Till the Sun Shines Through

Jimmy wasn’t usually given to much praise of how a person looked: he and Sarah always believed it led to a person thinking too much of themselves. But now Jimmy crossed the room and put his hands on Bridie’s shoulders and said softly, ‘Darling child, you look so lovely.’ His gaze took in all around as he asked, ‘Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ Bridie said, relieved he wasn’t shocked, disgusted even, at the cut of the dress. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and he put his arms around her. She met Ellen and Mary’s eyes across the room and they all knew, with Jimmy’s open approval, Sarah would say nothing detrimental about the outfit.

Bridie was sorry to see her sister and aunt leave, and not just because they had shared the burden of work, allowing her free time to get to know and play with her nephews, but also because of their cheerful company.

But she was too busy to miss them for long, as the hay was ready to be cut and stacked in the barns for the winter feed. Francis and Frank came to help as they did every year and Jimmy and Bridie would then help them in return at their farm, Delia keeping them well supplied with sandwiches and tea as Sarah wasn’t able to.

As she toiled alongside the men, slicing through the hay with her scythe, Bridie couldn’t help recollecting the harvest time when she was small. She remembered what fun Uncle Francis he’d been then. His good humour and stock of jokes seemed to take some of the ache from bent backs and threshing arms. He’d always seemed tireless himself. Even after a day’s work, he would think nothing of tossing Bridie and Rosalyn up on top of the stacks.

Bridie remembered the smell of newly mown hay, the thrill of fear as they slid down the sides of the stack and the way the bits of hay went up her nose and in between her clothes, tickling her. She was often tired, hot and dusty, yet she’d enjoyed the harvest then and had to admit most of that enjoyment had come from her uncle Francis. Now, she kept as far from him as possible and knew she’d be glad when it was over and she wouldn’t have to work near him at all.

After the harvest was safely in, they all visited the peat bog together. Again, Bridie remembered her trips as a child, with her and Rosalyn thrown into the back of the cart, with her father and Francis up in front, and Terry and Frank walking behind. Uncle Francis would sing rebel songs all the way there, his voice rising in the mist of an autumn morning.

Bridie had always loved the damp mossy smell of the bog and the way the spade slid so effortlessly into the peat. Usually black sludge would seep along it, squeezing between her bare toes and slapping up her legs. She liked the feel of it and never minded the icy coldness. She remembered how her mother would often give out when they arrived home and have her stand in a basin of warm water to be washed down before any of them were given a meal. It was part of her childhood; the time she thought would go on for ever with no change.

Now she walked alongside Frank and there wasn’t the hint of a song from her often morose uncle. The fun had gone out of it as it had gone out of a lot of things. These were now just chores to be done in order to get by for another year.

However, at last, the day of the Harvest Dance arrived. Frank was to take them up to it and bring them home afterwards, but at the last minute he went down with flu and wasn’t able to. ‘We can go ourselves,’ Bridie insisted. ‘Haven’t we often enough for the socials?’

‘Not tonight,’ Sarah said. ‘Some of these young fellows will have the drink on them. Lord knows what they’ll be up to once the night’s over.’

‘Well, sure I’ll take them up,’ Jimmy said, ‘and go to collect them.’

‘Aye, but you’ll not know when it might be finishing,’ Sarah said. ‘Ask Francis. He often goes up to the dance himself.’

Bridie wanted desperately to protest. She wanted to say she’d have anyone but Francis, but remained silent, afraid of what her uncle might say if she spoke aloud her fears. She resolved to stick to Rosalyn and her friends like glue.

Later, when her uncle Francis called for her, he stood speechless in the yard, wondering if Bridie had any idea how tempting she looked dressed in her finery as she stood framed in the doorway with the lamp behind her. Her eyes were sparkling and her face aglow with excitement at the thought of going to her first real dance and her dark brown hair, which she had rinsed in rain water earlier that day, shone as it bounced on her shoulders.

The blood coursed through Francis’s veins as he stared at her. He caught a glimpse of one bare shoulder as she adjusted the beautiful stole about her and picked up her bag where she had put the soft kid boots, wrapped in paper. These boots were the loveliest footwear she’d ever owned and she had no desire to tramp across the bog and rocks of Ireland in them, her old working boots would do well enough for that.

