The Bright One (12 page)

It was a perfect day, warm and dry, and Kilbally had never seen a more beautiful bride or a prettier bridesmaid. Kieran served at the altar and Kathleen, in her habit, sat with her parents in the front pew. If only my lovely twins were here, Molly thought, we'd be a complete family once again.

And I
do
love Barry, Moira thought, standing by his side as they made their vows.

‘With this ring I thee wed . . . ' he said, the gold band glinting in the light as he placed it on her finger. Then he pressed coins into her hand. ‘Gold and silver I give thee, as a token of my worldly goods,' he said.

When they came out of the church he emptied his pockets of the money he had placed there for the purpose, and threw it to the children who were gathered around, waiting to scramble for it. It was not all copper, either. There was silver among it. ‘He was always a generous boy,' his mother said.

Afterwards, in spite of rationing but because everyone had contributed – even Luke O'Reilly had sent a pound of sugar and Josephine had brought a full bottle of whiskey from Akersfield – food and drink was plentiful. And when the meal had been cleared the musicians, a fiddle and a concertina, started up for the dancing.

When he'd danced with his new bride, Barry came for Breda in the set. He was a good dancer, but when the music stopped he gave her a lingering kiss.

‘I'm allowed to kiss the bridesmaid,' he said. ‘And in any case, I'm your brother now.'

Not my true brother, Breda thought; and none of her own brothers had ever kissed her like that. But hadn't he whiskey on his breath, and also had he not given her a present of a very nice bracelet for being a bridesmaid?

Barry and Moira did not stay long at the dancing. They were to go in Murphy's hired car, apart from the doctor's the only one with petrol, to spend the night at the Falls Hotel in Ennistymon before leaving for Dublin next morning.

It was the early hours of the next day before Molly climbed into her bed beside James. He was asleep in seconds but she lay awake a while. It had been a good day, but now her last thoughts were to wonder just where Patrick and Colum were, what they were doing, what was happening to them in such a far country. But weren't we all under the same sky? God keep them safe and bring them back to me, she prayed.

As Molly fell asleep, Patrick and Colum, halfway through the morning of the next day, were hacking their way through the jungle. It was the third day of a long march. Every man in the platoon was sweaty, hungry and deadbeat tired but none, so far, were injured.

It was a march which could not be relieved by singing; even unnecessary conversation was forbidden. They did not know, from one minute to the next, where the Japs were, or, for that matter, quite where they were themselves.

It was semi-dark on the floor of the jungle. Tall trees, themselves reaching for the light, blotted out the sun, except for an occasional shaft which penetrated, making a pool of gold on the ground. It was difficult to say which was worse: the steamy heat and dimness, or the blazing sun and lack of protection from the enemy whenever they came to a clearing.

‘How did we get into this lot?' Patrick whispered to Colum.

‘God knows!' his brother said. ‘I wonder what they're doing in Kilbally?'

‘'Tis the middle of the night,' Patrick reminded him. ‘They'll be fast asleep.'

Kathleen and Kieran were to leave together, after dinner, for Dublin.

‘I will miss them both sorely. Moira too, of course,' Molly said to James as she dressed in the bedroom.

James grunted, and turned over in bed, drawing the covers over his head. It might have been a grunt of agreement but it sounded more like agony. 'Twas little doubt he had the sorest head in Kilbally this morning, and no wonder the way the drink had flowed, not to mention the beat of the dancing and the noise of the singing. There was a man who would not be up for an hour or two yet. But no matter; he had a place on the boats tonight, so he needed his rest. Let him take it while he could.

Molly didn't feel all that clever herself, but there was no way she would waste a minute of this day, the last with Kieran and Kathleen for who knew how long. They would go to Mass together, Moira's marriage and her new life their intention, but she would be praying for all her children, near and far.

Josephine, who was staying with her mother, was at Mass, and spoke with them afterwards.

‘I'll not come back with you now,' she said. ‘Mammy's not too bright this morning. I'll settle her, then I'll be around for my dinner, and I'll go to the station with the rest of you.'

