Till the Sun Shines Through (16 page)

‘Well, don't think now either and let me get on,' Mrs M said impatiently and, afraid to do anything else, Bridie raised her knees and parted them and felt Mrs M's fingers slide inside her while she writhed and squirmed in embarrassment.

‘Right,' Mrs M said at last, ‘seems fairly straightforward, any road. Now you'll feel a dull pain when I stick the needle in. Be obliged if you don't make much noise. Don't want the neighbours getting suspicious.'

‘No,' Bridie said, wondering at the warning. She could cope with a dull ache, anyone could. But what she found hard to cope with was the sharp and agonising pain across her middle. It made her gasp and brought tears to her eyes but, mindful of Mrs M's warning, she uttered no sound, though she bit her lip till it bled. Mrs M was pleased, however. ‘Good,' she said. ‘All over now. Go home and rest, you'll bleed a bit but after that you'll be as right as rain again.'

‘Thank you,' Bridie said, weakly wondering if she would be able to straighten up with the pains shooting through her. But she had a great desire to be away from this place and this woman who made money out of other's misery.

She sat up slowly and, swinging her legs from the bed, she attempted to stand and reach her clothes hanging from the chair. But her head swam, her legs buckled under her and Mrs M pressed her onto the bed. ‘Sit awhile,' she said. ‘Take it steady.'

And Bridie took it steady after that. A few minutes later, she felt ready to move though when she descended the stairs, they swayed in front of her eyes. When Mary saw her white-faced, trembling sister almost stagger into the room, she turned on Mrs M fiercely. ‘What have you done to her?'

‘Got rid of her kid. It's what you wanted, ain't it?'

‘She's ill.'

‘She's in pain,' Mrs M retorted sharply. ‘What the bleeding Hell did you expect? She'll recover. Take her home and see to her.'

Mary would have had more to say on the subject, but she saw that Bridie needed to be back home and tucked in the bed she had ready for her.

Bridie, in fact, remembered little of the journey back, except that every jerk of the tram sent pains shooting through her and that it seemed to take an eternity.

When they alighted at Bristol Passage, Mary cautioned, ‘Now try and walk straight and upright, for God's sake. You're white enough to convince anyone interested enough that you were taken bad in the Bull Ring, but walking doubled over might be more difficult to explain.'

Bridie knew that Mary wasn't being unsympathetic, just practical, so she linked arms with her sister and with her support got inside the front door with no mishaps.

But once inside, Bridie leant back on the door with a sigh of sheer relief. ‘Can I have any more linen pads?' she asked. ‘The one you gave me was soaked through before we left the tram.'

‘Right,' Mary said briskly. ‘They're in the press in my room. Go on up. Bed is the best place for you anyway. I'll bring you up a cup of tea and a hot-water bottle for your stomach in a jiffy.'

‘Am I In the attic?'

‘No,' Mary said. ‘In my bed. Eddie will stay at his mother's tonight. I'll put the word around that you were taken ill at the Bull Ring and that I'm looking after you. Eddie will tell his mother you're not well and lodge with her for the night.'

‘Ah, Mary, I'd not want to put you all out.'

‘Will you be quiet, Bridie. We've discussed it already and this was the easiest way. To get rid of the children would have to involve Aunt Ellen. Stop worrying yourself; Eddie knows all about it.'

Bridie felt too weak to argue further so she let herself be led upstairs. When she pulled back the sheets on the bed she noticed it was packed with towels. The hot tea was comforting, but the hot-water bottle was a godsend. Bridie had slept little the night before through nerves and suddenly felt incredibly weary and closed her eyes.

When Mary saw her sister sound asleep, she went around to relieve Ellen of her children. But when she heard that Bridie had been taken ill and had to be brought home, she insisted on keeping the children a little longer. ‘You'll have your hands full enough,' she said. ‘And if the girl doesn't soon rally, have the doctor in.'

‘Yes, I will.'

‘And while we're on, girl,' Ellen said, ‘there're some questions I want answered.'

Mary saw the steel in her aunt's eyes so to give herself time to think, she said, ‘I have to get back to Bridie.'

‘You said she's asleep,' Ellen said. ‘And best thing for her. You can bide for a few minutes and tell me why you lied to me.'

