere, Gillian told herself outside the hospital once more, and really she shouldn’t be away from her post for too long, for every hand was needed. She certainly hadn’t the time to check every rescue centre for Bridie, especially as she probably wasn’t in a proper one, but holed up in a church hall or some such. Anyway, she told herself as she made her way back, they mightn’t have been her kids at all, or if they were hers they might have died of their injuries. What was the point of raising her hopes only to have them dashed again? Things were probably best left as they were.
In a room off a hospital ward in the Children’s Hospital a couple of days later, a small girl and boy were being discussed, for the hospital didn’t know what to do with them when they were ready to be discharged. ‘No relatives that we know of,’ the hospital doctor told Dr Havering from Oakengates orphanage. ‘I’ve checked with the authorities. As far as they know everyone in the house was killed except, for one young boy, obviously a brother. He’ll be another problem, I should think, and certainly not able to look after these two. They can’t seem to tell us their names or their parents’ names, or anything at all.’
‘Shock and trauma,’ Dr Havering said. ‘And quite common and understandable in such a case. We have psychiatrists on hand to deal with this sort of thing. As soon as they are physically fit to be moved, we’ll take them along to the orphanage. It’s right out in the countryside, the other side of Sutton Coldfield, no threat of bombs there and once the children recover from the shock of that dreadful night, I’m sure they’ll be very happy.’
The hospital doctor was relieved there were two less children he had to worry about. His workload was already enormous and the orphanage sounded ideal. The last thing those two young children needed, though, was to experience another air raid and that could happen anytime. It might send them over the edge completely. ‘Have you any hospital facilities there?’ he asked. ‘The children just need basic nursing now, but it will be a fortnight or so before they can be allowed out of bed and really I’d be afraid of the effect on them if we get another raid before they are fit to leave us.’
‘We have an excellent medical wing,’ Dr Havering said reassuringly. ‘With qualified staff, of course. I’ll enquire first thing tomorrow. If we have the space, we’ll move the children immediately. I quite agree about the damage another raid might do to them.’
The two men shook hands amicably, glad the situation was resolved so satisfactorily. In the small room behind them, Katie lay with eyes wide open. She wanted her mother, needed her so badly, but she was frightened. She’d been terrified of the bomb blast on their house, and could remember her aunt throwing herself over the children as the walls began caving in around them.
She couldn’t have said how long it took for people to dig her out, or explained how lovely the cold air was on her face. She’d closed her eyes, scared of the shouting people and the screams and cries and the crash of explosions and crump of buildings falling and the rat-tat-tat of the anti aircraft guns.
But what frightened her most of all was her little brother that lay so still on the stretcher that she knew her instincts in that black hole were right. She knew she’d killed him.
She was afraid of the men that lifted her onto a stretcher and took her to a place where people prodded and poked at her. Then someone washed the grit and dirt from her body and stuck a needle into her leg that made her go into a deep sleep.
When she awoke the next morning there was much she wanted to ask. What had happened to Ellen and Sam and Mary and Mickey and where was her mammy and why hadn’t she come to find them? But, when she opened her mouth to say this, she found she couldn’t. Intense fear had taken away her voice.
Liam wasn’t dead, though she didn’t find that out for twenty-four hours and then she saw he was in a worse state than she was. He didn’t seem to know or care what they did to him and even when his eyes were open they looked odd and that frightened her too and she waited hour upon hour for her mother to come and find them.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tom and Eddie came to the Mission hall, white-faced, the smudges of black beneath their pain-filled eyes telling its own tale. Both were in shock, one bereft of a wife, the other his children. Tom, having been told how this tragic occurrence came about, knew that had Bridie not been in Ireland at the time, he probably would have lost her too.
How would he have borne that? To lose his beloved children caused him deep pain and he imagined that pain would always be with him, but to lose Bridie as well … And yet in a way, he had lost Bridie, for her spark, her vitality, her very essence had gone. She seldom heard him when he spoke and even when she did, she often didn’t bother answering, her eyes vacant and her movements heavy and ponderous.
