As she stood back to admire them, she heard a thin voice, tall above her. “What do you think you are doing?” asked the voice, narrow and cutting, like wire. Even before she looked, Brigid knew it was the nun with steel-rimmed glasses, the nun she had thought on her first day might be Sister Chalk. Brigid felt the chill sweep of her habit past her head, and saw Sister Chalk’s handless wide sleeves joined at her wrist.
“Sister,” she said, standing up, eyes down, as she had learned, “I’m making an offering for . . .” she searched frantically for the right description, “for Our Lady, Queen of the . . . loveliest flower of the . . . fairest.”
The nun grew even taller: even the sunlight of the spring morning failed to make its way round her sharp pointing headdress. “An offering?” she said, her voice like ice. “Of weeds?” She took one hand out of the sleeve, and her long fingers flicked Brigid’s bouquet with disdain. “Hedge weeds, daisies, buttercups and – what are these – dandelions?” The bright yellow flowers were plucked out and torn. “How dare you,” said the nun, and her voice was deathly quiet. “How dare you insult Our Lady with your weeds!” In a moment she had reached out and caught Brigid’s wrist, produced from deep inside her sleeve a thick ruler, raised it high against the sun and brought it down hard, three times, on Brigid’s hand. Then she turned and swept away, her rosary beads clicking against the bunched skirt and her thin stick body.
Brigid, shocked, could not move, could not hear, could not see. Gradually she heard the laughing, the jeering. The gang was forming: “
Dandelions! Dandelions! You’ll wet the bed! You’ll wet the bed!
” The chant gathered momentum, turning in seconds to “
She wet the bed
,” and the mockery grew louder, until Brigid thought she must run, run away, run anywhere, and she thought she would burst, burst everything when, somewhere in the chaos, she heard a quiet voice.
Commanding silence, there stood above her another nun. Brigid stiffened, then saw that it was the kind round sister who had shown her how to make Brigid’s crosses. The nun dismissed the crowd of girls, then looked down at Brigid for a few moments before she spoke. Her arms, like the arms of Sister Chalk, were buried in her wide sleeves, and Brigid watched them carefully.
“You brought flowers for the altar, Brigid.” It was not a question.
Brigid nodded, then added, “Yes, Sister,” but did not look up to meet her eye.
The nun withdrew her hands from her folded sleeves, and Brigid stepped back. Yet the hand now extended towards her held not a ruler but a handkerchief, big like a man’s, but sewn with small neat stitches. She handed it to Brigid. “Dry your eyes,” she said, “like a good child. Blow your nose. There’s no call for all that drama.”
Brigid reached out her hand and took the handkerchief. “Thank you, Sister,” she said.
The nun did not move, or speak. Then she put her head on one side, and she was once more like a mother bird, her dark round bird eyes small and bright, and she said: “I remember reading somewhere that the dandelion is the flower of Brigid.” Then she reached behind her, lifted a large hand bell and, leaving Brigid with the big handkerchief in her hand, walked about the yard ringing the bell, until the girls scrambled and squeezed into lines.
To Brigid, joining her own line, the nun had performed a kind of magic. Brigit the Fire Goddess, Brigid the Saint and Brigid of the Flowers were all now one with Brigid Arthur and the girls were just girls again, small girls and big in straight lines on a May morning, singing their hymns to Mary. Brigid saw that the kind Sister had retrieved some of her golden dandelions and placed them, with her daisies and her buttercups, and her pale spiky broom, close by Mary and her silent blue folds. Brigid lifted her head. She was Brigid of the Flowers.
