Till the Sun Shines Through (10 page)

A week later, Bridie realised that she had missed her second period and two weeks after that she was sick in the chamber pot as she got out of bed. The same happened the next morning and the next and almost every morning after it. She was whiter than ever and dark smudges had appeared beneath her eyes. ‘That girl will sicken if she goes on like this,' she overheard her mother say to her father.

‘She looks far from well indeed,' Jimmy agreed.

‘I've heard her being sick a time or two as well,' Sarah said. ‘God knows, she's thin enough already. I think I'll have the doctor look her over if she doesn't pick up. Maybe she needs a tonic.'

Jesus! Bridie knew what sort of a tonic the doctor would order and that news would tear the heart out of her parents. What was she to do? Eventually they would find out. Pregnancy was something no one could hide for ever.

She lay in bed, night after night, thinking what to do as one November day slid into another. But there was no solution. If she were to tell her parents now what had happened the night of the dance, doubt would linger. They'd wonder why she'd said nothing that night. Francis had his story ready too; he'd already told her what he'd say if she accused him. Dear Lord, he might deny it altogether and lay the blame on one of the young lads at the dance.

He might say they'd been around her all night like bees around a honey pot and suggest she had been more than willing. And hadn't he told Rosalyn he'd searched the place for Bridie and not been able to find her? She knew with dread certainty that Francis would be believed before her.

When news of Bridie's pregnancy got out, her parents would be destroyed. Out would go their respectability, their standing in the community. The two families who'd helped each other and shared things for years would be rent apart. It would be particularly hard for her parents to cope; maybe they'd find it so hard they'd have to leave the farm, their life's work, perhaps even leave the town.

And the townsfolk would blame her. She must have asked for it, they would say, must have done something to provoke such a thing. God, she could almost hear them. ‘Can you trust the young hussies these days, wearing less clothes than is decent and teasing and tormenting honest men? Jesus, it would take a man to watch himself.'

There would be little or no sympathy for her. She'd be the disgraced single parent and her parents dragged through the mud with her. And at the end of this, would be a bastard child that no one would want, a symbol of her loose behaviour, a child that would be held up to ridicule and scorn because he or she had no father.

She knew it would be better if she was well away from the place before the pregnancy should be discovered. Yet, she asked herself, how could she just up and leave? But she knew in her heart of hearts that she must. Though her parents could not manage without her on the farm, neither could they cope with what she carried in her belly and she had no right to shame them like that.

Other people had begun to notice that Bridie looked far from well. Father O'Dwyer had stopped her in the church porch and commented on how pale she was. ‘Mind, I suppose everyone has poor colour at his time of the year,' he had continued. ‘It doesn't do my old bones much good either. We'll all feel better in the spring, what d'you say?'

Bridie had said nothing and managed only a fleeting smile. If she stayed until the spring, the decision would be taken out of her hands and her life, and that of her parents, might as well be over.

All the next week she dithered. Her father had never seemed so old, so stiff, and her mother's one arm was more useless than ever. She was slow to do everything and, Bridie guessed, often in pain. How in God's name could she leave these good kind people to cope by themselves?

Then, one evening, her mother said, ‘I'm making an appointment for you to see the doctor this week, Bridie.'

‘What?' Bridie cried, startled and alarmed.

‘Look at you, there's not a pick on you,' Sarah said. ‘People are commenting on how thin you've got, and there are bags under your eyes too. You're not right and haven't been since Rosalyn left. You've got to eat more; you're not eating enough to keep a bird alive at the moment. Delia said that is probably what has stopped your monthlies. She says she's heard of it before, but whatever it is, I'm sure the doctor will sort it out.'

Oh by God he would sort it out right enough, Bridie thought. ‘Mammy,' she pleaded, ‘just leave it a wee while longer. You're right, I haven't been sleeping, and I will try to eat more, but don't go bothering the doctor yet?'

