Читать книгу Till the Sun Shines Through - Anne Bennett - Страница 10

Bridie knew she would have to climb out of the window. She couldn’t risk the cottage door and she must wait until she was as certain as she could be that her parents were asleep.

Oh, but she was so very tired; she’d been up since five and on the go all day, but she daren’t close her eyes, for if she did, she’d probably sleep until morning. Yet her eyelids were so heavy they were closing on their own. She yawned and wriggled on the bed. Maybe she’d just rest them for a minute or two.

She suddenly woke with a jerk. Dear God, what had she done? What time was it? She fumbled for some matches and lit the lamp.

‘One o’clock.’ She must have dozed. What had she been thinking of?

She listened intently. The house was so hushed that the ticking of the kitchen clock could be heard. She eased herself from the bed, pulled her coat from the wardrobe, and put it on, tucking her scarf into her neck and pulling her hat over her hair. Then, she lifted up the money box where she’d put the wages she’d fought for, grateful that she had, opened it and tipped the money into the large man’s handkerchief she’d taken in readiness from the laundry basket. She tied it with a knot and buried it at the bottom of one of the bags she’d had hidden in the wardrobe.

Her gloves she stuffed into her pocket and she took the letter she’d already written from beneath the mattress and smoothed it out.

Dear Mammy and Daddy

I’m sorry I’ve had to leave this way, but I could stand the life no longer. I’m going to England, where I’m going to lodge with Mary for a wee while. I will write to you again to let you know how I am doing and I hope you will not be too upset or angry with me.

Love Bridie

She smiled grimly to herself as she re-read the last line. Upset! Angry! She knew her mother would be furious, raging, and doubted she’d ever truly forgive her. But it was too late for regrets.

She laid the letter on the chest, secured it with a candlestick, and then crossed to the window. It opened with a creak and whine that sounded terribly loud in the quiet house and for a while she stopped and listened, her heart in her mouth.

There was no stirring though, other than the wind moaning as it buffeted the house and set the trees swaying and rustling. Bridie lifted the bags out of the window and then climbed out herself.

The raw and intense cold took her breath away and hurt her throat as she drew her breath in a gasp. The moon was full and hung like a golden globe in the clear night sky and the frost crackled underfoot on the cobbles as she made her way across them to the barn. She’d had the foresight to bring a slice of soda bread with her, which she shared between the two farm dogs, stilling the barks in their throat before they were able to rouse the house. She pulled the bike from the pile of sacks she had hidden it under, hung the bags on the handlebars and wheeled it up the lane to the main road.

There she stopped and looked down at the farmhouse. It looked so homely, so welcoming in the light of the moon. What if she could never go back? What if that door was closed to her for ever?

She pushed those thoughts away before she went scurrying back down the lane and into her bed. She mounted the bike and set off, glad of the warm clothes for the night was colder than she’d ever known it and the fields around were rimed in frost, which sparkled in the moonlight. She told herself to be stout-hearted. She was doing the only thing she could do and so she pedalled down the road towards Barnes More Halt and never looked back.

She was familiar with the route to the station at Barnes More and set off confidently alongside the river Lowerymore, the two dark mounds of Barnes Gap towering before her.

She was thankful to see that the rail tracks and the road ran side by side. The moonlight was helpful and it felt no distance to Derg Bridge Halt. It was as silent as the grave and Bridie rode past it quickly. The rail bus tracks then led over a single span bridge across the river known as the little red stream, or Sruthan Dearg, while Bridie took the road bridge further down, meeting again with the rail tracks as she began the route through Barnes Gap.

It seemed almost menacing to ride between those imposing craggy hills with the darkness thicker than ever. The wind channelling through the gap hit her at gale force and she had trouble controlling the bike. She rode on quickly, anxious to get away from the place, remembering suddenly the gruesome tales Uncle Francis used to tell her. And she didn’t want to think of her uncle either. If the man had never existed, she’d not be scurrying from her home at the dead of night, pregnant, frightened and alone.