‘Lied to you?'

‘That's what I said,' Ellen told her grimly. ‘You said young Bridie was coming across for a wee holiday. I wondered at it when in the summer she said she hadn't time to go to town, not even on Fair Day. But I thought now, in the wintertime, with the farm work not so heavy, maybe Francis and his son had stepped in to give the girl a break. That's what Bridie led me to believe when I spoke to her anyway.

‘But now I know that's not the case at all, because I had a letter from Sarah this morning. She knew nothing about any holiday, nothing about anything, for Bridie left in the middle of the night. She only knew she was here because she said where she was making for in the letter she left her.

‘Shabby trick that, girl, however fed up she was. And you must have been in on it too. And, from the tone of the letter, your mother thinks I knew as well. She seems to think I enticed the pair of you here, engineered the whole thing, and I'd like to know what's going on.'

‘And I'd like to tell you,' Mary said earnestly, ‘but it's Bridie's tale. Take it from me though, she had good reason to leave and in the manner she did. I hope she'll tell you all about it soon.'

‘You tell me all about it now,' demanded Ellen.

Mary bit her lip anxiously. ‘I can't,' she said. ‘I'm really not being awkward, I just can't, but once Bridie is better, I'll encourage her to tell you everything.'

‘Hmph, there's some mystery here and one thing I don't like is mysteries,' Ellen said. ‘But we'll say no more about it for the moment. You'd best get back to your patient.'

Mary, glad to leave, hurried back home and went straight up to check on Bridie who she found still in a deep sleep. She put on the kettle to make herself a reviving cup of tea and toasted a couple of slices of bread in the hot coal embers for her lunch.

As the afternoon wore on, and there was still no movement from Bridie, Mary became worried. It was almost four and the daylight all but gone when she went upstairs. She lit the gas lamps first, feeling sure Bridie would feel disoriented awakening in the dark room, but as she touched her and attempted to rouse her she realised it was no ordinary sleep. Bridie was hot, burning up in fact, although her face was deathly pale. Terrified now, Mary threw the covers back and saw the blood pumping from Bridie's body in a scarlet stream. It had soaked through the towels she'd padded the bed with and was still coming. Quickly, she ran for more towels to pack around her, but she knew her sister was in peril and hadn't a clue what to do about it.

She ran for Ivy, who took one look at Bridie and readily agreed to fetch her aunt for her. ‘Tell my aunt nothing about the situation,' she said. ‘Just tell her I need her.'

‘Yeah, no problem.'

‘And, Ivy, she has the weans. Can you see to them for a wee while? I don't want them here.'

‘No, by Christ, you don't,' Ivy said. ‘They'll be all right with me.' She scurried away, glad to be away from the sight of the sick girl in the bed, with the life blood running from her and who she didn't think would be long for this world.

Peggy McKenna was a very nosy neighbour and one who lived just doors away from Ellen. She'd been intrigued that evening to see Ivy knocking frantically on Ellen's door. She was further interested to see that, after Ivy had been just minutes in the house, Ellen had rushed out and obviously in a hurry, for she ran past Peggy's window, fastening her coat, and hadn't taken time to remove her apron.

Peggy was all set to follow her when Ellen's door swung open again and Ivy left the house, holding Mary's elder lad by the hand and with the young one resting on her hip, following Ellen. It was easy to trail her without being seen in the murky gloom. Peggy slunk after Ivy and, seeing her go into her own house with the children, made her way to Mary's where she hid in a convenient entry.

Ellen thought the same as Ivy when she caught sight of Bridie. ‘What in God's name …?' But she knew what. She was no fool.

Mary looked up from where she was mopping Bridie's brow with tepid water and said, ‘Yes, Bridie was pregnant, that's why she ran from home and came here.'

‘Some butchering woman did this to her?' asked Ellen, and Mary nodded. ‘We need to raise the end of the bed up,' Ellen said. ‘She's lost more than enough blood already, I'll say.'

They used the fire bricks either side of the hearth and Eddie's books that stood in a shelf in the chimney alcove – Eddie was a great reader – and Mary heaved the bed up while Ellen slid the things underneath. The flow of blood slowed to a trickle and then virtually stopped, but Ellen still frowned. ‘I don't like it,' she said. ‘The girl is as white as a sheet and yet is burning up and she's lost far too much blood. I think she needs to go to hospital.'

