“Francis can make her laugh,” said Brigid, leaning back against his waistcoat – she felt something missing from it, but she could not think what it was.
“Well, yes, that’s true. Francis can. Anyway, two – no, three, dear God, three years ago, he went across to make a retreat, outside Edinburgh. That’s in Scotland, girlie, just over the water. He was to be there for a week, but for whatever reason he decided to come back early. We never could understand why he set out that bad morning. But he did, and it was a bad day, and a bad night after. I spoke to a man who survived. I met him at a memorial for the ones who died. He saw Laurie.”
Brigid’s father turned from the window. “Why go over this, Pop,” he said. “It won’t bring him back.”
“Because the child asked me,” said her grandfather, more sharply than she had ever heard him speak. “The man saw poor Laurie,” he continued, as if his son had not spoken. “The ship was lying over to starboard. Do you know what that means?” Brigid shook her head. “It means to the right.” He held up his right hand, the fingers long and fine, like Francis’ hands, like her father’s. “The ship was full of water. There were cars on it, and the doors were buckled by a huge wave. A vast wall of water, the man told me. All the people who could climbed up the deck. Oh, this man, he said it was like climbing a sheer mountainside. They were trying to climb to the port side – the left side. The man who survived told me he saw a young clergyman holding on, talking to a woman, distressed, because she had lost someone.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t know.” Her grandfather shook his head. “Who knows? A child, maybe? A husband? A parent? The man I spoke to said he could hear her lamenting, and this young clergyman, this man told me, he kept trying to get her to go on the lifeboat. There was a boat for the women and children, but she wouldn’t go, and he wouldn’t leave her, talking to her, all in the waves and the wind, and then finally he did get her to go, and he put her on, the man said . . . and then the whole ship cowped.’’
“Cowped, Granda?”
“Turned turtle. Turned over. Went upside down in the water.”
“Did she get away, in the boat for the women and the children?”
“The boat got away at first, but another big wave came along and threw them upside down, beneath the ship as she was going under the sea. They were all lost. All the women and children.”
“And our almost-uncle was lost, too.” Brigid understood now, and she was not sorry that she had asked.
“Yes, he was lost, with other souls too.”
Brigid thought: Ned’s mother.
“We heard in the afternoon that the ship had sunk, but we didn’t know he was on it until the next day. That was a Sunday. It was Wednesday before they found the body. From Sunday to Wednesday we prayed that by some miracle he would be safe, but there was no miracle for Laurie, or for us.”
She was leaning against her grandfather’s face, and felt it wet. She was sorry, but there was one more thing she needed to know. “Granda, how did the man know it was Laurence he saw?”
“The length of him, the length of him laid out like that,” was all he said.
They heard the kitchen door open and close again, and Francis looked through the door. “She’s better now,” he said. “I’ll just stay with her for a bit,” and he went back towards the kitchen.
Brigid’s father, unsmiling, spoke for the first time: “She might give you your dinner yet, Pop. Francis has smoothed it over.”
“She does her best, in her own way,” said his father, and reached his hand to his waistcoat. “What time of the day is it, anyway? Oh, my blessed watch. I forgot. I can’t find it anywhere, this last while.”
“Past midday. It’ll turn up,” said his son. “It’s time we were on the road anyway, if you think you’re all right.”
“Oh, I am. And it will turn up, I’m sure,” said his father. “I just can’t think where I . . . I’m getting old, Maurice . . . an old man.”
Her father put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Not you, Pop,” he said. “You’ll see us all out.”
Brigid took this to mean they were going home, and went to collect her coat. Through the half-open door of the kitchen she saw to her surprise her aunt sitting at the table, a wreath of smoke about her head. Beside her sat Francis. They were sitting, quietly, companionably, chatting. To Brigid’s surprise her aunt looked lively, and, if not pretty like Rose, at least warm, approachable. Brigid, puzzled, went back in to the others, pulling on her coat.
