Brogan came alongside the cottage garden, or rather the orchard. He looked through the hedge at the old trees standing in the long, whitened grass, and thought that he and Peader really ought to start off some new stock. And then as he drew level with the vegetable patch he saw his father. Peader wore old corduroys and a much-patched shirt. His head was bare and despite the cold, his shirt was rolled up above the elbows. He was digging over a patch of ground which had not been cultivated for years but he must have heard Brogan’s footsteps for he straightened, a hand in the small of his back, and turned, then gave a broad, welcoming smile.
‘Brogan! Good to see you, son.’
‘Good to see you, Daddy,’ Brogan said, putting down his haversack for a moment. Grinning, they shook hands over the hedge, then Brogan hefted his bag once more and set off again, Peader keeping pace with him on the other side of the hedge. ‘I’ve done all Mammy’s messages, and a couple for you, as well. And I’ve some news for you; I hope you’ll t’ink it good.’
‘Sure we shall, boy,’ Peader said heartily. He held open the gate, gesturing Brogan inside. ‘Your mammy’s got the kettle on and some oat cakes warmin’. Let’s go in for a bit, it’s time I had a break.’
Brogan had known, in his heart, that it was not going to be a picnic, telling his family about Sara. But he had not been prepared for the downright antagonism. Peader and the boys hadn’t been so bad, but his Mammy! She had wept and wailed and said he’d go to hell so he would for marryin’ an Army lass, no matter how good, sweet or high-principled.
‘Sure an’ even the child here would know better than to consort wit’ such people,’ Deirdre had said at one point, putting a protective hand on Polly’s curly head. ‘Doesn’t she go to a school now which is
crawling
wit’ Proddies, but does she bring ’em home or tell me she’s goin’ to wed one of ’em? Of course not; she’s got more sense!’
Polly looked hunted; Brogan guessed that the religion of her schoolmates simply had not, until this moment, entered her head. Poor little creature, he thought compassionately, what a fuss about nothing, when you had to bring a child of ten into it!
‘But, Mammy, Sara’s a lovely person . . .’ Brogan began, only to be overridden. Lovely people, it appeared, were very fine if they stayed on their own side of the fence. If they trespassed, then they were no longer lovely people. A lovely Proddy, his mother assured him, was incapable of falling in love wit’ a decent Catholic boy. And, she added with a glare, a lovely Catholic boy would never demean himself by even considerin’ marriage to a Protestant, let alone a Salvationist.
‘But they’re in love, Deirdre,’ Peader pointed out, when his wife had paused momentarily in her lamentations. ‘Love’s not somethin’ you can switch on or off like a tap, you know. D’you t’ink I’d have walked away from you if you’d been an Army lass – or a heathen Chinee, for that matter?’
‘But you didn’t mix wit’ those sort of people,’ Deirdre reminded him truthfully. ‘Our boy’s been mixin’ wit’ the wrong sort, that’s the trouble. I tell you, decent Catholic boys don’t even t’ink of Proddy girls in that sort of way. Why, a decent Catholic lad would as soon marry a cow in the meadow as a Proddy! If we’d been back in Dublin, now . . .’
‘Oh, if, if! Don’t ever condemn love, alanna. I’m tellin’ you, if you’d had a ring t’rough your nose and worshipped a totem pole, I’d still have wed ye!’
‘The more fool you, Peader O’Brady,’ Deirdre had muttered darkly. ‘I’d sooner dance at the weddin’ of a cat wit’ a mouse than a decent Catholic boy wit’ a Proddy.’
Brogan, still annoyed at the suggestion that Sara was as marriageable as a cow, cast his mother a dark look and she scowled back at him, muttered something about scheming hussies in black stockings who were no better than they ought to be, and stamped out of the living room and back to her kitchen sink, leaving Peader and Brogan to stare helplessly at each other.
Polly, sitting on the windowsill ostensibly watching for the 16.05, turned and stared at them with big, puzzled eyes.
‘Daddy, what’s
wrong
wit’ Proddies? I didn’t know me school was crawlin’ wit’ them at all at all.’
‘Oh hell,’ Peader said helplessly. He never swore. ‘Oh hell, alanna, don’t you let such talk take root. There’s nothin’ wrong wit’ Proddies, nothin’ at all. Mammy didn’t mean it, it’s just . . . Brogan’s her eldest boy now, and she doesn’t want to lose him.’