Mary gaped at her. She couldn't believe she'd heard right. ‘Ellen, she can't. What she did … Well, it's illegal. If she goes to hospital, she might get into trouble.'

‘If she doesn't, she may die,' Ellen said bluntly, and Mary gave a gasp.

‘Do you really think it's so serious?'

‘I've no way of knowing,' Ellen replied. ‘But the girl's in a coma, with fever raging through her and that apart from the blood loss. I'll go for Doctor Casey, he's a good man, he'll know what to do.'

Peggy slunk back into the shadows when she saw Ellen leave the house again. She didn't make for any neighbour's house though, but went towards Bristol Passage. Suddenly, Peggy knew where she was heading for: the doctor's surgery was on Bristol Street that Bristol Passage led to. Sure enough, it wasn't long till Ellen was back with the doctor following behind her.

Doctor Casey was horrified when he saw the state of Bridie and immediately made arrangements to have her admitted to hospital. Bridie was unaware of what was happening to her. She never felt the ambulance men gently lift her from her bloodstained bed onto a stretcher, which they covered with a blanket. She didn't know of their struggle to get her down the stairs and into the ambulance, with a knot of neighbours gathered about the door and others standing on their own doorsteps.

From her hidden position, Peggy heard the ringing bell of an ambulance which drew up before Mary's door. She craned her neck to see better, but didn't move nearer, not wishing to be spotted. She saw enough though: the stretchered girl carried from the house, followed by the solemn figures of Mary and Ellen, while the doctor scurried past her to get in his car. And like every watching woman there, she knew what ailed Bridie McCarthy.

Few judged her though. She was Mary's Coghlan's wee sister and Mary was well thought of. A Catholic, but not one of the rowdy kind, and her husband was not in the pub knocking it back every night and then taking it out of her when he got in, unlike many men. They were decent and respectable people and so most thought some man had taken advantage of young Bridie.

‘Ah, will you look at that,' one woman remarked as the ambulance began moving down the road. ‘Some bloody sod's taken that girl down if you ask me and the poor bugger's tried to do away with it.'

‘Be a bit of luck if she ain't done away with herself and all,' Ivy remarked. ‘Christ, poor sod was still as death.'

Peggy thought it served Bridie right. Those bloody McCarthys always thought they were a cut above others. But she kept her thoughts to herself. Well, this was one in the eye for them. They'd bred a common little whore who couldn't wait to get her belly filled and, not content with that, had committed a greater sin in trying to get rid of it.

‘Ah, God help her,' another said as the women began to disperse to their own houses. ‘Sure she's little more than a child.'

Peggy wanted to scream that she was no child. It must have been five years since she was last over and she'd been thirteen then. The girl must be eighteen if she was a day. Peggy was the mother of two weans before she reached nineteen and she'd never lifted her skirts for anyone, even Michael, until the ring was on her finger. It wasn't always easy either, but she'd been taught right from wrong, not like that little trollop. But she said nothing to anyone and slid away down Grant Street, the darkness hiding the fact she'd ever been there.

Back in her own house, Peggy almost hugged herself in delight. She had a handle on Bridie McCarthy and intended to use it. For a start she would remind her that abortion, as well as being illegal, was a mortal sin. If she was to die without confessing and repenting of it, she would roast in the flames of Hell. Of course she might be dead already. She looked sick enough, but if she hadn't died, she'd make her wish she had before she was done with her.

Peggy McKenna was a sad and embittered young woman. She hadn't always been that way and certainly not at seventeen when she had married handsome Michael O'Connor who was twenty-two at the time.

Peggy's Michael worked the farm with her father Eamomn Maguire and was set to inherit it at the older man's death, what with Peggy having no brothers and being the eldest girl. Eamomn considered his son-in-law a fine fellow if he could just keep off the drink.

Peggy was happy, her life and future set. She knew in time they would build their own house on the farm, where they'd rear their family. However, unbeknownst to Peggy, Michael had become embroiled in the Troubles in Ireland, becoming active in the IRA cell operating from the hills of Donegal.