Strawberry Fields (61 page)
Sara agreed, and admitted she missed Brogan too, which made Grace cast her a rather thoughtful look. She understood that she was a child and Sara was a young woman, so of course Sara spent more time with Brogan than she did, but she did hope Sara was not going to get ideas about Brogan. The Irishman was Grace’s ideal and she had every intention of marrying him just as soon as she was old enough. But of course she had not told Brogan this, not yet. His surprise and delight she took for granted, but she wanted to be beautiful for him and that meant putting on more weight, brushing her hair – and teeth – with horrible and boring regularity, and taking baths.
Grace was not particularly keen on baths. Being in the warm water was nice enough, but she was secretly afraid of slipping beneath the surface and drowning, and she did hate getting out and having to rub herself dry. But Sara told her that young men like young ladies to be extremely clean, so Grace, gritting her teeth, bathed.
Not that Sara was right all the time. Grace knew a great many men who had married thoroughly dirty women – her father was one – and seemed to find clean ones daunting, not attractive at all. She said as much to Sara one evening when Sara had come back from a day out rather subdued. They were in the bathroom and Sara was getting earth out from under Grace’s nails with a small object called an orange stick. Grace was complaining that she’d not have a finger-end left to bless herself with if Sara kept on digging like that and they were both laughing when Sara finished Grace’s right hand – she had already done the left one – and stood back.
‘There! Lovely nails, nice clean hair, and your skin’s all pink and white now, after all this washing! And whatever you may say the nicest men all value cleanliness next to godliness . . . it isn’t just a biblical thing, love, it’s actually true. And since you are becoming such a very pretty girl, I want to ask a favour of you.’
‘Ask away, queen,’ Grace said loftily. ‘I’d do jest about anythin’ for you, Sara, after all you done for me.’
‘Well, I’m getting married, dear, and I’d love you to be a bridesmaid. It won’t be a white wedding, it’s going to take place in a register office because as you know I’m a Salvationist and Brogan’s a Catholic, but . . .’
‘Brogan? Wharrever does it matter if Brogan’s a Catholic or a, Sally Ann?’ Grace asked. ‘He ain’t bein’ a bridesmaid too, I suppose?’
She meant it jokingly; she knew fellers weren’t bridesmaids. Sara smiled, but it was perfunctorily.
‘Oh, Grace, you know very well he isn’t going to be a bridesmaid! He’s the bridegroom, of course.’
There was a horrid silence. Grace, unable to believe her ears, tried to tell herself that a bridegroom was probably a male attendant to the feller Sara was marrying, but an awful suspicion had entered her mind.
‘Bridegroom? Brogan? You do mean
our
Brogan, Sara? Brogan O’Brady?’
our
Brogan, Sara? Brogan O’Brady?’
‘That’s it. We’re getting married in a few weeks. I’m afraid his family aren’t terribly pleased because . . .’
‘No!’ Grace was so indignant that her voice came out as a squeak. ‘No! I don’t believe it!’
She meant she didn’t – couldn’t – believe that Brogan,
her
Brogan, had actually asked Sara to marry him. Oh, she knew they were
engaged,
whatever that might imply, but being married was different. Being married was for life, and she wanted to marry Brogan herself, they were well-suited, anyone could see that! But Sara immediately got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
her
Brogan, had actually asked Sara to marry him. Oh, she knew they were
engaged,
whatever that might imply, but being married was different. Being married was for life, and she wanted to marry Brogan herself, they were well-suited, anyone could see that! But Sara immediately got hold of the wrong end of the stick.
‘It’s true. His family aren’t very pleased because they want him to marry a Catholic. But we don’t think it matters, Brogan and I, so . . .’
Grace was dressed in her nightgown. Now she jammed her slippers on to her feet and flapped towards the door. ‘I didn’t mean . . . I meant I won’t be a bleedin’ bridesmaid,’ she called back over her shoulder. Her voice, to her horror, was distinctly wobbly. ‘If ’e’s so bleedin’ stupid . . . after all, it must ha’ been clear . . . why the
devil
couldn’t ’e ’ave waited . . . Well, I’m
not
goin’ to be a bleedin’ bridesmaid, no matter what you say!’
devil
couldn’t ’e ’ave waited . . . Well, I’m
not
goin’ to be a bleedin’ bridesmaid, no matter what you say!’
And she tore out of the bathroom, slamming the door so hard behind her that it echoed like a cannon shot.