‘There's no need for anyone to see us off,' Kieran said gently.

‘We want to,' Molly said. Certainly she did.

When breakfast had been cleared away Kathleen said: ‘Mammy, if we're not needed for a while, Kieran and I thought we'd take a walk.'

‘Can I come?' Breda asked quickly.

‘Of course!'

‘Where will you go?' Molly asked.

‘Down to the strand,' Kieran said. ‘Or perhaps along the cliffs, wherever the mood takes us.'

‘'Twill be nice to see the familiar haunts,' Kathleen said.

No-one knew how often she thought of them – even dreamt of them – these places she had known as a child. In her cell-like room in the convent she could picture the pale sands and the small pools, hear the roar of the sea on a stormy night. She missed the places almost as much as the people. And it was the same with Kieran; they had talked about it on the journey from Dublin, though they both knew it was wrong to be attached to either.

When they had left, Molly set about her chores. She intended to prepare a very special dinner; a boiling fowl, which was already in the pot, and plenty of vegetables. She would also make a piece for the two of them to take on the train. She was glad to have these jobs to do. She just wished they would occupy her mind as well as her body.

The house was too quiet. Yet when all the children were young, and around her feet, hadn't there been many a time when she'd longed for a bit of peace? Now she didn't want it.

She was thankful when Josephine arrived, well before dinner time, and broke the silence. There were fourteen years between herself and her eldest sister. In the few years they'd lived in the same house, before Josephine, at eighteen, had married Brendan Maguire and gone with him to Yorkshire where he'd got a job in the building trade, she had hardly known her. There had been all those other children in between them, so that she had thought of Josephine more as a second mother than as a sister.

It had all been so long ago, before the first war, and now half the world was in the middle of another one.

Now Josephine was in her fifties, and with grandchildren. Most of them still lived in Yorkshire, but a son and a daughter had emigrated to America.

‘So, how does it feel to be a mother-in-law?' she asked Molly.

‘I haven't had time to feel it so far,' Molly said. ‘I hardly know Barry, and will I ever? I don't suppose they will spend much time visiting Kilbally, not if Moira has anything to do with it.'

‘I think the Irish have itchy feet,' Josephine said. ‘It's not just that they can't get jobs where they are. Look at those two of mine. Doing perfectly well in Akersfield, and they have to go, even with young babies, to America. Now all I'll ever know of
those
grandchildren is photographs.'

‘At least you
have
grandchildren. I sometimes wonder will it ever happen to me. Not that I'm in any hurry, mind you!'

‘Oh it will, all right,' Josephine assured her. ‘This time next year won't Moira be dandling a baby on her lap?'

Molly could not imagine Moira with a baby. In fact, she would almost pity the child. And she would not put it past this daughter of hers to defy the Church and prevent it, though she would not discuss it with her.

‘We shall see,' she said. ‘Must you go back on Thursday? Can you not stay longer?'

Josephine shook her head.

‘No. Though 'tis not Brendan. He can manage, after a fashion. 'Tis Grandma Maguire. His own mother, but he cannot cope with her, though truth to tell, who can? She'll have little truck with any of the children. It has to be me.'

‘She is in her eighties,' Molly said.

‘And getting more awkward with every day that passes. Don't let anyone talk to me about sweet old ladies! I know better!'

‘Mammy herself is no easy matter,' Molly said.

‘Compared to Grandma Maguire, Mammy is a saint!'

But you are only seeing her for a few days, Molly wanted to say. She's on her best behaviour. She had watched her mother at the wedding, being all sweetness and light. It wouldn't last.

‘Do you reckon this is how our own children will see us when we're old?' she asked Josephine.

‘Not at all! 'Tis not possible!' Josephine spoke firmly. After more than thirty years in the West Riding she had taken on its accent, but every now and then, as now, she sounded more Irish than the Irish.

‘We
shall
be sweet old ladies,' she said, smiling. ‘Won't we be the exceptions that prove the rule?'

