The Bright One Read Online Free Page A

it?’
    â€˜â€™Tis just that it would help until the children come,’ she had said, blushing at the thought. ‘Help us to get set up.’
    â€˜I will not have it.’ James had been adamant. ‘Ours will be a proper marriage; me supporting you, you looking after me.’
    In fact, the children had come quickly. Kathleen had been born nine months to Saint Stephen’s Day, and although Mrs Adare, not wishing to lose a good worker, had said that Molly might bring the baby with her, James had remained obstinate.
    Well, she thought, climbing the hill to the Big House now, hadn’t seventeen years and seven children changed those fine ideas? And wasn’t the money, though only five shillings a week, the greatest blessing? She did not know how she would manage without it. The fact was that James, faced with a hungry brood, had either come to terms with his objections or, for a long time now, had kept quiet about them.
    What would be the outcome today, she wondered? Would he come home with his empty pockets turned inside out, or would there be a bit of money in them? Not much, she reckoned. James’s gambling was small-time; had to be because he didn’t have much to wager, and she was glad about that.
    For the next two hours she swept, scrubbed, dusted and polished. Polishing was the task she enjoyed most, especially the great table in the dining hall. More than once, when she had worked full time here, she had seen it ready for a feast: resplendent with fine china, sparkling with Waterford glass, groaning with food. She rubbed at it now until she could see her reflection in the surface, and that was the last of her jobs here for today.
    Back in the kitchen, Mrs Hanratty, the housekeeper, said, ‘There is a bit of a parcel for you, so. The end of a joint. A few vegetables.’
    Mrs Hanratty was unfailingly kind, though never talkative, never one for a gossip about what the Adares were up to.
    â€˜How is your Mammy?’ she asked Molly.
    â€˜Sure, she is well enough for her age,’ Molly said. ‘I am going to see her on my way home.’
    If there was enough in the parcel she would share it with her mother. If not, she would send one of the children around with a dish of whatever she made from it.
    Her mother’s house, low, whitewashed, with small, square windows, was exactly like Molly’s own, as were most of the houses in Kilbally. Entering from the sunny street, it was dark and Peggy Byrne, sitting in the corner, dressed in her usual black, was almost absorbed into the gloom.
    â€˜There you are!’ Molly said. ‘It’s dark coming in. I hardly saw you.’
    â€˜â€™Tis you,’ Mrs Byrne said.
    â€˜Who else were you expecting?’ Molly asked, smiling.
    The house seemed more spacious than her own, perhaps because it was so empty. There never had been much furniture, never enough chairs for them all to sit to meals, but it had been crowded with whichever of the nine children were still at home. It seemed strange, now, to see her mother entirely alone.
    Michael Byrne had died a year ago. His chair, a cushion on the seat, a rug thrown over the railed back, was still never sat in by anyone else. It was as if his spirit still hovered.
    â€˜â€™Tis handy you came,’ Mrs Byrne said. ‘There is a letter from Josephine.’
    Josephine was Molly’s sister, older by fourteen years, Molly being the youngest of the family. Most of the others were scattered across the face of the earth, in the United States, in Canada, in England – and all doing well if their letters were to be believed. All, that was, except her brothers Sean and Paddy, who had died in the Great War, which had not been Ireland’s war, but they had volunteered. Josephine lived in Yorkshire, in Akersfield. Molly was the only one now living in Ireland.
    Would the time come, Peggy Byrne had wondered, watching her children leave one by one, when there would be no