The Bright One (16 page)

‘If the baptism takes place in Dublin,' Breda said, ‘Moira might choose one of her fashionable friends to be godmother.'

‘Though if it was in Kilbally, she could hardly fashion not to ask you,' Molly said.

‘I wonder could we even afford to go to Dublin, you and me and Dada?' Breda said.

‘I don't know,' Molly admitted. ‘We shall have to see. After all, the child is not yet born.'

She had other things on her mind now. Every day she listened avidly to the news on the wireless about the progress of the war in the Far East. It couldn't be long before it was over, surely it must end soon.

When the news came, she was alone in the house. Her reaction was not what she had thought it would be. She had thought she would rush out of the house, shouting to the world.

She did rush out of the house, but not shouting. She ran all the way to the church, and there prostrated herself before the altar in deep and silent thanksgiving.

‘How long before they'll be home?' she said to James that evening.

‘It might be a long time,' he cautioned. ‘They cannot get from the jungle of Burma to the shores of Kilbally in a flash. There are no magic carpets, We must be patient.'

‘Now that I know they are safe,' Molly said, ‘that will be less difficult than I thought, though it cannot come too quickly.'

Moira's baby came into the world on a rainy day in September, with considerable trouble to its mother, who decided quite quickly that no way could she ever go through all this again. Contrary to all predictions, it was a boy, for whom the name Peter was hastily chosen. He weighed nine and a quarter pounds, recovered quickly from his rough passage (more quickly than his mother) and cried frequently and lustily for sustenance.

‘For Jesus' sake, take him away!' Moira cried to her mother-in-law, who was there most of the time.

Mrs Devlin made the sign of the cross over the baby before lifting him into her arms. Until he was baptized it would be unsafe not to do this.

‘You must make sure that
everyone
does it!' she warned Moira. ‘The midwife, the doctor, neighbours,
everyone
. Even Barry! Right up until he's baptized, bless his heart!'

‘Superstition,' Moira said weakly.

Her mother-in-law was full of superstitions. Hadn't she sewn a coin into the baby's clothing, for luck? And when Moira's labour had proved so difficult and prolonged, hadn't she wanted to bring a seventh son into the bedroom to help things along? Moira had protested, she wanted no man in the room, but as it turned out no-one actually knew of a seventh son who could be called upon.

But I do not care what signs or incantations they make over the child, Moira thought, breathing a long sigh of relief, as long as they take him away whenever possible!

Mrs Devlin, deeply concerned about exposing the baby to the wiles of Satan before the sacrament of baptism had made him safe, was the person most exercised about where this should take place. If she kept a close watch on him here in the house in Dublin, he would be safest, but the inheritance from his great-grandmother in Kilbally was not to be sneezed at, far from it.

In the end it was her husband who made the decision.

‘We shall go to Kilbally!' he said firmly. ‘We all know Mammy will not change her mind. Would we not be robbing the child otherwise?

‘Besides which,' he continued, in an unctuous tone, ‘Mammy is frail. Who knows when the call might come?'

It was a sobering thought. It also made the inheritance seem nearer.

‘You are quite right, Dada!' Barry said. ‘The moment Moira is fit to travel!'

‘I suppose I must agree,' Mrs Devlin said reluctantly. ‘But we must take every precaution over little Peter.'

The problem then arose as to where they would stay. Grandma Devlin's cottage would not take four extra adults, plus a baby with all its accoutrements.

‘'Tis no matter at all,' Molly said when she read out the letter from Moira. ‘Mr and Mrs Devlin can stay with Grandma Devlin, Moira, Barry and the baby can have the bedroom here, and you, Breda, can sleep at Grandma Byrne's.'

‘Oh no!' Breda protested. ‘Yes, of course they're welcome to the bedroom, but I don't want to stay with Grandma Byrne. I want to be here where the baby is. Especially now that I
am
to be the godmother!'

Wasn't the godmother almost the most important person in the whole affair – apart from the baby, of course? She had studied the service in the missal. It was awesome.