Sara, thoroughly upset, ran out of the bathroom and, after a second’s hesitation, into Grace’s bedroom. It appeared to be empty, so she hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen. No Grace. Sara was about to try another room when the back door opened and Brogan, in his stockinged feet, came gingerly into the room.
‘I’ve done the marrow bed . . .’ he was beginning, when he saw Sara’s face. He crossed the kitchen in a couple of strides and took her in his arms. ‘What’s the matter, me love? Who’s upset you?’
‘Oh, Brog, I asked Grace to be my bridesmaid and she said no, and rushed out of the room,’ Sara wailed, clutching him. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done wrong I’m sure; she’s always seemed to like me, but . . .’
‘I’ll have a word,’ Brogan said grimly. ‘How can she upset you so, alanna, and you askin’ her to stand by you on your weddin’ day! Where’s she gone?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sara said, clinging on. ‘Don’t go after her, she’s done nothing wrong, it’s just . . . I really don’t understand!’
‘Nor me. Did she say anything else?’ Brogan asked. ‘Or did she just say
no
and leave the room?’
no
and leave the room?’
‘She swore a bit, and said why couldn’t he have waited, I think,’ Sara said, having given the matter some thought. ‘I don’t know what she meant by that, but . . .’
‘Oh dear,’ Brogan said helplessly. ‘Oh dear . . . I think I may know. I’d best have a word, love. Can you fetch her out – and then leave us for a few minutes?’
‘Of course,’ Sara said. She dried her eyes, blew her nose, then left the kitchen, to return presently with a defiant but red-eyed Grace, who marched into the room and sat herself down on the table edge, saying as she did so: ‘She says you want a word wi’ me, Brogan. I were ’avin’ a quiet moment to meself, but she come and dug me out.’
‘She was under her bed,’ Sara said. ‘Hiding! Really, Grace, I don’t know what I’ve done, but . . .’
‘I’m goin’ to sort that out,’ Brogan said soothingly. ‘You go and finish your work, Miss Cordwainer, whilst Grace and I have a bit of a crack.’ He waited until Sara had left the room, then turned to Grace, perching on the edge of the kitchen table and looking, even to Brogan’s unaccustomed eyes, extremely defiant. ‘Now, Grace, Miss Cordwainer told you she and I plan to marry quite soon, and she asked you to be her bridesmaid. I understand you turned us down.’
‘Us? Well, yes, but you di’n’t ask me, did you?’ Grace said belligerently. ‘You never even telled me you was gettin’ wed! You could of telled me!’
‘Yes, I could. I’m sorry, Grace, if I hurt your feelings, but you see Sara and I have known each other for years, and you and I are quite new acquaintances, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say friends,’ Grace muttered, very red about the gills.
‘All right, we’re quite new friends, then. Isn’t that so? Sara and I have known each other for ten years, you see.’
‘I daresay,’ Grace said. Her lip, to Brogan’s alarm, first jutted and then trembled. ‘But, Brogan, you’re me best, me very best pal! I thought mebbe, one day . . .’
So I was right, Brogan thought, dismayed. The poor kid’s gone and got a crush on me so she has. Now what am I to do?
‘Sure an’ you’re me best pal too, Grace,’ he said, playing for time. ‘But when I first met Sara she was your age . . . about twelve. I’ve waited ten years . . .’
He let his voice trail into silence. Grace studied her hands, the scone dough, the floor at her feet. But when she did speak, her voice was gentle.
‘Waitin’s hard, ain’t it, Brogan? Is that what you’re tryin’ to say? If you did . . . if you did wait, you’d be real old – is that it?’
Crossing his fingers for the half-lie, Brogan nodded. ‘That’s it, Grace. A feller can’t wait for ever. And besides, in ten years’ time you’ll mebbe have met a nice young feller . . .’
‘No I shan’t,’ Grace said. But she didn’t sound fierce any more, just forlorn. ‘I won’t ever meet anyone like you, Brog.’
‘No, you’ll meet someone better,’ Brogan assured her. ‘Grace, will you please, please, be our bridesmaid? You’d make us both very happy, so you would.’
‘Will I ’ave to wear flowers in me ’air?’ Grace said suspiciously. ‘I don’t want the other kids mockin’ me.’
‘You’ll wear whatever you’re comfortable in,’ Brogan assured her. ‘Sara’s goin’ to buy you somethin’ really nice – a dress, shoes, the lot. Look, alanna, I’m goin’ to let you into a really big secret, something that not even Sara knows yet. Do you promise you won’t tell?’