The darkness was no less dense when Bridie was through the Gap and she looked for the moon, but it was obscured with clouds and few stars twinkled. She wished she’d thought to bring a torch or lantern, something to light her way. She also knew that she had to skirt the edge of Lough Mourne. It was a beautiful loch in daylight, but as she could see so little in the pitch black, she went on cautiously, afraid of going too close to the muddy banks and falling in.

The road and railway began to climb steeply up to Meerglas Halt built, people said, for the sake of Lord Lifford, the first chairman, who lived out that way. But before Bridie had gone halfway up, she was gasping for breath and her legs had begun to shake.

She could have taken an easier route lower down the hillside, but she’d have had to lose sight of the rail tracks then and, in such darkness, she was afraid that if she went too far away from the tracks, she’d never find them again.

She could ride no more so she got off the bike and pushed it up the road to the station, feeling the strain in the backs of her legs. The darkness was so intense, she felt she could reach out and touch it as she eventually mounted her bike again – the road didn’t climb again for some time so she was able to ride more easily.

Suddenly the wind picked up and icy spears of rain began to stab at her and she groaned because she’d brought nothing to cover herself with.

The road began to dip at last and Bridie was glad to ease her legs. She freewheeled down while keeping the tracks in view as much as possible as they ran between shrubs and trees. The clouds shifted slightly and for a brief moment the moon shone down through the driving rain and she caught a glimpse of the steel girder bridge over the River Mourne.

She was nearing Stranorlar, the next halt along.

She redoubled her efforts until the stone viaduct spanning the River Finn came into view and she knew she was almost there. The road led downwards and over another bridge into the town of Stranorlar, but she skirted the town, riding around the outside of it before picking up the tracks again.

Her legs were tired, aching and cold, the rain was lashing at her and she longed to stop, to ease them for a moment or two, but didn’t dare because she knew she had miles to travel yet. She forced herself on through the inky blackness, the sound of her wet wheels on the road covered by the noise of the buffeting, blustery wind, sending clusters of icy rain hammering against her.

She sighed as she passed Killygordon Station. As she left the bridge beyond it, she pulled in her bike, desperate to rest even if it were just for a moment or two. She could never remember feeling so cold or wet or miserable in her entire life. Her back ached, while the hands that gripped the handlebars were so cold, despite her gloves, now sodden with rain, that she wondered whether she’d ever be able to straighten them again. She was soaked through to the skin and had the greatest desire to put her head down and cry; in fact she did give in for a moment or two and laid her head on the handlebars.

She brought herself up sharply. She couldn’t give in now. She was doing the only thing possible and was already halfway there. But it took every ounce of resolve inside her to set off again, every nerve in her crying out in protest.

She knew Cavan Halt was only a few miles away for she’d studied the timetable in detail and resolutely set off again. She said the rosary as she rode, the litany and familiarity comforting her for these were the prayers she’d been taught some many years before when the world was a safe and wonderful place. She implored God and the Virgin Mary to help her complete this hazardous but necessary journey

Liscooley Village was after Cavan Halt, but as she reached it, the rails deviated from the road, turning right in towards the station, while the road continued straight ahead to the centre of the village. Bridie was too wary of being seen, and possibly challenged, to ride through the main street so instead used the back roads and came upon the tracks again, just before the level crossing at the other side of the station.

She dismounted and tiptoed past the gatekeeper’s cottage. It was doubtful if he would have heard the whoosh and swish of the wheels on the wet road, for the wind was hurling itself around the whitewashed dwelling and rattling the windows, while the rain was now coming down in sheets, but she could take no chances.

With a sigh, Bridie mounted her bike again, feeling low-spirited and unnerved by this long solitary ride in the rain and the cold as she toiled on towards Castlefin Station. Suddenly Bridie realised the rails had disappeared away to the right, through dense tree and bushes that she couldn’t follow.

She didn’t know what to do other than continue on the roads and hope to catch up with them again. She shivered in fear at the thought of being lost in the dark cold night.

