She had begged him not to go, not to leave her, but they’d both known that it was go or starve. She was expecting her fourth child and it had been a bad pregnancy. She’d not been able to get out to the fields for the spuds and buying in and then selling didn’t make the money. Brogan was eight, he’d started in selling newspapers and Deirdre had always vowed to give her boys their childhood. No work until they were twelve, she and Peader had said. But it all went by the board when the kids were crying for food, their cheeks hollowing . . .
Peader had left for England and the money had started coming immediately. Good money. He’d worked on the London Underground, tunnelling through the cold clay and never a word of complaint out of him, though he told her afterwards that there were times he was so tired and so sick from the foul air that he’d been tempted to miss a day or two, get himself right.
But he’d never done it. He’d worked grimly on until he heard of vacancies for linesmen and labourers on the railway in Liverpool, then he’d applied and got it. When Brogan was fourteen he’d sent for Brogan, too. There was work for a strong lad and since Brogan could share his lodgings a roof over his head was no difficulty.
So why can’t I go to him, run his home for him and bring up his children in Liverpool, just as if it were Dublin? Deirdre asked herself. And didn’t rightly know the answer. She liked her home, her neighbours, her life . . . but what was any of that compared to Peader? She loved him, always had, always would . . . but crossing the water? Living there, with the English, a people she hated and feared? Sure, Peader did it, but she wasn’t a man, she was a weak woman, and she could not face it. Better that she should tell Peader now than later, when he’d got a place for them and was expecting her to arrive with all her goods and chattels.
So why did she hang out of the window, in the rain, and try to see whether she could still catch a glimpse of Polly and Tad? Why did she suddenly snatch Ivan up in her arms, fling her old waterproof round the pair of ’em, and go chasing down the stairs like a girl again? If she knew she was right, had made up her mind . . .
She knew where Polly would take the letter, because Polly was good about things like that. She’d go to the Post Office on James Street because she’d not trust a precious letter to her daddy to an ordinary post box. So if I hurry I can still catch her before she pops it into the letter box, Deirdre told herself. Kids always dawdle when they’re sent on messages, it’s grownups who are always in a hurry.
She ran, breathless, and told Ivan he was a great lump so he was and in the end had to put him on the pavement, seize his hand, and run with him through the rain, splashing in and out of puddles, avoiding the piles of rotting vegetables, old rags and other debris which littered the pavements.
‘Shall we have a pie?’ Ivan said breathlessly as they passed a bakery. ‘I’d like a pie, so I would.’
‘Not now, me darlin’ boy, later, when I’ve caught your sister,’ Deirdre panted. ‘Later, I promise.’
Ivan was a good boy, though spoilt. His mammy was in a hurry, he would just have to hurry too, was his attitude. Once he complained of a pain in his side, once he fell down and was heaved summarily to his feet again. On and on they ran, mother and son, and they reached the Post Office just in time to see Polly and Tad turning away from the letter box.
‘Mammy!’ Polly cried. ‘We’ve done it, we’ve posted your letter to Daddy!’
And she had to say, good, thank you, alanna, because she had asked the child to post it. But she must have looked desperate worried, for Tad put a hand on her arm.
‘What’s the matter, Mrs O’Brady?’ he asked kindly. ‘Did you leave somethin’ out, then?’
‘I did . . . and put somethin’ in that I never should have,’ Deirdre said distractedly. ‘Oh, Tad, I never should have . . . but there, I suppose I can go home, write again.’
‘We can’t get it out of the box,’ Polly said, looking worried. ‘Oh, Mammy, you did say to post it – and it’s got me kisses on the envelope so it has!’
‘Never mind, it’s me own fault,’ Deirdre said turning away from the box. ‘I’ll go straight home this minute and write another letter . . . just a note, you know, wit’ the things I missed out of the first letter all put in.’
Ivan was snivelling, clutching his side, so she swung him into her arms. ‘Ah, come on, don’t let me down now, you’ve been such a good boy,’ she said coaxingly. ‘I’ll buy you a pie so I will, and we’ll make our way home and have a good cup of tea.’