‘But she wouldn’t lose you, would she, Brog?’ Polly said eagerly. ‘The Proddy wouldn’t take you away from us, would she? She’d come here as well – I’d like that.’
‘Well, don’t tell Mammy,’ Brogan growled. ‘If she t’ought I’d influenced you to think well of a Salvationist sure me head would be on a spike on the crossin’ gate, instead of on me shoulders. I was goin’ to bring Sara to meet you next weekend . . .’
‘Better not,’ Peader advised. ‘Leave it a week or two. Come over wit’ her in the New Year. Your mammy won’t be rude . . .’
‘Oh, no, she’ll just tell Sara she’s as marriageable as a cow and a scheming hussy in black stockings,’ Brogan said bitterly. ‘How can I bring me innocent girl here, Daddy, when there’s talk like that?’
‘I’ll make sure Deirdre’s polite and welcoming,’ Peader said grimly. ‘Polly, go out an’ play!’
‘It’s cold out,’ Polly whined. ‘I’m waitin’ on the 16.05, the driver’s me friend, he waves!’
‘He’s a Proddy, you’d better not wave back,’ Brogan said, just as his mother re-entered the room. She coloured hotly, but ignored the remark, holding out her hand to Polly.
‘Come into the kitchen, alanna. I’m bakin’ scones, you can put a few extra currants in, make them wit’ laughin’ faces.’
‘I don’t want to,’ Polly muttered. ‘Mammy, I
like
the kids at school, I didn’t know they were Proddies.’
‘No, well, ’tis a small village, alanna, we can’t choose . . .’ Deirdre began, only to be interrupted.
Peader jumped to his feet, his face turning scarlet and veins beginning to bulge on his forehead. He slammed both fists down on the small table, and shouted at his wife.
‘I won’t have you turnin’ the child into a mass of blind prejudice so I won’t! Now tell us all you spoke out of turn and when the New Year comes we’ll meet Brogan’s young lady and judge for ourselves. D’you understand me, Deirdre O’Brady?’
Deirdre, looking stunned, muttered that she supposed it would be all right if that was his attitude and held out an appealing hand to Polly, who continued to shake her head.
‘Go wit’ your mammy, Polleen,’ Peader said quietly. ‘And in ten minutes or so we’ll all have a nice cup of tay and one of those scones she was talkin’ about. And the first weekend after the New Year, Brogan shall bring Miss Cordwainer to visit us. I’m the master in me own house and I say who’s welcome here!’
Brogan had to tell Sara, of course. He went round to the Strawb and waited until she had put the children to bed and finished work for the day. Then he announced that he was going to do some digging and would be grateful for her company. Sara accordingly put on her thick grey worsted coat and her red tam o’shanter and went and stood beside him whilst he double-dug the vegetable patch.
‘Well?’ she asked impatiently after a few moments. ‘What did they say? Was it bad, Brog?’
‘It was,’ Brogan said, not mincing matters. ‘Me daddy was fair; he always is. Me mammy wasn’t. But we expected it, didn’t we?’
‘Ye-es,’ Sara said doubtfully. ‘Then what are we to do, Brog? You don’t want to marry in the face of your mother’s objections, I suppose, and I can understand it because your mother’s always been good to you. Honestly, if you . . .’
‘I’m to take you round to the cottage in the New Year,’ Brogan said. ‘We’ll sort it all out then. When Mammy sees you . . .’
But even to his own ears his words did not have that air of confidence which he wanted to convey.
‘Shall we take Grace, as well?’ Sara suggested presently. Brogan could see her self-confidence had taken a nasty knock and stopped digging for a moment to reach across and give her hand a squeeze. ‘No, it’s all right, you did say it might be difficult. It’s just that because I’m so happy I can’t see how anything like two different religions could possibly matter. If we do as we said – turn and turn about – what’s wrong with that? Only you’ll have to take them to Mass and Confession, because I – well, I’m a Salvationist when all’s said and done.’
‘We don’t have any children yet, me darlin’,’ Brogan reminded her with a smile. ‘So that’s a matter between us, for the future. And we won’t take Grace when we go to the crossing cottage, not the first time. I’ve a feelin’ we’ll have our work cut out to make me family see reason wit’out addin’ Grace to the party.’