Throughout the remainder of that day, however, she moved very carefully. She did not want to attract any more attention. At the end of school, she stood at the gate, waiting for Isobel, who was never on time. The day was blue and the breeze light, and for a moment she remembered the other cold blue day when she had stood alone until George Bailey brought her home. She turned her eyes to the end of the road where she had run to him, thinking he was her father and, out of the corner of her eye, softened by distance, she thought for a moment that she saw him again. It almost seemed that George Bailey, her own George, was standing at the other side of the main road, near the park. It was too far for her to see clearly, but it was, for that second, so like him, as she remembered him, the day he brought her home. That day, so strange at the time, now seemed a lost and lovely place. In the deep pocket of her raincoat, she still had the two chestnuts he had given her, their rough and smooth sensations sliding and rolling beneath her anxious fingers. She had thought they were lost: when she found them, through a hole in the lining of her coat, she had shown them to no one, not even Francis. They were her secret with George Bailey, and now, today, she put her hands round them for comfort, as if she had really found George again. Her eyes closed, lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the engine of her father’s car, but when she opened her eyes, there he stood before her, his hand outstretched.
“Daddy!” she cried, in joy. “I thought it would be Isobel. I’m so glad it’s you. Daddy, I thought I saw . . .”
He spoke across her. “I telephoned home and told your mama I would bring you. I left the office early.” He never left the office early, even on Christmas Eve, and she could scarcely remember a time when he had collected her after school.
“For me, Daddy?” said Brigid.
“For you, Brigid,” he said, and Brigid was content.
She climbed into the car; her father told her to pull in her arms, and then he closed the door. They drove away from the school and turned on to the main road. At the corner, she saw some of the gang looking at the car and she could see she would pay for this pleasure, but that was for tomorrow, not today. The railings by the park where she thought she had glimpsed George were blank again; there was no George there. Yet, beside her father in the big grey car, Brigid stopped missing George Bailey. The day was soft and bright; she was with her father; she was going home to surprises. Beside them a young girl in a blazer and a summer dress cycled on the inside lane, the light breeze catching her hair.
“Tell me,” said her father, “does somebody have a birthday, today? Let me see. Who is it?”
Brigid saw that the corners of his eyes were crinkled; he looked like Francis, young and playful.
“You know fine well it’s me, Daddy,” she said, and gave his arm a little nudge with hers.
In that moment she heard two things. The first was her father saying, “Brigid, don’t . . .” Then she heard a mighty thump, and the car stopped heavily in the middle of the road. The girl in her bright dress sat awkwardly on the kerb, all the pretty flowers of her skirt stained with brown and red. Brigid heard her father’s breathing, sharp, gasping: “What did she . . . What was she . . . turning there . . . ?”
Then he was out of the car, picking the girl up, settling her. Her knee appeared to be cut, and he
bound it with his handkerchief. The girl got up and, with only a slight limp, wheeled her bicycle across the road, and walked into the neat garden of one of the houses. He waited until she turned her key in the door, and lifted his hand in farewell. She waved at him, a bright and friendly wave, as if he were her father, too. Then he got in the car again, starting up the engine.
“Turning there, in front of me,” he said. “She’s lucky she wasn’t killed.”
“Is she all right, Daddy?” Brigid heard her own voice, small and afraid. She should not have nudged him.
“She is, no thanks to herself. The knee is cut, but it’s not bad. She lives there, she says, in one of those houses. She wouldn’t let me go across with her to explain.”
“Daddy,” said Brigid, looking straight ahead, “I’m sorry I pushed your arm.”
He said: “It wasn’t your fault, Brigid. I didn’t see her. I’m not paying attention these days. I should have gone across with her.”
“But, thank you for collecting me, Daddy,” Brigid said, to feel better.
He did not reply, and she knew he was gone again, into that distant place where he could not be found.
Back at the house, Brigid’s heart was heavy. The journey home had begun so well. She felt she herself had gone far away, that everything was happening at a distance. Even the voices, her mother asking her father what was wrong, sounded distant, a little muffled. Yet, from behind her glass wall, she knew a great effort had been made, and that she must be pleased.