Maybe, she thought, that would be for the best, if she was to just let herself fall from the bike and curl up in a ditch somewhere to die. By the morning she would be stiff and though her parents might wonder what she was doing way out here on a strange road on her own, no one would say a word about it once she was dead. She’d once again be the sainted daughter and they would mourn her for the rest of their lives.

The tracks suddenly met the road again and Bridie drove these gloomy thoughts from her mind, sighing with relief. Castlefin Station loomed up before her a short while later and she dismounted, pushing her bike around the outside of it. Castlefin was the custom’s post and she wasn’t sure if it had a stationmaster’s house or not.

Clady, the next station, wasn’t far away, and though Bridie was just as wet and miserable as ever, and every push of the pedals was an effort now, the thought that she was nearly at her journey’s end spurred her on. Added to that, the road was flat and the road and track ran side by side and so she didn’t feel it was very long before she reached the station. Clady was the frontier post between the Irish Free State and the British-ruled six counties and just after the station, Urney Bridge, crossed the River Finn into Tyrone. It was manned in the daytime, but fortunately not at night, so Bridie dismounted again and pushed her bike along the gravel beside the tracks, too weary to look for the road bridge.

When she reached Strabane Station, she could have wept with relief. It had been a harder, more gruelling ride that she had ever imagined and yet she had reached it and couldn’t help feeling exhilarated.

That was until she tried to dismount and was so stiff and cold that she cried out as she tried to straighten up. Her legs shook from the unusual exertion and shooting pains ran through her fingers right up to her shoulders and she groaned aloud. She stood for a moment, not sure her legs could carry her further. Eventually, she moved off cautiously, staggering slightly as she clambered onto the station platform and looked about for a shelter of some kind.

There was a waiting room open, not a terribly welcoming place and with just basic benches around the walls, but it was out of the bad weather at least and she sank down onto a bench with a sigh of relief.

She had no idea of the time, but she was deathly tired. A sudden yawn overtook her and she leaned back and closed her eyes. Her stomach growled with emptiness and she wondered where she could get something to eat. She’d stupidly not thought to bring anything and had given the soda bread to the dogs back on the farm to quieten them. Now she’d get nothing before the morning but was almost too tired to care. She couldn’t sleep deeply though. What if, after all the effort she’d gone to, she missed the train?

She kept nodding off, her head dropping forward rousing her and eventually, in absolute weariness, she unwound her wet scarf from her neck and, using that and her saturated hat as a pillow, lay down and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Tom Cassidy entered the station a few minutes before the rail bus pulled in from Donegal. He was glad he was leaving his home but felt as guilty as Hell at that relief.

He had stepped into the waiting room to shelter from the weather and noticed the little girl – for that’s all she looked – lying across the bench asleep. He wondered whether she was for the train to Derry like himself, or the rail bus back to Donegal, but whichever it was, if he didn’t wake her she wouldn’t catch either.

Bridie woke up bemused, cold and stiff and not sure where she was at first. She let out a cry of pain as she tried to straighten her legs that had gone into cramp while she’d slept.

‘Are you all right?’

‘My legs! I have cramp.’

Tom wanted to offer to rub them for her, but he could hardly do that. ‘If you try to stand, hold on to me and walk a little. It might ease,’ he said.

Even through her pain, Bridie thought Tom’s voice was one of the gentlest she’d ever heard and somehow trustworthy. She wished she could see his face properly, but the darkness had not lifted and although there were lights in the station, the waiting area was very dim.

But, as Tom had suggested, she struggled to her feet, holding tight to him, and he realised just how saturated her clothes were. He was about to comment on it when she suddenly cried, ‘I have no ticket. I have money, but I arrived too early to buy it.’

‘I’ll get your ticket,’ Tom offered, and Bridie rooted in her bag, unearthed the handkerchief, exposing some coins and a fair few notes as she unknotted it. ‘Where are you making for?’

‘Derry,’ Bridie told him.

‘Single or return?’

‘Oh, a single,’ she said. ‘I’m going on from there to Belfast and across on the ferry to England. I’m bound for Birmingham.’ Bridie was surprised she’d told a stranger this; she was usually more cautious. But she felt instinctively drawn to this man.