But when she reached home the fire had gone out and it took a while to relight. And then Ivan was cross and kept complaining that his breath hurt in his chest so it did, from hurrying. Deirdre ministered to him, relit the fire, made some tea and then sat herself down to write a second letter.
In many ways it was easier than the first, yet still she toiled over it, anxious to get it right. She’d realised how selfish her first letter had been, she’d forgotten all he’d suffered over the years, she
would
come over the water to him when he’d found them somewhere to live.
Having written the letter she put it in an envelope and looked around for a stamp. No stamps. She must have used the last one on the previous letter. Sighing, she went to her drawer and got out some pennies, then placed them, and the letter, on the small table by the door. When Polly came home, worn out, God love her, she would ask the child as a special favour to take the second letter to the post, and she’d give her and Tad a kid’s eye each – a threepenny bit – for the message.
There was a piece of bacon to boil for their dinner and a great many spuds to peel, for though Niall was in America – doing very well, his letters said – the rest of the family was still at home so there were many mouths to feed. I’ll make a duff for after the bacon, Deirdre told herself. A nice duff with a bit of sugar and plenty of suet . . . that will line their stomachs.
Humming to herself now the letter was written, working away at the meal, occasionally breaking off to make sure Ivan was all right, Deirdre found all her old calmness and pleasure in small things return. Idly, she wondered why she had written the damned old letter in the first place. She’d been feeling out of sorts for a month, two months, perhaps that was it? She was no longer young . . . Brogan was twenty-five so she’d been married twenty-six years, and she’d been twenty-two on her wedding day.
I’m forty-eight, an ould one indeed, Deirdre thought, chopping onions and wiping the resultant tears away with the back of her hand. Forty-eight years old and as frightened of change as a four-year-old! Worse, because a four-year-old would relish change, not understanding the complications.
But it was no use repining; the first letter was on its way, the second about to join it. Sure and with my luck he’ll open the first and be terrible upset, Deirdre told herself. But then he’ll open the second . . . and the sun will come out and the rain will stop and he’ll be his old self again.
After some time it occurred to her that the kids should have been home by now. But kids being kids, they could have gone off on any wild goose chase. They’d be home for their tea – she knew them!
It wasn’t a long walk to the big house, but you had to go down a country lane, which meant that Polly dawdled, because she did love country lanes so she did! There were the verges, with grass up to your knees, and the hedges, rich with different varieties of trees, and there was the white dust of the road which, when it rained, turned into the smoothest, richest mud in the world. It had rained a lot today, had only stopped within the last half-hour. The kids loved to make mud balls at the canal when the dredger barge had done its work, sludging up the rich, oozy mud from the bottom of the canal and dumping it on the bank. But this mud, in Polly’s expert opinion, was even better. It was white, for a start, or perhaps not quite white, but more cream. This splodge is clotted cream from the dairy and that splodge, sure it’s only buttermilk, Polly dreamed, pushing the mud ahead of her with a plimsolled foot. The mud would go through the hole in the toe of the plimsoll, but who cared, especially since it would probably rain again before nightfall. Now the sky was clear, the sun had only just set, the whole world seemed to sparkle at them, but later, on their way home, Polly laid a bet with herself that it would rain again, washing the mud from her plimsolls – and feet – as well as a bath would.
‘
C’mon,
Poll, get movin’, girl,’ Tad called impatiently from ahead. ‘If you don’t hurry we’ll be boxin’ the fox in the dark, an’ you won’t like that!’
‘I thought we were goin’ to collect blackers,’ Polly said, breaking into a reluctant trot. ‘You said blackers first, then apples. And it’s gettin’ awful late.’
‘But blackers are free, we can get ’em any time. Apples is more harder. If we get the apples this afternoon, then we can get blackers tomorrer, easy.’
Polly saw the logic of this. ‘All right, then,’ she said uneasily. ‘Only I don’t want to find meself in the police station so I don’t.’