Many must have had the same thought as Francis, for Bridie was in great demand all night at the dance and had such a good time that she barely noticed her uncle at the bar, drinking steadily and watching her broodingly.

Lots of the young girls had their eye on some fellow or other and Bridie knew a lot of couples often began walking out from the Harvest Dance. ‘Anyone you fancy?’ said a girl in Bridie’s ear. ‘You have plenty of choice anyway, for you’ve seldom been off your feet all night. You must have danced with half the men in the room.’

But none of the men had stirred Bridie in any way. Quite a few had asked if they could see her again, begin walking out with her, and she’d immediately shied away. She had no wish to be unkind, and just said she was not ready for that level of commitment yet, but she saw the disappointment on all of their faces.

She refused to worry much about it though. She was here to enjoy herself and that’s what she intended to do and she told Rosalyn the same as the two went arm in arm back to the dance floor after the Harvest Supper.

It was as they came back into the hall that a girl said to Rosalyn, ‘Won’t you miss all this?’, the sweep of her arm taking in everything.

‘I suppose,’ Rosalyn muttered, her eyes avoiding those of her cousin.

‘What did she mean?’ Bridie asked when the girl was out of earshot.

It was obvious that Rosalyn was uncomfortable. Bridie saw her lick her lips nervously before she replied, ‘Didn’t your Aunt Ellen say? I saw her talking to Mammy when she came over and I thought

‘What are you on about?’

‘I’m … I’m leaving.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Leaving here. Leaving Ireland.’

‘Leaving Ireland?’ Bridie repeated. ‘Why, in God’s name? And don’t you think if I’d had just one sniff of that, I’d have been around to your house straight off to ask you about it?’

Of course Rosalyn knew: telling Bridie was what she’d dreaded most about the whole affair. ‘Why on earth are you leaving?’ Bridie demanded. ‘Do you mean really leaving, or just going away for a wee while?’

‘No!’ Rosalyn couldn’t let her think that. ‘You know my aunt Maria, well, Uncle Aiden has somewhere for them all in America now. But Maria can’t face the journey alone and is afraid of something happening to the weans, so she’s offered to pay my fare to go over with her.’

‘To what?’ Bridie cried. ‘Here you have a job – a life. What would you get in America?’

‘Experience,’ Rosalyn said. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She knew Bridie was hurt and upset and she wanted to explain it to her, make her see what a chance it was. Bridie knew, or she’d realise when the hurt had eased, that Rosalyn would never have been happy in rural Ireland all the days of her life. God! She’d made that plain enough from when they were in their early teens.

Now her young aunt had handed her the means to leave on a plate and her mother, far from opposing it, had urged her to go. She told Bridie this. ‘Mammy’s all for it. She says it’s a chance that might never come again. ’Course, the weans are older now and able to help more. Nora’s only a year behind Declan at ten. I was a fine hand in the house when I was ten and there’s no babies to see to now either. Mammy says I must go. She said these are opportunities that you must take when you’re single.

‘As for a job, I’m sure I could get one over there soon enough if I wanted one. Maria doesn’t want me to work, not at first anyway. Aiden earns good money and he wants me to stay with her too, for he says Maria is bound to feel strange at first. He thinks she’d settle better with someone of her own beside her.’

Bridie couldn’t believe it. Neither Terry leaving, nor Mary moving to Birmingham, had affected like this. Rosalyn had been living next door to her since they’d both been babies and they’d been inseparable ever since. She couldn’t visualise life without her. Even when Rosalyn began work and had been in town during the day, they’d still seen each other in the evenings and at the weekends. Unlike Rosalyn, who’d made other friends at work, Bridie had had no opportunity to do that. It had never bothered her. She’d never really needed anyone but Rosalyn.

Hurt and frightened of the loneliness she’d feel at her cousin’s departure, she spat out sneeringly, ‘Oh, that’s it then, you’ll be a skivvy for your sister-in-law. Fine job that will be.’

‘Don’t be like that, Bridie!’ Rosalyn cried. ‘I’m sorry I’m going, for your sake, and I’m going to miss you like crazy, but …’ She shrugged. ‘Maria can’t go on her own, not with the three weans so small. If your Mary asked you for help, you’d break your neck to do it and you know you would.’