Her grandfather said: “Well, somebody’s ready for the road,” and the two men laughed, the first time that morning, and their father called Francis to come on.
It was a quiet journey, the children tacitly agreeing to let their father have his time to himself, and the wind and the weather stayed kind long enough to let them reach home without incident. Yet, in the car, an image stayed with Brigid. It was not of her father, or her grandfather, or Laetitia, or even Laurence whom she had never known. Brigid imagined Ned, hearing at six years old that his mother was never coming back, and she was truly sorry.
Back at home, their father locking the car in the garage, Brigid walked down the passage with her brother.
“Did you know Ned’s mother, Francis?” she said.
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “They just moved here before Mrs Silver was lost. Mrs Silver’s family owned all this land – you know, the plot and everything – but they had never lived here. I think her family came from somewhere quite near Granda. I think he knew Mrs Silver, or her family, anyway – I mean her family before she was married. I remember that house next door was empty for a while, and then we heard the Silvers were going to live in it themselves. Was it something to do with Ned? I can’t remember. I used to see his mother from time to time, but I never saw his father.”
“I’ve never seen him,” said Brigid. “I’ve never seen anybody but Mrs Mulvey.”
“Did you know she was famous? Mrs Silver, I mean, not Mrs Mulvey.”
“Famous? Famous for what?”
“She was a singer. I was brought to see her in the Opera House.
The Mikado
, I think.”
“Was she good?”
“I don’t remember which one she was. She was away a lot, I remember that. She had been in Scotland, I think, singing in something. That’s why she was on the
Princess Victoria
. It was in the paper: ‘
Myra Silver among Dead on Princess Victoria
’. It was shocking. Everybody talked about it – and then, Ned had nowhere really to go but next door, and that’s why he is off at school, and only here some holidays, and that is why – though you weren’t pleased – everybody else was glad that Rose took Ned home for Christmas. Brigid, are you listening?”
Brigid, puzzled, was trying to remember something. “I am listening. Did you say she was called ‘Myra’?”
“Myra Silver, yes.”
Brigid concentrated. “Francis, I’ve seen that name.”
“Where?”
Brigid bit her lip. “When I was hoking that time, in Granda’s. There was a pouch of tobacco in among the things, and they all crumbled, and there was a piece of paper folded up in the box, and there was writing on it. The writing was hard for me to read, but I could read it in the end. It said: M – Y – R – A. Isn’t that Myra?”
Francis looked thoughtful. “It is. But why . . .” He stopped. “Brigid. What happened to it? Did you put it back? Did you tell anyone about it?”
“I’m sorry, Francis. I couldn’t put it back.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you kept it.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Ned took it. He kept it.”
Francis was silent. “Are you sure?” he said. “Are you really sure?”
“Yes. He took it.”
“You are telling me the truth, Brigid? Ned Silver saw that paper in Granda’s house, and took it?”
“I am telling you the truth, Francis.”
Francis drew in a breath. He tapped her shoulder, absently, as if he had something else on his mind. They were at the door, and they could hear their father’s step behind them, and she knew she was taking a chance, but Brigid had one more question.
“Francis,” she said urgently. “There is something else I need to know, then I promise I won’t ask about the
Princess Victoria
any more.”
Francis looked warily behind them. “Make it quick, then.”
“The man who saw Uncle Laurie? The man who talked to Granda? How did he know it was him?”
“Oh,” said Francis. “The clothes, I think. And then, I suppose, Granda had to identify him.”
The clothes! The clothes leaping out at her that day, horribly alive – yes, that made sense, but what to identify meant, she could not ask, not because of her promise, but because their father caught up with them, and shooed them into the house.
Chapter 17: Imbolc
February began, just as cold, blustery and disappointing as January had been. At the breakfast table, trying to eat her porridge, Brigid watched grey rain drive slantingly against the window. She tried to invent ways to avoid school, but could think of nothing that had not yet been attempted. Her mother, though tired and moving slowly, was not to be fooled. It was clear from her father’s face, scanning the newspaper, that he would not be taken in either.