Tom’s face creased in anxiety. ‘Look, you are all right, aren’t you?’ he asked, alarmed. ‘You look very young and … well, you’re not running away or anything, are you?’

Bridie ignored the last question. Instead, she said, ‘I was eighteen last February, so I’m nearly nineteen. I’m going to my sister’s for a wee while and I’m wet because I cycled here and set out far too early because I wasn’t sure how long it would take me.’

‘Sorry,’ Tom said. ‘You just don’t look eighteen.’

‘You can’t see me any better than I can see you,’ Bridie complained. ‘You’re going on my size alone, but I’ve told you the truth.’

That seemed to satisfy Tom and he took her money and went out to the booking office just as the rail bus pulled into the station. Bridie emerged from the shelter cautiously, worried that there might be someone on board that rail bus who might recognise her. But few passengers travelled at that early hour in the depths of winter and she knew no one and so, more confidently, she followed Tom to the other platform where the train to Derry stood waiting.

Tom helped Bridie on to the train, stowing her bags on the seat beside her before saying, ‘Why don’t you take your coat off, it’s soaked through.’

‘It’s no good,’ Bridie said. ‘My things underneath are wet too. I’ve bought other things with me, but they’ll probably be just as bad. The bags are sodden.’

‘Even so,’ Tom said, unbuttoning his coat, ‘take it off and put this around you.’

Bridie did as Tom bade her and as he tucked his coat around her, he said, ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves?’ and he extended his hand. ‘I’m Tom, Tom Cassidy.’

Tom’s hand was nearly twice the size of Bridie’s. She’d thought of giving him a false name, but had rejected it. No harm in giving him her real name. It was a shame, but she doubted she’d ever set eyes on him again. ‘I’m Bridie McCarthy,’ she said and asked, ‘Where are you bound for, Mr Cassidy?’

‘Birmingham, the same as you,’ Tom said. ‘Now isn’t that a fine coincidence? We can travel together if you’d like that, and the name’s Tom. I’ve done this trip many a time. My parents have a farm that my sisters now look after. I was over because my father was ill. He had pneumonia and we thought it was the end. He had the last rites and all, you know. But he’s rallied now and on the mend, so I thought it all right to leave him.’

Bridie hardly heard Tom, because as he spoke he’d glanced at his watch and she’d caught sight of the time: a quarter to seven. Her absence would have been noted by now. In fact, while she slept on the bench at Strabane Station, her father would have struggled from his bed for the milking.

Sarah would be surprised her daughter wasn’t up. She would go into the room, maybe with a cup of tea to help rouse her, and she would see the bed not slept in and read the note. Oh God, how upset she would be. Angry yes, but first upset and confused, and her dear, kindly father too. She could hardly bear to think of what she’d done to them and she shut her eyes against the picture of them standing there, sadness and disappointment and shock seeping out of the very pores of their skin.

Tom knew he no longer had Bridie’s attention, but he also knew that it wasn’t mere inattentiveness or boredom with what he was saying that had distracted her, it was something much more. Maybe something he’d said or done had triggered a memory and a memory so painful that she’d shut her eyes against it. But before she’d done so, he’d seen the glint of tears there and the stricken look that had stripped every vestige of colour from her face.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and asked gently, ‘What is it?’

Bridie’s eyes jerked open at his words and, looking at him, she had the greatest desire to tell him everything, to weep for her own unhappiness and that she’d bestowed on her parents for it seemed too heavy a burden to bear alone.

But she controlled herself. How could she tell her tale to a stranger? And however kind Tom Cassidy was, he was still a stranger. She gave herself a mental shake. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, and though Tom knew she was far from so, he felt he had no right to press her further.

He knew there was something badly wrong though. Surely no parents would let a girl set out on a filthy wet winter’s morning on her own? He didn’t know how far she’d come, but by the state of her clothes, it had been some distance. What sort of family had she to allow that? And she was troubled about something right enough.

She was obviously anxious to change the subject as she said, ‘I’m sorry, you were telling me about your family. What line of work do you do in Birmingham?’

