A Song for Bridget Page 2

  As I ran, I looked back. Robert was still standing there, his face unreadable, still watching me, and I shivered.

  Mary Mother of Jaysus, it’s cold, I said to myself, but even then I couldn’t be sure if that was the only reason for shuddering. Something felt wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. The biting wind soon sent me soaring home though, skipping the short distance to our terraced house on the street beside the church.

  From the outside it was a brick house in a row of identical buildings, and inside they all pretty much looked the same; with sparse furniture and pride of place given to a small plaster cast of Our Lady and a picture of Christ’s Bleeding Heart on the mantelpiece. As I walked through the front door I automatically dipped my fingers into the small font of holy water in the hallway and blessed myself.

  Once inside, the house was dark. The range was unlit, and I shivered again. It was bitterly cold and we needed to eat dinner. I tutted. Jimmie was sat looking mournful at the wooden table in the kitchen.

  “What’s goin’ on. Where’s me mam?” I asked, peering into the tiny scullery at the back of the house.

  “Dunno Biddy, just got here meself.” Jimmie was going to say more but he was interrupted by a great wail from upstairs. We looked at each other.

  “Mam’s havin’ the baby!” I squealed, all at once realising why the fire hadn’t been lit and why there wasn’t a vegetable stew releasing tantalising cooking smells into the dark kitchen.

  “The baby! The baby!” Jimmie leapt up. Without a moment’s hesitation we raced up the wooden stairs, our boots announcing our presence with their hullabaloo!

  At the top of the stairs was Mrs Conroy, our stepfather’s mother. She was a fierce looking lady with frizzy brown hair and lived just a couple of doors down from us. To me, Mrs Conroy looked ancient, but she must only have been in her early fifties. Now she stood with her hands placed firmly on her hips looking down at us.

  “Now you two won’t be disturbing this little baby, yer new sister, will ye?” She chuckled, momentarily barring our way to the door.

  “A sister! Yay, a sister!” I shouted, then immediately realised I was already disturbing her with my excited noise, so I dropped my voice to a whisper.

  “Can we see her, please Mrs Conroy, can we?” I pleaded. Jimmie looked up at her, his blue eyes big in his pale face.

  “Of course you can. I can see ye’ll both be as well-behaved as the baby Jesus. Now, don’t forget that yer mam has had a hard time birthin’ her and she needs peace and quiet.”

  “Yes, yes, we’ll be quieter than Jaysus, we’ll be so quiet Mam won’t even know we’ll be in there.”

  With a sigh and another guffaw, Mrs Conroy stepped aside and we both tiptoed into Mam’s bedroom. Patrick Conroy, 31, our stepfather, was there, sitting next to Mam and looking pleased with himself, which was a rare sight. Patrick was much younger than Mam and a difficult man, even at nine years old I understood that.

  My father James Larkin, 26 years older than my mother, married her in 1918 in the church across from our house. He was a farmer who loved the land surrounding us but was cursed with loving drink and smoking tobacco as well. He died suddenly of sclerosis of the liver at the age of 56, in March 1928, just a month after I was conceived.

  In my mind’s eye I always saw the image of Mam standing at his graveside with her boys Michael, eight, Robert, six, and three-year-old Jimmie around her, and me inside her pregnant tummy. A child’s fantasy maybe, but even in my mam’s womb I must’ve felt her loss, must’ve keened with grief for the death of my real father, a man I was never going to know. I grew up knowing I’d never be my da’s little girl, like so many of my friends at school. I watched their daddies collect them, swinging them onto their shoulders or holding hands as their daughters skipped beside them, and yearned for a daddy of my own.

  The cruel irony was that my father had longed for a daughter after three boys. I could only imagine the emotional turmoil my mother suffered when she gave birth to me, with my shock of white-blonde hair, knowing that my daddy would never hold me, never see his daughter. I had been baptised on November 14 1928 and even then, it was the Conroy family who had supported Mam, with Patrick’s father being one of my sponsors. Only seven months before, my mother had stood in the same church for her husband’s funeral. Things must’ve been starting to unfold with Patrick, as my mam always said he leaned to her and whispered: “Next time you’re here, it’ll be our weddin’ day,” yet the pair of them hadn’t formally got ‘together’.