‘I don't know,' Sarah said. ‘Your father's worried.'

‘Please, Mammy? Leave it just a bit and if I'm no better in a week or two, then I'll see the doctor.'

Sarah reluctantly agreed, but for a while only and Bridie knew that for her the die was cast. She'd have to leave her home and as speedily as possible. She knew she would be castigated by everyone about. Neighbours were well aware how much Bridie was thought of, for her parents said so often and also said how they relied on her, but Bridie could do nothing about people's opinion. Better they thought her the worst daughter in the world than stay and let them find out the truth.

Later in bed, sleep driven from her with worry, she thought of what she must do. There was only one place to go and that was Mary's; she would know what to do. But how to get to there without detection was a problem. She couldn't tell her parents that she was going away for a wee holiday and go along to Barnes More Halt and buy a ticket like any other body.

In fact, she couldn't go on the rail bus at all this side of the border; anyone could spot her. If she could make it to Strabane Station, which was in the English six counties, and catch the steam train from there to Derry, she'd have a chance of getting away. A girl travelling alone would also be less noticeable in a busier place, whereas she'd stand out like a sore thumb in a country station.

She also had to be well away from the farm before her father rose for the milking at five o'clock. She knew the first rail bus left Killybegs at five o'clock, as she'd often heard it chugging past the end of the farm while she was at the milking. According to the rail bus timetable it didn't reach Strabane until half past six. There the travellers would get out and board the steam train for Derry, she remembered that from her last visit.

But how was she to get to Strabane, about twenty miles away or more? She'd have to go in the middle of the night, but she'd never walk that distance in time for the five o'clock train. Her father once told her a person could walk four miles an hour at a steady pace. But his steady pace was a run for someone of Bridie's size and that was also on a good flat road in the daylight. It would be different up hill and down dale in the pitch black. She thought bleakly that it was one thing to decide to leave, but quite another for it to be achieved. She mulled the problem over and over in her head, without coming to any conclusion, until sleep finally overtook her.

The next day, as she was at the back of the barn searching for a sack or two to collect any tree branches brought down by the gales of the previous days, she uncovered Mary's old bike.

Her father was busy elsewhere and there was no one else about, so she hauled it out, dusted it off roughly and studied it. It was in a sorry state altogether: rusted up, missing some spokes and the tyres as flat as pancakes. It had once been Mary's pride and joy and the first thing she'd bought when she'd began at the shirt factory in the town. She'd used to go in and out of town on it most days then, unless the rain was lashing or the snow feet thick on the roads, for she said it kept her fit, as well as saving the rail bus fare.

Since she'd left, it had lain unused, forgotten about. Bridie could cycle – she'd learned from Mary when she was a child and carefree – and a germ of an idea began to grow in her mind. She didn't know if she could ride a long distance, she'd never tried, but it was the only way she could think of. Could she do the bike up until it was fit to carry her to Strabane and cycle all that way, in the dead of night, and make it in time to catch the steam train to Derry? She hadn't a clue, but she was determined to have a damned good try.

With her decision made, she wrote to Mary. It was 1
^st
December and to delay any longer would be foolish. She was sure Mary would help her when she knew the truth, but she decided she'd not tell her too many details in a letter, too risky that. She'd tell her just enough to make sure she knew how serious the problem was.

Dear Mary

I am in big, big trouble. It is not my fault, but I must leave here and quickly. Please don't let Mammy know any of this and write as quickly as you can and let me know when I can come
.

Love Bridie

She tried not to think of the ordeal before her, lest the thought of what she had to do frightened her so much she wouldn't go at all. She busied herself instead with the task of getting the bike into some sort of working order, oiling it and cleaning it in her odd spare moments. The last thing she wanted was to be stranded on a road in the middle of the night. It was hard work, for she had to do it in bits, and she always had to remember to hide it well afterwards – it would never do for anyone to catch sight of it and start asking awkward questions

She waited anxiously for Mary's letter, which she wrote back by return.