She might like to, Bridie thought, but knew she couldn’t up sticks like Rosalyn could, no matter what fix Mary was in. The heavy cloak of duty and responsibility kept her successfully on the farm. A lump lodged in Bridie’s throat and she was scared she was going to cry. She fought to control herself; she couldn’t bear to make a holy show of herself like that. She swallowed the lump and suddenly she felt anger at the unfairness of life course all through her and turned once again on Rosalyn. ‘Go to bloody America then,’ she snapped. ‘And I hope it stays fine for you.’

‘Bridie …’

But Bridie turned away from her cousin. Tears had begun to seep from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks and she ran from the place lest anyone should see. She knew she had to move well away. Anyone could be about the hall outside: people out for a breath of air to cool off, courting couples – anyone. There was a little copse of trees not far from the hall so she made for there and leaned her head against a tree trunk. She could still see the twinkling lights of the hall and hear the laughter and tantalising music from inside and it cut into her very soul. It felt like a mockery, especially as she remembered how excited she’d been about the dance. At the thought of that, the tears came in earnest, almost bursting from her in a torrent.

She had nothing with her to wipe her eyes; she’d run in a panic, leaving behind her bag, her work boots and her stole. But she couldn’t go back for them, she’d look a sight and she knew her eyes would be puffy and red from crying and everyone would know something was wrong.

But then what should she do? She couldn’t go home yet; her parents might still be up and would wonder why she was back so early. They’d know she’d have been upset by something and wouldn’t rest till they got it out of her.

She’d take a walk, she decided. Her kid boots would be ruined, but no matter. It was precious few dances she’d go to after this one.

One person, the one who’d watched Bridie all night, had seen the altercation between her and Rosalyn. He’d seen Bridie’s flight and Rosalyn biting her bottom lip in consternation.

But he didn’t approach his daughter. Instead, he’d slipped outside and stood by the side of the hall and then, hidden by the velvety darkness, had begun to move forward. He’d watched Bridie approach the edge of the copse and had heard her tears, but he had not moved closer until he seen her enter the small wood and then he began to follow in earnest.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Bridie heard the snap of twigs behind her, she told herself not to panic and stop imagining things. This was the wood not that far from her home that she’d walked in and played in as a child many a time. It was also the home of many small animals and birds and the rustling and cracklings around her were them going about their business, or settling down for the night.

She did stop once and looked around surreptitiously, but she saw nothing and chided herself for her foolishness. Even when she thought she heard breathing behind her, she thought she’d imagined it.

So when a hand shot out and grasped her bare shoulder, she jumped and opened her mouth to let out a scream, but the other hand, already clasped firmly over her mouth, effectively stifled it. ‘Don’t be frightened, Bridie,’ a familiar voice said. ‘It’s me – Francis.’

That hardly made Bridie feel better and her heart was hammering in her ribs. She told herself not to overreact, to act as normally as possible. Whatever had ailed Francis a couple of years before had effectively passed and so she said sharply, ‘Uncle Francis, what are you doing? You could have given me a heart attack.’

‘I was looking out for you,’ Francis said. ‘You shouldn’t be walking home alone. I promised your mother …’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Bridie snapped. ‘I’m a wean no longer. And if you wanted to walk me home, why didn’t you call out? Why did you creep up on me like that?’

‘If I’d have called out, you’d probably have run away,’ Francis said. ‘And break your neck likely as not because you’re nervous of me, aren’t you?’

‘If I am, it’s with reason.’

‘Ah no,’ Francis said, slipping an arm around Bridie’s shoulder and beginning to caress it gently as he continued, ‘I’d never hurt you, Bridie.’

‘Don’t,’ Bridie said impatiently, trying and failing to dislodge her uncle’s hand.

‘Don’t be mean to me,’ Francis said. ‘Sure aren’t you the loveliest thing to walk the earth?’

‘Stop it, Uncle Francis!’ Bridie said. ‘It’s the beer talking.’

‘Aye, the beer,’ Francis agreed, shaking his head sagely. ‘The beer unlocks the flood of words I’ve longed to speak to you. Words like “love” and “adore”. Words like “bewitch”, for that’s what you do to me.’