“My God,” he suddenly said, and slapped the paper down.
Brigid and Francis looked up in surprise.
“Maurice,” said his wife. “Please. The children.”
“Have you seen this?” he said, waving the newspaper at her.
“No one has had the opportunity,” she replied, reaching for the teapot, “except you.”
“Well, you’ll have the opportunity now,” he said, flicking the paper with a snap. “Listen to this, all of you. There is a call from Stormont to ban an Irish text book for schoolchildren –
for schoolchildren –
because the children are seen to carry the Irish flag, which contravenes the Flags and Emblems Act.” He began to read from the newspaper: “‘
Editorial: Three Boys and a Dog. We suppose we should feel relieved that the boy with the toy gun has not also been singled out for criticism. Who knows whether the gun was meant for Ireland – or Israel? It was the flag upon which most interest was directed at Stormont. Since the Flags Act may not be capable of dealing with children’s lesson books containing pictures of the Tricolour, another Banner Bill may now have to be introduced. Soon we may know whether the boys holding Irish flags in school primers are to be disqualified, as if they held offices of profit under the Crown
.’”
There was silence.
Brigid said: “I don’t understand what that means, Daddy.”
A key turned in the door, and Isobel came in, wet and out of breath. Her coat was streaked with dark dampness, and she smelled of rain: “I’m sorry, Mrs Arthur. This rain! I’ll take her down now.”
“No, I’ll take her in the car, and Francis too,” said Brigid’s father. “You stay here, Isobel – you’re wet through.”
“Maurice,” said his wife. “Please. In the car – no politics in front of the children.”
“Ah, holy cats,” he said. “Maybe it’s time they knew the state we’re in.” He laughed. “The State we’re in! Where the police are empowered
by law
to remove any emblem other than the Union Jack! Dear God. What a place to try to bring up children!” He began to laugh again.
“Maurice,” said their mother, frowning, “you’re not yourself. I don’t think you should go out today at all.” She got to her feet, quite like her old self, before she grew round and slow. “Isobel,” she said, an edge to her voice, “I’m sorry to ask you, but you’ll have to go out again. Borrow my raincoat and take Brigid to school. Francis, get your coat on too. You’ll both be late at this rate.”
Brigid was sure her father would protest, but he did nothing. He sat back in his chair, head on his chest, arms folded. To her bewilderment, she found herself facing out into the rain with Isobel and Francis.
It was a strange day even at school. Brigid’s teacher, for whatever reason, did not come in, and all the infants were dispersed to other classes. Brigid found herself in a large warm room, full of the biggest girls she had ever seen.
At the top sat a nun she had never seen: round yet wide, head on one side, she was like a plump, black-eyed bird. “Ah,” she said. “You’re the child who writes the stories?”
Brigid nodded, uncertainly.
“Good,” said the round nun. “I asked them to send you up to me,” and she sat Brigid down near the front. She gave her paper, pencils and crayons, and told her to write or draw as she pleased.
Brigid, still wary, waited for a moment – then slowly she began to draw a boy who was Francis, and a girl who was herself, the seven trees, and under the Friday Tree she drew a wigwam, with smoke. She became absorbed, and did not notice the time passing, did not hear the voices of the nun or the girls. Once, when she looked up, she saw they were sewing, their bright needles flashing in and out of folds of cloth.
By twelve o’clock Brigid, used to the half-day granted only to the infants, was tired and more than ready for home, but Sister was telling the big girls what they were going to do next. It was something special, she said, and then, most unexpectedly, called Brigid to stand beside her. “Watch, now,” she said. Brigid watched. Sister took from her desk a sheaf of green reeds, and began to fold and plait, rapidly bending and sliding and twisting the pliable greenery until, by a miracle, she had woven a cross. “Now, girls,” she said, “that’s a Saint Brigid’s cross, and I want you all to reach inside your desks and take out the reeds I have placed there, and do as I have done. I’ll come round and see how you do.”