When it came to the real thing, with its solemn promises which Breda fully intended to keep, it was even more awesome, but it was happy and cheerful into the bargain. Everyone was in the best of moods. Mrs Devlin got over the nervousness she had had at the thought of the baby being out of her sight and care while staying with the O'Connors. Her husband had almost reassured her. ‘Molly O'Connor is a nice, sensible woman,' he'd said. ‘And in any case the baby is with his mother!' The look his wife had given him had told him what she'd thought about that last bit.

Grandma Devlin had been taken to church in Murphy's hired car.

‘Peter has a distinct look of you, Grandma!' Barry said.

‘Just what I was thinking,' Mr Devlin said.

‘Is that so?' James O'Connor said. ‘And wasn't I thinking how much he favoured the O'Connors?'

Peter had behaved perfectly, remaining calm even when Father Curran poured the water over his head.

‘Aren't you the darling?' Breda enthused, taking him in her arms, which was her right, she thought, as his godmother.

Afterwards, Molly somehow managed to serve a feast to everyone. ‘Though how I would have managed it without Luke O'Reilly's help, I do not know!' she whispered to Breda. Then there was talk, and some singing, and more talk. Mrs Devlin took home Grandma Devlin in Murphy's hired car, the baby was fed and put to bed. Moira followed soon after. The men went to the Harp. Molly and Breda cleared away and washed up.

At last Molly sat down, yawning.

‘Go to bed, Mammy,' Breda said. ‘I don't mind waiting up on my own. I can't go to bed until Dada and Barry do so.'

She was asleep in the chair when they came in, but their noisiness – they were singing – wakened her.

‘Oh Dada!' she said. ‘I'm waiting to go to bed!'

When they had gone she undressed quickly, bedded down on the sofa, pulled the blanket over her, and was asleep at once.

She had no idea how long afterwards it was that she suddenly wakened. She looked up, and saw Barry Devlin looking down at her. He was smiling. She stared at him.

‘Sleeping Beauty!' he whispered. ‘By rights you should have been wakened with a kiss. You were too quick.'

‘What do you want?' Breda said. She was nervous, but trying not to show it. ‘Mind you don't waken Dada. He's a very light sleeper.'

It was a lie, it would take an army on the march to waken him, especially after the drink, but it served.

‘I came through for a cup of water,' Barry said.

‘There's some in the jug,' Breda said.

He poured himself a cup of water and took it back to bed with him. She was a corker, his little sister-in-law, he thought. And not so little as she had been.

He stared down at Moira. It was no use waking her. She would have nothing of him since the baby's birth. Far too soon, she said.

The next morning, Breda had gone off to work before he, sleeping late, got up.

She was late for work, which was unusual. What was even more unusual was that the shop door was locked. She knocked loudly, and when there was no response she rattled the latch as hard as she could. Where was he? What could have happened? She was about to move around to the house door at the back, but as she took the first step she heard the key in the lock.

The door opened and Luke O'Reilly stood there, still in his grey flannel dressing-gown, his face as white as a sheet and his eyes staring.

‘Why, Mr O'Reilly . . . !' she began.

‘Run for the doctor!' he said. ‘Run as fast as you can! I've done all I can!'

She ran all the way. The doctor was in, and returned with her, but it was too late. Mrs O'Reilly was dead.

A little later, when she had opened up the shop for Mr O'Reilly – he was not disposed to keep it closed – Breda asked a customer to take the news to her mother.

‘Tell her I will not be home to dinner. I cannot leave here, there is so much to do. I am sorry not to see my godson before they take him back to Dublin.'

In the afternoon, when the Devlins had left, Molly went down to the shop to make sure that Breda was all right.

‘Would you like to see Mary?' Luke O'Reilly invited.

‘Of course,' Molly said. It was expected. It would be rude indeed to refuse.

Breda had made the fact that she could not leave the shop, Mr O'Reilly being engaged in all the paraphernalia of death, her excuse for not going in to see Mrs O'Reilly, though in the past hour a steady stream of people (far more than had ever come to see the poor woman in life, Breda thought) had stopped by to pay their respects. Now that her mother was here she would do what must be done.