‘I won’t listen to this,’ Bridie declared. ‘It’s wrong. You’re drunk and you’ll regret all this tomorrow, if you remember it at all.’ She glanced around furtively to see if she could break away from him. But even as she thought of it, she rejected it. Francis had been right about one thing: the wood was inky, pitch black. The harvest moon must have been covered by cloud, for no light from it penetrated through the canopy of leaves and she knew she’d probably fall headlong before she’d gone any distance. In fact, the only thing she could see in the dark was the strange light dancing in her uncle’s eyes and then the flash of his teeth as he opened his mouth and said huskily, ‘I’ll regret nothing. I just want to remember you just as you are tonight.’

Oh God, Bridie thought in annoyance. The bloody man was a pest and the only thing to do was humour him. She wasn’t exactly frightened, she was unnerved, but knew better than to show him that. ‘Go home now, Uncle Francis,’ Bridie pleaded with a sigh of impatience. ‘Go and sleep it off, for God’s sake.’

‘Sleep off this madness I have for you?’ Francis cried. ‘The thing that gets between me and sleep, my work, my peace of mind? Dear Christ, Bridie, you don’t know what you do to me.’

That’s it! Bridie thought, angered at last. This sort of talk had to stop and if Francis wouldn’t listen to reason, maybe he’d listen to fury. How dare he think he could just accost her whenever he had the notion and spout such rubbish? ‘Now look here, Uncle Francis …’ she began angrily.

She got no further for suddenly her mouth had been covered by his. But this kiss was different from the others, for she felt her uncle force open her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

Revulsion filled her being and she fought him like a wild thing, lashing out until she felt her own arms firmly pinned her to her sides. She writhed, squirmed and wriggled, trying to free her feet to stamp on his toes, or release her knee so that she could thrust it into his groin. But Francis held her so fast to him that she could do none of these things. Suddenly, she realised with horror that her struggles to escape had excited her uncle further. She was crushed into him so tightly that she felt his penis rise and harden and heard him moan as if he were in pain. But Bridie knew it was no pain. Never in her whole life had she been so terrified.

Francis released her mouth and her arms to pull the dress down over her shoulders and expose her breasts. Bridie gave a yelp of terror and, pushing him with all her might, she twisted from his grasp.

As she attempted to run, Francis made a grab for her and she felt her bodice nearly ripped from the dress entirely as Francis used it to swing Bridie round to face him. He held her as she stood before him, her dress open to the waist, her breasts exposed. She wanted to die with shame. Bridie saw her uncle’s eyes looked stranger than ever and his breath was coming in short gasps. ‘Ah God, Bridie. You’re lovely, so you are.’

Bridie trembled from head to foot. ‘Please let me go Uncle Francis. I won’t tell a soul, I promise it, on my mother’s life.’

‘Let you go?’ Francis repeated, as if in surprise. ‘You stand with your luscious breasts inches from my face and my manhood throbbing and ask me to let you go?’ He grabbed her hands as he spoke and forced them down the front of his trousers. Bridie felt the nausea rising in her throat and she prayed silently for the ordeal to stop. Oh Jesus Christ help me!

‘Please, Uncle Francis, stop this now!’ she cried, somehow managing to pull her hands free. ‘For pity’s sake.’

‘Ah, pity’s sake,’ Francis said. ‘What about the pity of an uncle who cannot get you out of my mind?’

‘No! No!’ Bridie shrieked and tried to twist from Francis again. For a few moments, they swayed together as Francis fought to still Bridie’s mouth with a kiss without losing his tight hold. Suddenly, Bridie gave an almighty heave, hoping to take Francis unawares and break free. But Francis held on as they both overbalanced and they went crashing down on to the leaf-strewn mossy ground.

For a few moments, Bridie lay stunned, and then she became aware of the twigs and tree roots sticking into her, pressed down as she was by Francis who lay on top of her, kneading her breasts and then rolling her nipples roughly between his fingers.

Her mouth was free and although she was screaming inside, she couldn’t seem to form the sound. The kneading stopped and Francis fastened his mouth around one of Bridie’s nipples, biting and nuzzling, while his hands went beneath her underskirts, pulling at her bloomers.

‘Oh, Dear God, no,’ she cried. ‘Uncle Francis, please, please leave me alone.’

It was if she’d not spoken and as she wriggled and writhed and struggled beneath him, she felt his fingers inside her and let out a cry of agony. Immediately a hand was across her mouth. ‘Shut up, you silly bitch,’ her uncle said. ‘You’ll enjoy this if you let yourself and though I’ve no desire to hurt you, if you make any noise, I’ll knock you senseless. Do you understand?’