‘I work in the Mission hall,’ Tom said. ‘The poverty there is extreme. We take food out to those living on the streets, soup kitchens and the like, and to the families we also take food and clothes – some of the children have little more than rags to cover them and they never seem to have enough to eat.’

‘I know,’ Bridie said. ‘I saw it myself when I was over before, though I was just a child of thirteen then. It must be terrible to be so hungry and cold.’ As she spoke she realised how long it had been since she’d eaten and her stomach growled in protest.

‘Are you hungry?’ Tom said, hearing the rumble of Bridie’s stomach. ‘My mother and sisters have packed me food enough for half a dozen. Please help me eat it?’

Now he knew for certain there was something wrong, for surely to God a person wouldn’t set off for such a journey without a bite with them. What manner of family did she come from at all? But again he felt unable to pry and instead began to open the various packages his mother and sisters had pressed on him.

Bridie watched Tom’s broad hands unwrap the food, while her mouth watered in anticipation, noting that his hands were unblemished and smooth and his fingernails clean and well shaped. Then her attention was taken by the food and her interest in the man fled at such a feast before her.

There were four hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham and others of cheese, and slices of thickly buttered soda bread, large pieces of barn brack and half a dozen scones. ‘I have milk too,’ Tom said, producing the bottle. ‘My mother insisted on lacing it with whisky “to keep the cold from my bones” she said.’

Bridie had never drunk laced milk before; she’d never tasted whisky at all. But she found it was very pleasant indeed and considered Tom’s mother a wise woman for thinking of it for it certainly warmed her up. The food also put new heart into her and made her more hopeful about the future, whatever it held.

When this was all over, she thought, maybe she could make it up to her mother and father for running away and certainly beg their forgiveness. Surely to God they wouldn’t hate her for ever?

‘I’m glad you have someone to lodge with,’ Tom said suddenly, breaking in on her thoughts. ‘Birmingham, like most cities, is a depressed place. The people back home seem to think you can peel the gold from the city’s streets.’

‘But how would they know how it is?’ Bridie said. ‘Many of our neighbours have travelled nowhere all the days of their life except into town on a Fair Day.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Tom agreed. ‘Still you have someone anyway. Where’s your sister meeting you?’

‘At New Street Station,’ Bridie said. ‘At least … I must send her a telegram to tell her the times of the trains.’

‘There’ll be plenty of time when we get to Liverpool for that, I should think,’ Tom said. ‘I lived there for some time, so I know my way about.’

‘Did you? Why did you leave?’

‘Oh, there were reasons,’ Tom said. That was his cue to tell Bridie all about himself, but he said nothing and instead changed the subject. Though Bridie chatted easily enough, she parried all his questions about her home or family, knowing it would never do for him to guess where she lived and how far she’d come. Instead, she asked Tom questions about himself and was particularly interested in anything he could tell her about Birmingham.

‘But you know it already, surely?’ Tom said. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were over before?’

‘Aye, but I was a child just,’ Bridie said, ‘and my sister was expecting so we didn’t stray far from the house. I went to the cinema a few times, though, to the Broadway near to where they live. That was truly amazing to me, and my cousin Rosalyn was green with envy when I described it. We went to a place called the Bull Ring a time or two as well, though never at night, although Mary said there was great entertainment to be had there on a Saturday. She used to get tired in the evenings, though, and she wasn’t up to long jaunts.’

‘Oh, you missed a treat all right,’ Tom said. ‘The Bull Ring is like a fairyland lit up with gas flares and the place to be on a Saturday evening, if you can shut your eyes to the poverty all around. You must make sure you pay a visit this time and see it for yourself.’

‘I will,’ Bridie promised.

‘There are cinemas too of course,’ Tom said, ‘like the Broadway picture house you mentioned, but I really like the music hall and that’s what I spend my spare money on.’

‘Music hall?’

‘Now there’s a treat if you like,’ Tom said. ‘The city centre is full of theatres and they put on variety shows and some do pantomimes. Have you ever seen a pantomime?’

Bridie shook her head.