‘For boxing the fox? ‘Course you won’t. Come
on
, Polly!’
The two of them accordingly hurried along, hand in hand, with Tad instructing Polly how she was to make a bag out of her skirt, into which he could drop the fruit.
‘What’s wrong wit’ your pockets?’ Polly asked indignantly. Why should she do all the work, take all the blame? ‘You’ve got pockets; girls only have knickers.’
‘A skirt carries more,’ Tad said. ‘Besides, it means you needn’t climb the trees. If you come to the foot of the wall and stand against it, I’ll drop the apples down to you.’
It sounded all right, so Polly trudged on, but in fact she had been right when she said it was getting late, though it looked as though the rain had gone for the duration. By the time they reached the russet-bricked wall which encircled the big orchard, it was already dusk. Stars were pricking out in the deep-blue sky overhead and on the horizon a faint, greenish line heralded the last of the sunset.
‘Give me a back,’ Tad commanded as soon as they reached the wall. ‘’Tis too late for goin’ down on the grass, I’ll have to pick what I can from the nearest trees and t’row them down to you. Come
on,
Poll.’
Polly hunched down and felt Tad’s feet thump her momentarily in the small of her back as he bounded up on to the high wall. She straightened, a hand in the small of her back and peered into the shadows cast by the overhanging tree branches.
‘You all right, Tad?’ she whispered. ‘Hurry, it’s gettin’ darker by the minute so it is.’
‘Hold out your skirt, woman,’ was the only reply she got, but she could see that Tad was feverishly picking . . . and they were big apples, the size of a baby’s head. Cookers, then . . . they’d make a wonderful pie. Polly’s mouth watered at the prospect.
Presently the first apple descended. Polly caught it and shoved it up her knicker-leg where it felt very large and very obvious. If someone came along, whatever would she say?
She put the point to Tad, who said, ‘They’re windfalls, stupid. Anyone can pick windfalls. Here’s another for you.’
He threw it gently and Polly fielded it, beginning to feel more confident now as the darkness grew steadily deeper. But she wished she’d thought to bring a bag . . . she had already exhausted the holding power of her knickers. Four large apples were the limit there, so it really would have to be the skirt.
Then she heard the noise. Footsteps, not quiet ones either, solid, tramping sort of footsteps. Someone was coming along the dusty lane!
‘Tad –’ Polly began, turning towards the sound – and was hit fair and square in the middle of the forehead by apple number five.
Tad, having started to throw the apple, saw Polly turn away, tried to grab the apple back, and fell heavily off the wall as Polly went down like a ninepin, flat on her back in the long, rain-wet grass. Tad was starting to scramble to his feet, when he, too, heard the footsteps. He froze, then his hand snaked out and caught Polly’s wrist, warning her not to move. The grass was long and very wet, no one would voluntarily walk in it when they could walk along the roadway. If they kept very quiet . . .
‘What about here, Mick?’
A hissing, sibilant whisper and the footsteps stopped. Whisperers are usually up to no good. Thank God, Tad thought fervently, they’ll be no keener to tell on us than we would be to tell on them. But they sound old . . . twenty, maybe thirty. Men, not boys. Oh, Mary, Mother of Jesus, pray for my sins . . . make them fellers go away and I’ll sell some of me apples an’ buy you a big candle, I promise you that so I do!
‘Well . . .’ the answering whisper was loaded with doubt. ‘We’ll not get the dogs over wit’out a struggle. Dere’s a little gate furder along . . . ’twould be best to try dere.’
Dogs! Oh, my God, Tad thought, and began to pray in earnest.
‘How much furder, Mick? Only we want to be able to see somethin’; how can we set traps if it’s pitch-dark?’
‘I’ve a ’lectric torch, you fool. Aw, c’mon, me man, ’tis not much furder.’
Tad waited for an agonising moment until the footsteps started up again, then he lifted his head. He had time to see that the whisperers were two tallish men with lurchers held on short lengths of rope, when there was a deep and ghastly groan right by his ear. Polly was going to give the game away!