Till the Sun Shines Through. Anne Bennett
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would begin with the rag rugs rolled up for the dancing.
One of Bridie’s earliest memories was of lying in her bed, her toes curling with excitement at the tantalising music and the rhythmic tap of the women’s feet as they danced on the stone slabs of the cottage floor below. There’d be a break halfway through when they’d eat and drink deeply and talk. The murmur of voices would rise and fall, sometimes heated and raised in argument, sometimes quieter and gentler. But the music would always begin again and she’d go to sleep with the tunes running through her head.
Now, though, Bridie was allowed to stay up for the rambling. She had turned out of her work clothes and after a wash from the basin in her room, she had changed into her second-best dress and was ready with Sarah to greet the first arrivals.
Francis was one of the last guests to arrive and there was a whistle of approval as he drew a large bottle of poteen from beneath his coat. ‘I hope you didn’t get that from Tommy Flaherty?’ one of the men said. ‘I heard the Garda are after him.’
‘Christ, haven’t they been after him for years?’ another put in. ‘Haven’t caught him yet?’
‘He’s too wily a fox for them,’ said the first man.
‘Anyway,’ Francis said. ‘They’re only cross because he won’t supply them. They like a drop the same as the rest of us.’
‘The priests do at any rate, I know that,’ said Jimmy. ‘I passed on a bottle to Father O’Dwyer once and he was delighted with me so.’
‘Aye,’ Francis said. ‘Did you hear the one about the young curate from England who came to help out a country priest in Ireland? He’d had a man in confession admitting to making poteen. As he’d never heard of such a thing before and wasn’t sure of the penance to give him, he went to the older priest and said, “There’s a man here making poteen. What shall I give him?”
‘“Well, be careful now,” said the older priest. “These men would fleece the likes of you. I never give more than three and six a bottle.”’
There were gales of laughter at this. ‘It’s right enough too,’ one said when the laughter had died down. ‘Stingy buggers, priests.’
‘Come on,’ Jimmy cried. ‘The night’s running away with us and we’ve not played a tune yet.’
Bridie helped the women pile food onto plates on the big table, but surreptitiously watched the dancers. Mary had taught her some dances before she went away, but she’d not performed any since she’d left and was surprised how much she remembered. One of the women, seeing her watching, seized her hand and pulled her in to join them and she danced along with the rest.
She was glad when a halt was called for the food – the sweat was running from her – and she slipped outside for the night air to cool her down, walking a little way away from the house towards the orchard.
When she heard footsteps behind her she turned, expecting it to be one of the other women as hot as herself and taking the air, but it was her uncle Francis.
Bridie hadn’t forgotten her earlier encounter with her uncle, but had passed it off as a one-off experience and not something to be too worried about. And yet she felt alarm as she remembered her uncle drinking deeply of the poteen that evening.
But, she told herself, she could come to no harm. She could see the light of the cottage, other people were no distance away. She was safe and so she relaxed a little. ‘I think you’re avoiding me, Bridie,’ Francis said, wagging his finger in the exaggerated manner of the drunk.
‘Not at all,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Francis said. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘No. No …’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Francis said. ‘Have I ever hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Am I likely to then?’
‘I don’t suppose so.’
‘So you won’t object to giving me a kiss?’
‘No,’ Bridie said. ‘But only on your cheek.’
‘Jesus, that’s a wean’s kiss,’ Francis said and, before Bridie could respond further, clasped her tight against him again, but this time his other hand caressed her breasts and began fumbling at the fastenings of her dress before she managed to break free. Her dress hung half open, the bodice underneath exposed and the hair she’d spent hours putting up hanging in untidy strands around her face, which was red with shame.
‘You mustn’t do such things,’ she said, turning her back on her uncle to fasten herself up and tidy her hair. ‘What if I was to go to the house and say?’
‘Say what?’ Francis said. ‘I’d say you led me on. You left the house first, remember. What if I say you’d arranged it all. No one will blame a man for taking what’s on offer.’
‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Bridie cried, swinging round to face Francis again. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel!’
But as she looked into his face she knew he would and, what’s more, she knew he’d be believed above her. Maybe her parents would believe her, but even then there would be doubt and suspicion. ‘Why do you hate me so?’ she cried in distress.
‘Hate you!’ Francis said incredulously. ‘How can you say such a thing, Bridie? I love you. You are incredibly beautiful. It almost hurts to look at you, but you’re a temptress. You tempt men with those big eyes, with those long eyelashes you flutter so seductively, your luscious figure, your young beautiful breasts, your …’
‘Stop it! Stop it,’ Bridie commanded. ‘You mustn’t talk this way, Uncle Francis. It’s the drink talking.’
‘Aye, maybe it is at that,’ Francis said, but he knew this feeling he had for Bridie never went away, it was just when he was sober he could keep it in check.
‘I’m going back to the house now,’ Bridie said. ‘Don’t follow me, please …’
Francis said nothing as she walked away and once in the house, she pleaded a headache and said she was ready for her bed. ‘I thought the air might clear it,’ she said, explaining her previous absence. ‘But it didn’t.’
‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to,’ Jimmy said. ‘Did you see Francis on your travels?’
‘Yes,’ Bridie said. ‘He’s over by the orchard,’ and then she fled to her room, closing the door before she let the tears fall.
By the time Bridie was sixteen she was beginning to feel desperate about Francis, for try as she might to avoid him, he seemed to find many occasions when he would get her on her own. Even when he just ogled her, it made her feel sick, but sometimes, usually when he’d had a drink, he wasn’t content with that alone.
Bridie didn’t know what to do, where to go for help or advice. She was at her wit’s end when she decided to write to Mary, though she knew it would be hard to commit such words to paper for even to think of them made her face flame with embarrassment.
Dear Mary,
Please help me. I am having trouble with Uncle Francis and I don’t know what to do. He looks at me funny and sometimes touches me and kisses me. I’ve told him to stop and that I don’t like it, but it makes no difference. I’ve even said that I would tell Auntie Delia, but he just laughed. He knew I would never do that, but what should I do, Mary?
She couldn’t totally avoid her uncle because she couldn’t physically manage some of the jobs on the farm. Frank had readily agreed to help her with the heavy stuff, but it was usually her uncle Francis who came to give her a hand, giving the excuse that Frank was busy with something or other.
Mary had become angry as she’d read the letter