‘I didn’t see one myself until I came to live in Birmingham,’ Tom said. ‘But they are very funny, well worth a visit. There was a moment’s pause and then Tom suddenly asked, ‘Do you dance, Bridie?’

‘Dance?’

‘Everywhere you go there are dances being held,’ Tom told her. ‘There are proper places of course, like Tony’s Ballroom and the Locarno, but they’re also held round and about the city centre in church halls and social clubs. There’s often a dance hall above picture houses and even on wooden boards laid across empty swimming baths.’

‘I can’t dance at all,’ Bridie said. ‘Not like that. I know Irish dancing, I mean I can do a jig or reel or hornpipe with the best of them, but I don’t know a thing about other types of dancing.’

‘Well, if you have a mind to learn, there are schools about ready to teach you,’ Tom told her. ‘And sometimes only for coppers.’

‘It sounds such an exciting place to live in, I saw less than half the place last time. I know nothing about these other things,’ Bridie exclaimed.

‘There’s grinding poverty here too,’ Tom reminded her. ‘Sometimes the bravery and stoicism of the average Brummie astounds me. Some families we help are so poor, so downtrodden, and yet they soldier on, their spark of humour still alive. Those lucky enough to be in work fare better, but the hours of work are often long and the jobs are heavy and I can’t blame them for seeking entertainment.’

‘You seem so settled in city life,’ Bridie said. ‘Don’t you miss Ireland?’

‘Not so much now,’ Tom said. ‘I did of course, but I’ve been away from it so long. I miss the peace of it sometimes, the tranquillity that you’d never find in a city, but I feel needed there like I never was on the farm.’

‘So you’d not ever go back to live there?’ Bridie asked.

Tom was a while answering. Eventually he said, ‘Ever is a long time, Bridie. Who knows what the future holds for any of us? But, for the moment at least, my place is there.’

And mine too, Bridie thought, but she didn’t share her thoughts with Tom. She didn’t know what the future held for her either and every time she thought of it, her stomach did a somersault.

Her silence went unnoticed, though, for the train was pulling into Derry and they began to collect their belongings together as they had to change to the normal gauge train for the short journey to Belfast and the ferries for England. Bridie tried to return Tom’s coat, but he refused to have it back and insisted she wrap it around herself, carrying her own sodden one over his arm.

It was on the train that Bridie saw Tom properly for the first time and, now that the light was better, she realised he was a very handsome man. His hair was very dark and a little curly and he had the kindest brown eyes ringed by really long lashes. His nose was slightly long and his mouth wide and turned up and it gave the impression he was constantly amused by something. The whole effect was one of gentleness, kindness, though his chin seemed determined enough.

And then, as if aware of her scrutiny, Tom smiled. It transformed his whole face and Bridie’s heart skipped a beat.

‘I’m glad we’re travelling together, aren’t you?’ Tom said.

Oh yes, Bridie was glad all right, but she thought it best not to say so and instead just smiled. She was not to know how expressive her eyes were, and that Tom was delighted she obviously liked his company, and they chatted together as if they’d known each other years as the train pounded its way towards Belfast.

‘I don’t remember being this sick last time I came,’ Bridie said, wiping her mouth.

‘Aye, but early December is not the ideal time to cross the Irish Sea,’ Tom said, and Bridie looked out at the churning grey water, at the huge rolling breakers crashing against the sides of the side in a froth of white suds.

But, Bridie thought, the extreme sickness might have been due partly to her pregnancy, for she’d been nauseous enough at times without the help of the turbulent sea, but that was a secret she could share with no one and so she kept quiet and tried to control her lurching stomach.

It was too cold and altogether too wet to stay on deck any longer than necessary, but inside the smell was appalling, although the ferry wasn’t so crowded. The place smelt of people and damp clothes and vomit from those who’d not made it outside in time. But prevailing it all was the stink of cigarette smoke that lay like a blue fog in the air and the smell of Guinness.

It gagged in Bridie’s throat as Tom upended his case for her to sit on. ‘Sit there,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you something.’