‘I promise,’ Grace said eagerly. Already her woes were lessening at the prospect of new clothes; now there was a secret, too.
‘After we’re wed, Sara an’ me may be goin’ to America to live. There’s a better life there for a train driver, or so I’ve been told. And because you’re goin to be our bridesmaid we’d like you to come an’ visit us there, in a year or so, when you’re old enough for the journey.’
‘America!’ Before his eyes the small, pale face lit up, the grey eyes glowed. ‘Oh, Brogan, will you write to me? I can save the stamps . . . you can tell me all sorts about wharrit’s like over there. Ooh, think of the fillum stars you’ll meet!’
The crisis was over, peace was restored. Brogan, promising to write to Grace as often as he possibly could, was thankful to have got over heavy ground so lightly.
And presently, when it was time for Brogan to leave and Sara walked him down to the gate, he was able to put an arm round her, give her a squeeze, and explain what had been the matter.
‘’Tis an odd thing when a child of twelve or thirteen thinks she’s in love wit’ a feller so it is,’ he said. ‘But I think she’s over it, now.’
‘What’s odd about it?’ Sara demanded, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘I was a child of twelve or so when I first met you, and I fell in love then. Didn’t you realise it, Brogan? Ah, what a modest soul you are!’
‘I know,’ Brogan said. ‘I’ve a delightful nature so I have. And now I’d better love you and leave you, alanna, or I’ll miss me tram.’
Chapter Seventeen‘But why won’t you come, Mammy? You’ve always loved a wedding so you have and Sara’s goin’ to look a picture, Brogan says so. And the boys are comin’, all the people from the Strawb . . . you’ll miss out, Mammy!’
Polly’s voice was pleading, but loud. She was standing before her mirror putting the finishing touches to her new dark-green coat and matching hat and Deirdre was in her own room across the landing. It was necessary to shout or the two could not have heard one another, and Polly felt that it was important to keep begging her mother to accompany them right up to the last moment. Peader had given up days ago and it had caused a rift between the two of them but Polly was sure that, given the chance, her mother would change her mind.
Polly had been looking forward to this wedding ever since Brogan had told them that it was to take place in early March and though she was not to be bridesmaid after all – Mammy had forbidden it – she was going to give the bride a lucky horseshoe before the happy couple got into the cab which would take them down to the docks. And this had meant a new coat and hat, new shoes and a great deal of fuss and excitement.
But from her mother’s bedroom there came a low reply to Polly’s shout. ‘I’m not comin’ to see me boy tied to a Proddy,’ Deirdre said, with more than a trace of tears in her voice. ‘Your daddy said I needn’t, if I didn’t want to, and I don’t want to, so I’m not comin’, and there’s an end to it.’
Polly sighed. ‘You’re spoilin’ our day, Mammy,’ she said truthfully. ‘It won’t be the same wit’out you. Please, please come to the weddin’. If you don’t, Brogan will be heartbroken so he will.’
This time, there was a snort.
‘Oh, yes? Well, ’tis heartbroken his mammy is, I’m tellin’ you. Darin’ to tell me I was cruel to spoil that Proddy madam’s big day . . . I only wish I might!’
Polly sighed again, gave a last glance in the mirror, and headed for the stairs. ‘All right, Mammy,’ she said kindly. ‘You stay at home and be miserable. Daddy says I may hold his arm like a grownup lady, and at the hooley afterwards I’m to have a sip of wine and a big piece of weddin’ cake.’
Silence.
‘Ivan’s wearin’ his white carnation already,’ Polly went on as she descended the stairs. ‘He looks a proper little man, Mammy. Oh . . . you won’t forget to feed Delly and the cats? And me hens, me rabbits . . . best check on the eggs, because the speckled hen kicks them out of the nest if you aren’t careful.’ Polly reached the hall where the rest of the family waited. They were to catch an early train into the city centre. She raised her voice. ‘Bye, Mammy. Have a nice day, now!’
Silence.
‘Never mind, alanna,’ Peader said, seeing his little daughter’s face fall as her mother failed to so much as come to the head of the stairs to wave them off. ‘We’re goin’ to have a grand day so we are. My goodness, don’t you look a sight for sore eyes?’
‘She’s not so dusty,’ Ivan said. He was very conscious of his new suit and the huge buttonhole which tickled against his chin. ‘Aw, c’mon, Poll, don’t keep lookin’ over your shoulder! We’ve a good walk to get to the station, remember.’
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