In the sitting room, on the table, there sat a box wrapped up in white paper, and in it, in cardboard compartments, there were more people for her theatre: a woodcutter, and a wolf, and a small girl in a red hood with a basket. She knew this story. The box itself had trees, and a thatched house, and scenes of woods and the inside of a house. She heard her voice say that it was lovely. In a parcel of brown paper there was a new book, and on its cover was a picture of a lion, a witch and a wardrobe. She heard herself thank her parents. Her grandfather arrived as a surprise for her birthday: she felt herself being lifted up, and heard herself saying she was very glad he was there. There was a cake her mother had made while Brigid was at school, with six lighted candles, and there were tomato sandwiches and rock cakes. She blew out all six candles at one go, ate the sandwiches and the cake, and everyone seemed pleased, even Isobel, and when her grandfather told her to go upstairs and see what she would find, Brigid obediently went.
Brigid climbed to her room, wondering still why she could feel nothing. Then she saw on her bed a little hat with a tail, like the one Davy Crockett had worn. At the door behind her stood her grandfather. Brigid had not heard him come up.
“That’s for the day we didn’t stop, Brigid, when your cowboy friend was in the town,” he said.
Inside her, Brigid felt something, hard like a rock, shift slightly. She lifted her arms to him and he swung her up. “Granda,” she said, but she could not begin to explain, and instead she felt tears go down her face.
“Who’s my girl?” he said, and Brigid, leaning against him, saw far outside at the top of the plot, that the Friday Tree was dressed for her birthday in delicate green, its feathery breezy leaves catching the light, and she imagined she could hear its whispers. Then she stiffened. Under it, again, there was a soft spiral of smoke, as if someone was there.
“What is it, Brigid,” said her grandfather. “Are you all right?”
Before Brigid could reply, she saw over his shoulder that Francis had come into the room.
“Francis!” she cried, and she drew her hand across her nose and mouth. “I didn’t hear you!”
“I am too subtle,” said Francis. “Happy Birthday.”
“You’ll need long trousers soon,” said her grandfather, turning round with her in his arm, so that her head spun a little.
“I want long trousers soon,” said Francis.
“Haven’t you something to show this birthday girl?”
Francis’ eyes crinkled and danced as he nodded. “I do,” he said. Then he slid to his knees, right beside the theatre.
Brigid tried to scramble down from her grandfather’s arm, but he held her fast. “I have new people for it, Francis,” she said.
Francis held out his hand, but did not move. “Wait,” he said. He reached behind the theatre, and though his head and face remained in view, Brigid could see from his expression that he was working at something on the other side of the theatre.
Her grandfather, still holding her in his arm, walked over to the window and drew the curtain, shutting out the light. Brigid’s mouth opened in surprise as, finding herself eased to the floor, she saw her theatre light up, magical and mysterious, like a house on the mountain at night.
Enchanted, she took her new people, arranged and rearranged them over and over: closed the curtains, opened them, walked away, came back and, after a time, saw that she was by herself, Granda and Francis no longer in the room. She had not seen them go. Brigid, alone, was finally happy on her birthday.
Chapter 23: A Whistling Woman
After the accident with the cyclist, the car sat unused in the garage. Now, her father took the bus in the morning, and left her off at the school. To Brigid, though she missed the comfort of the car, this was companionable and pleasant, and she did not have to have Isobel. She had heard her mother use a new word of Isobel: she was unreliable. Whatever this meant, it reflected Brigid’s own unease about her.
One Saturday morning towards the end of June, there came an unexpected knock at the front door. A dark shadow showed through the leaded lights and, for an instant, Brigid thought of Uncle Conor, but it was not Uncle Conor. On the doorstep stood Brigid’s friend, Mr Doughty. Though his great holster hung by his side, he was not especially alarming: not nearly as much as Mr Steele. Yet, he did not seem quite as mild and friendly as when he was in the plot. He was different in little things, like the shining ring that appeared in his hair when he took off his cap to come in.
He never had that in the plot. The hall seemed smaller as he stepped inside: he looked too big for it and, glancing at him in the mirror so that he would not see her looking, Brigid saw for
the first time that one side of his face seemed to go down more than the other, as if one side was the kind man in the garden, and the other the stern man with the gun.