‘Brandy!’ she said a few moments later. ‘I’ve never tasted brandy.’

Tom sat on his other case beside Bridie and said, ‘Then you’ve not lived. Get it down you. It will settle your stomach.’

‘First laced milk, now brandy,’ Bridie said with a smile. ‘And at this hour of the morning. Dear God, this is terrible.’

‘Aye,’ said Tom, catching her mood. ‘Here’s the two of us turning into lushes. Now drink it down and you’ll feel better.’

‘Oh God!’ Bridie cried with a shiver and a grimace at the first taste of it. ‘It burns. It’s horrible!’

‘Think of it as medicine,’ Tom said, and Bridie held her nose, for even the smell made her feel ill, and swallowed the brandy in one gulp, which left her coughing till her eyes streamed. ‘Maybe the cure is worse than the disease,’ she said eventually, when she had breath to do so.

Tom watched Bridie with a smile on his face, but his thoughts were churning. He’d never much bothered with girls before. In truth, maybe never allowed himself to be attracted to any. He knew all about girls though, hadn’t he got three sisters? But this girl he’d just met was affecting him strangely. It wasn’t her beauty alone, though that was startling enough, especially her enormous brown eyes with just a hint of sadness or worry behind them and her creamy skin. It was much more. She was small and fragile-looking for a start and had such an air of vulnerability.

Tom couldn’t understand how she’d affected him so. Just looking at her, he’d felt a stirring in his loins that was so pleasurable, it was bound to be sinful and his heart thudded against his chest. He wanted to hold her close and protect her against anything that might possibly hurt her or upset her.

Bridie, with no inkling of Tom’s thoughts about her, suddenly yawned in utter weariness. She’d had little sleep except for the bit she’d snatched in Strabane. Her smarting eyes felt very heavy and she closed them for a while to rest them.

But she swayed on the case as sleep almost overcame her and she jerked herself awake again. ‘Are you tired?’ Tom asked, and at Bridie’s brief nod, he went on, ‘Lean against me if you want, I won’t let you fall.’

Bridie knew there was no way she should lean against some strange man, and though she liked Tom Cassidy, she had only known him a matter of hours. But she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing; they seemed to have a mind of their own and for all she tried to force them open, it was no good.

Her drooping head fell on to Tom’s chest and to prevent her falling off the case, he tentatively put his arms about her.

By the time the boat was ready to dock, Tom had an ache in his back from supporting his own weight and Bridie’s. Yet it hardly mattered compared to the pleasure he had from holding Bridie in his arms that he’d wrapped so lovingly around her.

But, when Bridie awoke, she was overcome with humiliation for allowing herself to fall asleep leaning against a man in that compromising way. She remembered the last time she’d been held by a man – it had been her uncle Francis’s arms around her and she stiffened at the memory of it.

Tom sensed her withdrawal, but he put it down to embarrassment and decided to make no comment about it.

Bridie realised when they docked in Liverpool and Tom helped her find a post office to send the telegram from before the train left that she’d never have managed without him beside her. ‘I was lucky to have met you at Strabane,’ Bridie said to him as they settled in the carriage. ‘I’d have missed this train and would have had to have waited for the next one.’

‘You’d probably have had a long wait,’ Tom said. ‘The trains are here to meet the ferries and there won’t be one now for hours.’

‘And you, the seasoned traveller, would know all about it,’ Bridie said with a smile. ‘Why did you go home so often? Were you very homesick?’

‘In a way,’ Tom said. While Bridie had slept on the boat he’d decided to himself that he would tell her what he’d been doing in Liverpool. It was not a fact he readily advertised, because he found people often treated him differently, but if he wished to see Bridie again, he felt she ought to know. ‘I was a child just when I left the first time,’ he said. ‘I was in a seminary in Liverpool, training to be a priest.’

‘A priest!’ Bridie jumped away from Tom as if she’d been shot. The thought paramount in her head was to thank God she’d not poured out her sordid story to him as she’d longed to on the train. She’d have hated to see his lips curl in disgust and the scorn in his eyes had she given in to such a weakness. But if he was a priest, why had he held her that way in the boat? ‘So you’re a priest then?’ she said.