Because Grace liked to garden, she spent a lot of time with Brogan, sweeping leaves, tidying hedges, making bonfires, and with every day her self-confidence – and her naughtiness – grew. Brogan applauded this, but did not fancy having to cope with it at the crossing cottage.
‘I thought she might take their minds off me, that’s all,’ Sara said meekly. ‘What’ll I wear? Not uniform?’
‘Definitely not uniform,’ Brogan said quickly. His mammy would go mad if she saw how very beautiful Sara’s legs looked in the despised black stockings, or how becomingly the bonnet framed her lovely face! ‘Somethin’ warm, alanna, because – because we’ll maybe take a walk after dinner. And somethin’ pretty, because I’m proud of you.’
‘Oh, Brogan,’ Sara said. ‘Oh, Brogan, I do love you!’
Sara had known meeting Brogan’s family would be an ordeal, but in fact it was worse than her wildest imaginings. First, they walked into the cottage to meet a positive barrage of eyes. Not just Deirdre, Peader, Polly, Bevin and Ivan, but Donal, too, because he had come over for a job interview and was spending a day with his family at the same time.
Then, having been introduced all round, Sara was invited, by Deirdre, to take a moment to tidy up, which meant going upstairs with her hostess and trying to make light conversation with someone, whilst combing her hair and hanging up her coat, who simply said nothing but let her eyes roam insultingly over her.
Finally, of course, Sara had been stung into speech.
‘Mrs O’Brady, I know you can’t be too pleased that your son has brought a Salvationist home . . .’ she began, to be swiftly interrupted.
‘Pleased? Is it pleased I should be that me eldest, dearest son has broke me heart wit’ his selfishness and gone against family tradition? But there, Miss Cordwainer, he’s a handsome feller, I’ll grant you that, and likely to earn good money by and by. I shouldn’t be after blamin’ you for seizin’ the chance of him.’
Sara opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, then turned on her heel and made for the stairs. She was hot with rage – according to her hostess she was, in addition to being a Proddy, a fortune hunter as well! But down in the living room, she decided on a plan of action. From being tongue-tied and diffident, she became, once more, Miss Cordwainer of Aigburth Road. She talked amusingly about her work, the children in her care, the soup kitchens of the inner city. She showed a great interest in Peader’s garden and insisted that he take her round it. She went up to the boys’ room and admired the view, their pictures, the stories they told her. She did not have to woo Polly, who was frankly delighted to find that Brogan’s young lady thought her dog a fine fellow, her cats beautiful, her hens useful and her rabbits sweet. She deferred constantly to Deirdre, tried to help her with the meal, admired her possessions and said the cottage was the prettiest house she had ever visited. Deirdre sniffed, snubbed her, turned the conversation, but she could not have complained about Sara’s manners.
And by the time Brogan was helping Sara into her coat so that they would be in good time for their train, she knew she had won. They liked her! Well, everyone except Deirdre, and her mother-in-law, Sara thought sadly, was a lost cause. But the others would come to the wedding, though it would have to be a register office ceremony. They would wish her happy, even though they also wished her Catholic. It was the most she could hope for.
Christmas at Strawberry Field had been the happiest so far in Grace’s entire life. She had loved every minute of it, from the excitement of Christmas Eve to the wonderful moment, on Christmas morning, when they had been taken to the Barracks to see the crib, and to join the rest of the congregation in praising God and singing their hearts out. And there was Christmas dinner – so much wonderful food – and present-giving round the tree, then Christmas tea – more wonderful food – and finally, stories round the fire before bed. The only disappointment, in fact, had been that Brogan was spending Christmas with his family.
Soon after Grace arrived at the Strawb, Peader had come into the city specially to see her, and it had been an emotional moment. Grace had stammered a few words of thanks, had muttered that it was her fault that he’d almost been killed . . . and Peader had enveloped her in a bear-hug, told her that the boot was on the other foot – if she’d not run like the very dickens he’d have been long dead, so he would – and invited her to visit him and his family at the crossing cottage, just as soon as it could be arranged.
Grace was absolutely delighted to find that she loved Peader just as much as she loved Brogan. ‘They’re goin’ to ax me to stay,’ she told Sara, beaming. ‘They’ve gorra gel, you know, norra lot younger’n me – Polly she’s called. If we gets on . . . well, it’ll be nice, eh? Wish we was there now, Sara.’