Oh God, she understood all right. She lay transfixed with abject fear for she knew he meant every word. This man, with the wild eyes and slack lips, was a stranger, not the uncle she’d loved near all her life. Tears streamed from her eyes as terror engulfed her.

‘After this you’ll be begging for it,’ Francis said.

Oh dear sweet Jesus, please don’t let this happen to me, Bridie prayed silently, even as she saw Francis unzip his trousers. Let someone come. Let something happen to stop this.

But nobody came. There was only Francis’s voice, telling her to lie back and enjoy it, for by God he was going to, and assuring her he’d never hurt her, not in all the world. And then she knew he spoke lies for pain, such as she’d never felt in all her life, shot through her as Francis entered her and she groaned in sheer agony and despair.

It seemed to last for ever, an eternity, but eventually Francis stopped his panting and pulsating and let out a cry of triumph. He slumped across Bridie. She lay still, terrified to move in case she should rouse him in some way. Every part of her body ached and she wanted to die. For such a thing to happen to her … Oh dear God, what should she do? What could she do? She felt defiled and utterly dirty, filthy and so bitterly ashamed.

She didn’t know how much longer it was before Francis came to. He stumbled to his feet, shaking his head in a bemused way as if he didn’t know how he’d got to be there. In the moonlight dancing through the orange and brown leaves he saw Bridie, lying on the ground. The bodice of her dress was nearly ripped off, her underclothes pushed up to her waist and her lace bloomers to the side of her.

He zipped his trousers up and wondered why Bridie made no move to cover herself. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

Bridie wondered if she’d ever be all right again. She made no answer and Francis became uncomfortable. ‘We’ll say nothing about this,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t like your parents to know the little wanton you are. I wouldn’t like them to hear how you left the dance early. When I came to find you, not wanting you to walk home alone, you waylaid me in the wood, wearing only that dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. You made up to me and I had to be quite firm with you.’

‘That wasn’t how it was,’ Bridie said. ‘I shall tell the truth. What about my dress near torn in half?’

‘That happened as I struggled to stop you stripping off,’ Francis said. Bridie looked at him with anguished eyes. How could she go home and burden her parents with this? It would be her word against Francis’s. Even if they believed her totally, it would split the families in half.

‘Look,’ Francis said, guessing some of the thoughts running through Bridie’s mind. ‘Best say nothing. After all, there was no harm done.’

No harm done, Bridie thought. Christ!

‘Come on.’ Francis held out his hand to help her to her feet but she barked out, ‘Leave me alone. If you lay one hand on me ever again, by Christ I’ll kill you even if I have to wait years to do it!’

Francis laughed a little nervously. ‘Aren’t you taking our bit of fun a little seriously?’

‘Our bit of fun? Don’t flatter yourself,’ Bridie said with scorn. ‘There was no pleasure or enjoyment for me in what you did, just shame and revulsion. Get out of my sight before I scream my head off and hang the bloody consequences.’

Much later, when Francis had skulked away into the night, she got onto her hands and knees and then to her feet, staggering slightly.

Everywhere seemed to ache or throb and she’d thought she’d probably have a mass of bruises in the morning, a fact she’d have to hide from her parents. She also found that blood had trickled from her and had stained the ground and some of her petticoats and dried onto her legs. She pulled on her bloomers and rearranged her clothes, and hoped she could reach the relative safety of her bedroom without her parents, or anyone else, catching sight of her. She had no idea of the time, no idea whether the dance had finished and no way of knowing. She made for home in a roundabout route. When she got to the head of the lane, unmolested and unseen, she gave a sigh of relief.

The cottage curtains were open slightly, but the Tilley lamp on the windowsill was lit, so Bridie knew then her parents had gone to bed. She hoped they’d be well asleep too, for their bed was in a curtained alcove in the room and if Sarah was awake, she’d be likely to get up to find out what Bridie had thought of her first dance.

Bridie lifted the latch of the cottage stealthily and stole in quietly. She could hear the snuffly snores of her parents and thanked God silently. But still she had to wash the blood from her legs. She lifted a small pan of water from the bucket by the door and took it into her room.