Dear Bridie

I hope you don't really mean in trouble, but I won't waste time with questions now. I presume you're not telling Mammy and Daddy what you're doing. I hope you've thought this through, because they'll probably never forgive you, but you must be desperate to consider this course of action and you know you'll always be welcome here. Make your arrangements and send a letter, or if there's no time for that, a telegram, and I'll be at the station to meet you
.

Love Mary

Bridie had waited till she was in bed to read Mary's letter and turned onto her side and cried tears of pure relief as she read the welcome words. When she woke the next morning, her pillow was damp and the letter was still clutched firmly in her hand.

Bridie knew the time for wishing things were different was over and done. Now she had to think of more practical issues. She' been to Strabane just once in her life and that had been five years before and by rail bus, not bike.

How then did she think she could just set out for Strabane with no planning? She was in bed that night when she thought of it: she'd have to follow the rail bus tracks. They would take her there all right.

Bridie knew there was a rail bus timetable in the drawer of the press and she stole out of bed. ‘That you, Bridie?' Sarah shouted from behind the curtain.

As if, thought Bridie, it could be anyone else. ‘Aye, Mammy.'

‘Are you all right?'

‘Grand, Mammy. I just have a thirst on me. I need a drink of water.'

‘That will be the bacon. I thought it was over-salty myself.'

‘Aye,' repeated Bridie. She prayed her mother wouldn't take a notion to peer out from behind the curtain. She'd find it very difficult to explain why she was easing the drawer of the press out gently and extracting the timetable from it.

But she didn't stir and when Bridie called out, ‘Goodnight, Mammy,' the voice that answered her was slurred with tiredness. ‘Night, child. See you in the morning.'

Back in bed, Bridie moved the lamp nearer and read the names of the stations under her breath. From the station nearest them, Barnes More, there were Derg Bridge Halt, Meerglas, Stranorlar, Killygordon, Liscooley, Castlefin, Clady, then across the Urney Bridge into the English-ruled county of Tyrone and Strabane Station. She knew that she would have to memorise them and went to sleep with the station names running through her head.

Her home and the farm had become dearer to Bridie as the time drew nearer to her departure and she often found herself looking around as if committing it all to memory, as if she might never be allowed to come back. She knew how hurt her parents would be when they found her gone. Yet that would be nothing to the shame she'd heap upon them if she stayed, she reminded herself. What if her mother had demanded her see the doctor in the meantime? She'd forced herself to eat more to allay her mother's fears, although she often felt sick and overfull. Of course, Sarah could have tumbled to the realisation of her daughter's pregnancy herself. Many a mother would have done by now, for she'd not had a period since mid-September and was sick nearly every morning, though she tried to hide that from her parents.

So resolutely, she made her plans. The McCarthys didn't possess a suitcase. When their children had left home, they'd bought whatever possessions they needed. All Bridie was able to find were two hessian bags and her meagre possessions were soon packed into them. They'd probably be easier to carry on the bike, one hanging from each handlebar, than trying to balance a case in front of her, Bridie reasoned.

Eventually, all was ready, the bike as good as she could make it. The last thing she'd done was pump up the tyres, praying that there were no punctures in the inner tubes, or that they hadn't perished away altogether, and had hid the bike back in the barn for the last time. With her heart as heavy as lead she lay on her bed, fully clothed, and waited.

Bridie knew she would have to climb out of the window. She couldn't risk the cottage door and she must wait until she was as certain as she could be that her parents were asleep.

Oh, but she was so very tired; she'd been up since five and on the go all day, but she daren't close her eyes, for if she did, she'd probably sleep until morning. Yet her eyelids were so heavy they were closing on their own. She yawned and wriggled on the bed. Maybe she'd just rest them for a minute or two.

She suddenly woke with a jerk. Dear God, what had she done? What time was it? She fumbled for some matches and lit the lamp.