Father Flynn told him to be patient, but he couldn’t afford patience; he only had ten days’ compassionate leave. Father Shearer called to see Bridie because Tom was so worried and in the end he called in Doctor Casey as well. Both told him time was a great healer. ‘You can’t expect anyone to bounce back after a tragedy of this magnitude, Tom,’ the doctor said, grave-faced. ‘If she doesn’t buck up after the funeral, I’ll give her something.’
With that Tom had to be content. The one person Tom didn’t mention his worries about Bridie to was Eddie, for he had his own anxieties. As well as mourning the loss of his wife, he had his sons grief to contend with too. Jay’s sorrow had turned to anger which he directed at his father. Mickey, on the other hand, felt guilt. If his mother hadn’t tried to protect him and Katie and Liam she might well be alive.
Mickey had been transferred to the General Hospital to be with his brother, the staff and Eddie hoping it would help. It had done little good, though, because for each boy the pain was too intense and raw and personal and they each tried to deal with it their own way. So, while Eddie worried what would happen to his sons when he went back to fighting and they were out of hospital, Tom fretted about Bridie.
The funeral was well attended by friends and neighbours and flowers almost filled the hearses. There was no representative from Ireland though. Sarah and Jimmy had wanted to come: they’d lost a beloved sister and brother-in-law, a daughter and two grandchildren, and wanted to be there to pay their respects. Bridie had urged them not to, though: Birmingham was too dangerous a place then and the family had suffered enough loss already. And with the housing shortage worse than it ever had been, there was nowhere for them to stay.
Instead, they sent Mass cards as well as more wreaths of flowers. Mass cards came too from Catholic friends and neighbours, both from Donegal and Birmingham, so many they virtually covered the coffins of Ellen, Sam and Mary lined up in the church. There were no coffins for Katie and Liam for their bodies h
ad never been recovered.
Father Shearer could hardly say the Requiem Mass, so saddened was he and nearly blinded by tears. He’d conducted many funerals in that war-torn city and each innocent loss of life affected him, but this … this was such a tragedy for the families to endure. But at least there would be a grave for these three who would be buried together. Maybe to stand and pray at the graveside would be a comfort in years to come, especially for Mary’s two sons.
What of Bridie and Tom though? Their children could be in a million pieces spread all over bombed ruins. How could any parent stand that thought? He was desperately worried about Bridie. Tom had openly wept and was still weeping, one of many attending that service overcome with grief. Bridie, however, hadn’t shed a tear – not in front of him anyway.
Her ravaged face showed the level of her sorrow though, especially her lifeless eyes and the lines pulling down her mouth. Tom sneaked a look at Bridie through his own streaming eyes as the funeral began, marvelling, but almost frightened, at her self-control.
He too wished he had a grave to visit where he could go to remember and mourn the death of his darling and petite little girl and his wonderful, boisterous son.
Maybe in time, he and Bridie could talk about their children, take comfort in remembering them, regretting that the few short years they’d shared hadn’t been longer. But, now their deaths were too new, the pain too raw, to take comfort in anything. He wished he could hold Bridie’s hand, but he knew if he did, it would give him no comfort, for she’d not respond in any way, just allow her hand to be held as if it mattered not a jot to her.
He couldn’t risk rejection like that. He knelt down, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray for the repose of the souls of his children.
The funeral did not help Bridie at all. A funeral was a saying goodbye, a coming to terms with the fact that a loved one was dead, and death was a gravestone, a place to mourn, to cry and pray, to cover with flowers so that the person is never forgotten. She could do that for Sam and Ellen and Mary but she had nothing for her own children. How could she say goodbye when there wasn’t even a coffin to slide into the brown earth? Peggy McKenna had got her wish at last, but why had God punished her children? She was the one that had sinned. Why had she been spared and the children taken?