  It must’ve been a confusing time, and even at nine years old I could sense that Mam had suffered a lot when I was small. I’d been clothed and fed, but my mother’s heart must have shut down in her grief and desperation.

  Patrick had stepped into my late father’s shoes 15 months after I was born, providing Mam with a man in the house to steady her robust family. In those days it was still frowned upon for a woman to bring up a brood on her own, especially a brood of boys. Mam would’ve felt the pressure of being a single mother and so Patrick from two doors down moved in, but did little else as far as I could see.

  I knew that Mam and Patrick had been drawn together through mutual grief. Patrick, who was eight years younger than my mother, had witnessed the death of his brother John. The 19-year-old had been killed after being knocked off his bike by a horse and cart outside the family house. John had hit his head on a stone and died instantly. Patrick had argued with his brother minutes earlier, and it was said that he never got over the guilt, and perhaps that was why he had such fragile moods.

  At the same time, my mother was coping alone with four small children and the pair used to sit outside on rare balmy evenings, sharing cider and talking, perhaps, of their struggles. Patrick moved in quickly and we had been a slipshod kind of family ever since. He didn’t work, instead he relied on money given to him by his family. Patrick was unable to hold down a job because of his melancholy.

  He was dark-haired and brooding, usually. He drank at the pub, came in, ate his dinner and went back out again most nights, but he wasn’t cruel or vicious, that, at least, was a blessing. He was a quiet man, prone to dark moods and days spent sitting alone without a fire or gaslight. We had learned to leave him be, to carry on with domestic life when he was in one of his ‘doldrums’ as Mam put it.

  But today he beamed. He pointed to the little bundle being held by my mother who was sitting upright in their bed. The room had the feral, animal smell of the birthing room as we crept in, noting Mam’s tired face and feeling happy that, today at least, she was smiling. Mam looked down at the package of blankets she was holding and said: “Come an’ meet yer sister Philomena.”

  I looked up into Mam’s face. She was a woman made plain by deprivation and toil who, with a bit of care and attention, could’ve been pretty. Her body had been formed by child-bearing. Philomena was her fifth child, yet she wasn’t an old woman, just 39. Her hair was cut short at the nape of her neck but left in lank brown waves. She never had time to curl it or dress herself up. She wore the same faded apron day in, day out, as all the neighbouring women did, but she was my mam and I loved her with the passion of the child I was.

  “Oh Mam, she’s a beauty. Can I hold her?” I begged. My mother shook her head.

  “When she’s a little older, Bridget, ye can take care of her if ye want but she’s too tiny now. Why don’t ye give her a kiss instead?”

  I leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her soft head, stroking the whisper of dark hairs on her head.

  “I’m yer big sister Bridget, but everyone here calls me Biddy. I’m goin’ to look after ye and love ye. We’ll be special friends and I’ll be a little mother to ye, I promise.” I sniffed the new baby smell of her and smiled into her cherubic face.

  She wasn’t going to be fair like the rest of us, she would have Patrick’s dark colouring.

  “You’ll be a beauty, Philomena, I swear ya will,” I giggled.

  “That’s enough now, Bridget, off ye go and light the range. Patrick’s gettin’ hungry and the children need to eat.”

  “Ok Mam,” I replied, even though I was already questioning why it had to be me who set the fire and chopped the potatoes for our dinner when there were two other boys and a grown man apparently doing nothing!

  I clopped down the stairs, my boots knocking on the steps, reaching for Mam’s apron that was wildly too big for me. I wound the ties around me several times and made a fist of making a knot, my fingers were now too cold to do it properly.

  That’ll do, Biddy, let’s get the fire lit, it’s perishing cold in here… I muttered to myself. I stopped only to look for the thousandth time at the image of Christ over the mantelpiece. He gazed downwards, directing the onlooker’s focus to his heart, which was bared and bleeding. We must never forget that we were sinners who would only be saved by the grace of God. I sighed, scooping up the firewood and the remains of yesterday’s newspaper, scrabbling about in the apron pockets for the matches.