‘Can I go in with you, Mammy?' she asked.

‘Of course, love.' Molly observed her daughter's pale face. ‘There is no need to be frightened.'

‘It's just that I've never seen a dead person,' Breda explained.

It was not nearly as bad as she had expected. Mrs O'Reilly looked tranquil, peaceful. The deep lines of pain which had etched her face in the last year or two had disappeared as if by magic. There is nothing to be afraid of, Breda thought.

‘She looks younger,' she whispered. ‘She looks almost . . . pretty!'

‘Yes. She looks as she did when Luke first brought her here,' Molly said. ‘She was a fine-looking young woman.'

‘If there is anything at all I can do for you,' Molly said to Luke when she took her leave, ‘you have only to be asking.'

Breda was busy all the rest of the day in the shop. Far more people came to buy than on an ordinary day. She was glad when eight o'clock came and she was free to go. She left Mr O'Reilly cashing up. That he would not delegate to her.

‘I will see you in the morning, then,' she said as she left.

‘But what will there be for me to do?' she asked Mammy later. ‘Most of the time I've looked after Mrs O'Reilly. Will there be a job for me?'

The same thought had been in Molly's mind most of the day.

‘I don't know,' she said soberly. ‘We shall have to see what the Good Lord sends.'

For several weeks, indeed months, after Mrs O'Reilly's death Breda clung to her job, though she felt it was only by a thread. Every Friday afternoon when Mr O'Reilly paid her wages she held her breath in case at the same time he should give her a week's notice or, at best, tell her he must reduce her hours. But Christmas had come and gone and it had not happened.

It was true that she had tried hard to make herself as useful as possible, even seeking out jobs that she would not have thought of a year ago when Mrs O'Reilly's needs filled most of her day. The stockroom at the back of the shop, and the shed outside where the overflow of goods or empty crates and bottles waiting to be collected were stored, were, for instance, both as clean and tidy as new pins. Everything was to hand, in its right place, everything that could be labelled was labelled.

She enjoyed doing this. She was alone and free, and because she was out of earshot she could allow herself to sing, which she would never have done in the house, out of respect, and certainly not in the shop, even if there were no customers. It would not be fitting. So she sang away like a small, tuneful bird, all the latest songs she knew from the wireless. She could pick up a tune and remember the words in no time at all.

She was not sure that Mr O'Reilly appreciated the work she did in the back. Sometimes she wondered if he actually noticed. He seldom remarked on it.

‘But if he doesn't care about it,' she said to her mother, ‘why would he keep me on? He is not one to throw his money about.'

‘I expect he does notice,' Molly said. ‘Some people are just not good at saying thank you. Anyway, he thanks you by paying your wages.'

‘The one thing he does appreciate is having his dinner made for him,' Breda said.

It was something she had started in the last few months of Mrs O'Reilly's life, when that lady was no longer up to it. She had not wanted to continue with it, and still less had she wanted to take her dinner with Mr O'Reilly, as he expected her to. She found it an uncomfortable situation, but Mammy had said that if she wanted to keep the job she couldn't afford to be choosy. She must take the rough with the smooth.

Of course she wanted to keep the job, or needed to. There were no other prospects, not even Miss Glenda, who had long ago taken on someone else.

‘I expect he is also glad of your company,' Mammy said now. ‘Men do not like to cook. And I don't suppose he likes to eat alone, poor man!'

Molly was sorry for Luke. He had had a poor marriage, and perhaps life as a childless widower was even worse. He had the money, of course, which put food in his mouth and clothes on his back, and would give him the best of funerals when the time came, but there was a lot of time to be passed before then, and money didn't brighten empty hours. He had never been one for spending his evenings at the Harp. Mary had seen to that.

‘As a matter of fact,' Breda said, ‘I do not usually get much chance to sit with him at the table. It is my job to answer the shop bell at dinner time, so am I not jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box?'