James came into the room. He looked bleary-eyed and pale, but when he'd been to the tap outside and washed himself in cold water he came in again, improved. My, but he was a handsome man, Josephine thought. No wonder Molly had fallen for him. 'Twas a pity he did not have regular work, though as far as she could tell it seemed not to bother him.

‘Where are they?' he enquired.

‘Gone for a walk,' Molly said. ‘They should be back soon. The dinner's all but ready.'

‘You'll be eating with us, Josie?' James asked Josephine.

He liked his sister-in-law. A sensible woman. Not beautiful, like his Molly. She was grey-haired and plump, her figure and face beginning to sag, but as bright-eyed as ever, and kind, he wouldn't wonder.

Josephine nodded. ‘I will so. And go with you to the station to see them off.'

In the end, James did not accompany them to the station. He feared there might be tearful farewells and those he could not abide. He was wrong, though. Molly smiled and waved until the train was out of sight. Only then did she take out her handkerchief and give her nose a good blow.

Leaving the railway station, Molly's heart was heavy, though she was determined not to show it. Hadn't she much to be thankful for? She must remember that.

They took a detour and strolled by the sea. It was a balmy autumn afternoon, the sun shining gold on the water which, for once, was calm.

‘Would you ever think the way it could rage?' Josephine said. ‘Though I miss the sea. After all these years I still miss it, and most of all when it's stormy.'

‘Don't you ever get to the sea, Aunt Josie?' Breda asked.

‘Sometimes. Not often. It's sixty miles away. Sometimes we go on the train, go for the day.'

‘I wouldn't like to live away from the sea,' Breda said.

‘Oh well, it's a matter of where life brings us,
álainna
,' Josephine answered. ‘Haven't you a far way to go yet, and who can say where 'twill bring you? Akersfield is not the worst place in the world.'

‘But Kilbally is the best!' Breda's judgement was final.

‘Since you've nothing better to do with yourself at the moment, you could come and visit me in Akersfield,' Josephine suggested. ‘In fact, you could come back with me on Thursday, for a week or two!'

‘Oh no!'

The words were out of Molly's mouth before she could stop them.

‘I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, Josie. It's just not a good time, what with Moira and all the others away.'

‘As you wish,' Josephine said. ‘But you mustn't look to Breda to take the place of the rest. 'Twould be quite unfair.'

‘I know,' Molly sighed. ‘But just for the present . . . '

‘I'll come some other time,' Breda said politely. She wasn't sure that she ever wanted to go. ‘Perhaps Mammy and I will both come!'

‘'Twas not what I had in mind, but we'll see!' Josephine said.

‘Spend as much time as you can with us, I mean while you're in Kilbally,' Molly said to her sister. ‘I shall miss you when you've gone. It's going to be very quiet here.'

‘Indeed I will,' Josephine promised. ‘And while I remember it, I must call on Luke and Mary O'Reilly. I was at school with Luke. I met Mary only the once, on a visit, but we got on well. And Mammy says she's quite poorly.'

‘It seems so,' Molly admitted. ‘Though we're never quite sure. She gives Luke a hard time of it. Did I tell you Kieran worked for him in the school holidays? And Patrick, before the twins went into the Army.'

‘You did so. Do you not think he might give Breda a job? Will I be asking him when I call tomorrow?'

Breda had left them, had run down to the beach in search of pebbles.

‘She's been collecting pebbles all her life,' Molly said. ‘Well, at least there'll be more room in the house for them now!'

‘So what do you think? About Luke O'Reilly, I mean.'

‘I had not thought of it.'

‘Well, think about it now. 'Tis not good for a girl who has left school behind her to be hanging around doing nothing.'

‘She can help me in the house.'

‘You don't need help. A little house and only the three of you! You mustn't tie her down. 'Tis bad for you and a sight worse for Breda.'

‘I'll think about it,' Molly promised. ‘I will so. I'll see what Breda says.'