  At least now I had a younger sister to love. The thought cheered me as I rubbed my hands together, bringing the circulation back into them and turned to light the range. I watched as the orange flame caught the edge of the twisted paper, flaring into light and warmth. With a smile I thanked God for the gift of Philomena and set about peeling vegetables for the supper, humming one of my favourite, more uplifting hymns to myself. A new sister, now that was something to be happy about.

  Chapter 2

  A Difficult Childhood

  1940

  “Will ye feckin shut up, ya bastards, get out from under me feet or I’ll ‘ave ye, so I will…” Patrick crashed in through the front door and staggered into the small kitchen lit only by the flame from the range and a gaslight that popped and fizzed.

  Mam sat darning the boys’ socks, while Robert and Jimmie were fighting yet again. Jimmie held Robert in an armlock, round his throat, while the elder boy struggled, his face contorted. “Tell Jimmie to let off me then. He’s the one bein’ a bastard.” Mam gasped at Robert’s language as he mimicked his stepfather’s drunken curses.

  “Yer a coward, so y’are, a snivellin’ coward. Fight back will ye!” laughed Jimmie.

  “Yer a littl’ bastard, Jaysus Christ get off me!” Robert countered, and this time Patrick rounded on them both.

  “Stop yer fuckin’ fightin’ or I’ll have ye both whipped… None of us are fightin’ these days – haven’t ye seen the papers? Ireland is neutral in the war. Us men don’t fight, d’ye hear me?”

  It was obvious now that Patrick was the worse for drink, even though it wasn’t yet eight o’clock at night. He’d have been in the pub with his pals, discussing the war that raged in Europe, a time we called the ‘Emergency’. The war wasn’t making much of an impact on our young lives. It all seemed so far away from Templemore, where we were already living on rations and life’s little luxuries were in very short supply indeed.

  Patrick stood for a moment, swaying, running his hands through his oily hair that looked black in the gloom.

  “Now you two, do ye want to see the back of my fist? Do ye?” Patrick swaggered, raising his clenched fingers in an uncertain way and staring wildly at the boys. The sight was almost comical, and it stopped them both in their tracks.

  We all knew that our stepfather, for all his bluster, would never hurt a fly. He was a weak man, more prone to spasms of weeping and despair than violence or anger, yet when he had a drink inside him he thought he was a big man, and he had the nerve to try and prove it.

  I could smell trouble.

  I put down the cup I was rinsing as I stood at the scullery sink, washing the dishes.

  “I’ll get ye, ungrateful littl’ bastards,” slurred Patrick. “Ye think ye are the men of the house, well I’m telling ye now that you’re not. I’m the man of this here house. I’m the man and don’t ye forget it.” With that, Patrick sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, a gesture I’d seen Philomena do when she was tired, a gesture so child-like I forgot myself in that moment and sniggered at the thought.

  The room suddenly went quiet, except for the intermittent hiccups of the gas light. I looked up and met Patrick’s gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, from the drink I guessed, and he looked furious.

  “I didn’t mean to upset ye Patrick, truly I didn’t!” I cried. We never called him Dad or Daddy, I was never even sure if he was married to my mother or whether they just moved in together and got on with it, as many couples did in those days. I don’t remember ever going to church for their wedding day, if they had one.

  Mam had taken his name years earlier, but this meant nothing, and whenever I asked if they’d married in Sacred Heart Church they both refused to answer, swatting me away like an annoying fly, telling me to “go an’ make yerself useful”, so I never knew for sure. I guess it was their secret, and it didn’t matter to me anyway. Patrick was never like a father to me. He never had a kind word or gesture. He never kissed me on the head or tucked me up in bed at night. There was no tenderness from him, no fatherly concern. He just seemed to be there, living with us, and whatever went on between him and Mam was also a mystery, as there was no visible affection between them, except for the fact that they shared the same bed. I never heard Patrick say nice words to my mother, or comfort her in any way. I thought of him more like an elder brother than a father figure, and mostly kept out of his way, except for tonight.

  “Ye laughed at me so ye did, Bridget. I heard ya. I won’t have cheek like that in me own house. Jaysus wept, what ingrates ye are.