‘No, no, I’ve never been ordained,’ Tom said. ‘I was to be, but I began to have doubts. The Bishop sent me to Birmingham to work in the Mission with a Father Flynn, a good friend of his. He expects me to work off any reservations I have and go back for ordination.’

‘And will you?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not cut out to be a priest, I know that now. My vocation was one planted and fuelled by the visiting missionaries. Once I’d actually given voice to this possible vocation, which was probably little more than a childish fancy, things were taken out of my hands. My mother had me up before the priest faster than the speed of light. He was delighted, feather in his cap, and he informed the Bishop.

‘Events went so fast after that that I had no time to think. The priest told my mother she’d given up her only son to God, the ultimate sacrifice and one she’d be rewarded for in Heaven, and I was whisked away to a seminary in Liverpool.’

Bridie nodded, for she knew how it was. Catholic mothers were often told by the priests that their first son should belong to God. Mothers would often offer prayers and novenas that their eldest son, or failing that one of his male siblings, might have the vocation to become a priest.

Fathers usually didn’t have the same yearning at all. They looked to their sons to take over the farm or family business, to give them a hand and ease their load. But even they found that if a child admitted to having a vocation to enter the priesthood, their standing in the community was raised. They would be set apart, a holy and devout family, and people would be behave differently, more respectfully before them.

She knew too that to decide to leave the seminary, to decide the priesthood was not the line a boy wanted to follow, was worse than not going in the first place. It would be disgrace on the family and so she enquired gently, ‘Do your parents know about your doubts?’

‘Yes … Well, I didn’t tell them straightaway that I’d decided to leave, but I dropped broad hints. In the end I had to come out with it though; I thought it wasn’t fair for them to harbour false hopes.’

‘And?’ goaded Bridie.

‘They refuse to accept it,’ Tom told her. ‘My mother says she will have to hang her head in shame. She’ll not be able to face the neighbours. Of course she was allowed to run up tick in the shop and my father a big bill in the pub on the strength of my becoming a priest.’

‘I tried to explain it to them. I tried to say it had not ever been a true vocation, but an idea fostered by the parish priest and the Brothers that taught at the school and magnified by the visiting missionaries, until it was easier to go along with it than not. And then of course I was just a boy. Obedience had been drummed into me. I couldn’t defy a priest, a teaching Brother or a missionary Father.’

Bridie knew he could not, but she could also imagine Tom’s parents’ reaction, though she felt sorry for him and thought he was doing the right thing. ‘I’m glad you’re not going to be a priest if you feel that way.’

Tom smiled wryly. ‘You’re the only one then,’ he said. ‘I’m not flavour of the month at home. And then, after all the talk and explanation, my mother said to me this morning, “Don’t let’s be having any more of that sort of talk, so. Go on back now and do your duty, for it will break my heart now if you give it up.” How d’you counter that?

‘She can’t see that my work with the Mission is as worthwhile as that of a priest. The people I work with are the unsung heroes in our society, not those dashing off to save the souls of the heathens in Africa, but those who toil tirelessly and usually for little or no reward to alleviate suffering and abject poverty in their own towns and cities. I respect them so much.’

Bridie heard the fervour in Tom’s voice and the light of enthusiasm and purpose in his eyes and had great admiration for him. She knew it was not a weakness to admit he’d made a mistake, but a strength.

She’d love to see him again, but she could not. He was the first man she’d ever felt so drawn to and she sensed he would be kind and considerate, at least up to a point. She was sure that point would be reached if he had an inkling of what she was carrying, the trouble she was in. Dear God! She had a feeling she wouldn’t see him for dust. Not that she would ever put it to the test. Anyway, she told herself firmly, what right had she allowing herself to be drawn to any man when she had this massive problem to overcome.

She knew he liked her; she wasn’t stupid. Despite that, she decided after she left Tom at the station, she’d make absolutely sure she’d never see him again and she was surprised at the sharp stab of regret she felt at making that decision.