  “I put food on this here table. I look after ye like me own. I’ll swing for ye I will, ye deserve it, laughin’ at me, ya littl’ bitch…” The man, who was solidly built and 6ft tall at least, was as good as his word, and swung for me, raising his right fist and bringing it down in my general direction. I was just 12 years old, but as I said, I was agile, quick as a snake, and I darted out of his way with ease.

  Patrick growled: “Come here, I’ll show ye who’s the man in this house. Get here for yer punishment.” My brothers were now standing against the far wall, looking from Patrick to me and back again, unsure what to do. It was Mam who stood up, with an authority I saw rarely from her. Her darning peeled itself off her lap and rolled slowly to the floor as she stood, then walked over to me and planted her wide lumpen body in front of me.

  “Now then, Patrick, me darlin’, I won’t have ye hit Bridget, she’s only a girl. I’ll deal with her meself,” she said, her voice quivering.

  “Move out of me way woman! I’m goin’ to give that girl a hidin’ she won’t forget!” Patrick hollered, but even I could see that he was confused by mother’s stand. I cringed behind her, waiting for him to shove her roughly out of his way, but instead the heat seemed to have gone from him. He ran a hand through his hair again, a gesture that would forever remind me of him, and said: “Alright, alright.” He mumbled and fell into a chair, cursing under his breath.

  I looked at Mam in amazement, winking at her, but Mam shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  “I’m goin’ to me bed, woman. You see that ye deal with her properly or I’ll do it meself in the mornin’ so I will.”

  Mam nodded, giving Patrick a wan smile.

  “Let me help ye up there, and then I’ll bring some supper if ye have a hunger.”

  Patrick let himself be mollified and I watched this strange pairing between them both. Mam was normally the passive one, the one who took the brunt of his mood swings, and so I had grown up with a passionate desire to soothe and protect her.

  Tonight had been different though, and I was left wondering why Mam had suddenly risen up to defend me. I wasn’t left thinking for long.

  Minutes later, mother shuffled down the stairs, easing her bulk down the narrow staircase and huffing a little, out of breath, as she came back to the kitchen.

  “You boys, get yerselves to bed, go on off with ye, I need to speak to Bridget.”

  I gulped again, the room suddenly feeling sucked of air. I was going to get it now. For an agony of seconds I was left wondering what the punishment would be.

  The boys reluctantly moved themselves up to the only other bedroom. I could hear them jostling as they went up the stairs but my attention was now squarely on my mother. I knew she suffered my presence rather than really loved me. I’d never felt the instinctive bond with her that perhaps others such as Jimmie had with their Mammy, and I tried so hard to make her love me by being a good girl, doing the chores she gave me without complaint, and standing up to the big eejit she lived with. Yet at times like this, I could feel the coolness between us, a coolness I never truly understood, so I shuffled my feet, anxious to hear what I would be denied for my cheek.

  “I’ve been meanin’ to speak to ye, Bridget. Me and Patrick have been talkin’ and we think it’s best if ye stay home with me from now on. I can’t cope here by meself with the babby an’ all the housework so yer goin’ to have to leave school.”

  I stared at my mother. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. A couple of my school friends had been forced to do the same, leaving their learning to look after younger siblings at home, helping their Mammys with chores, but I’d never dreamt it would be my turn so soon.

  My stomach sank to my boots. Even though I disliked the rigid school timetable, the religious doctrine and the strict nuns, I still had more freedom than I did at home. Walking to school, I could chatter with friends such as my best friend Kate, and our bosom pals Rosy and Erin, skip along the road together, whisper ‘secrets’ and make fantastical plans for the future.

  During the school day we’d cast glances at each other, screwing up our faces to make one another giggle behind the backs of the strict nuns who were in charge of our moral and educational welfare. Then after lessons, we ran free, playing in the fields and lanes of Templemore until the light faded and we lurched home to help prepare supper or help with the drudgery of domestic life.

  I wasn’t ready to be stifled at home, kept away from my friends and burdened with a life that surely awaited me as a woman anyway. I knew how it went. You caught the eye of some lad, who asked your parents for your hand, then it was wedding bells, babies and the rest of your life spent washing, cleaning, birthing and praying. I already knew I wanted more from life than that, but it seemed that life had other plans for me.