December Girl

by Nicola Cassidy

  ‘There’ll be no need for the police, Mrs Johansson,’ said Henry and he turned to the girl. ‘Can you tell me what happened. To your father? I don’t understand.’

  ‘His heart,’ the girl muttered into her hands again. ‘They broke his heart.’

  Chapter Seven

  MOLLY

  I wouldn’t look at, or speak to, Henry Brabazon, the whole journey in the trap down to the Brannigan’s house the night of the eviction. There was holy murder going on and half the village out in support of us.

  I stared off to the side, into the black bushes and shadowy lane way, the trees making eerie swishing noises as we drove. I didn’t reply to the questions he asked me, I was rude and not caring, not one bit. I wanted to look at him, to take in his jaw and the dark sideburns that came part way down his face. I thought I might even want to sniff him, to see what a gentleman smelled like up close. But I sat as far as I could to the other side of the trap, hunching my legs up, turning my body away.

  He told me he was very sorry for what had happened to me and my family and that he himself had no control over it and he was going to see what he could do to right the wrongs done to us.

  But even Henry Brabazon with all his money and his power up in that big fancy house could not bring Daddy back. There was no righting the wrongs done to us. He could string Montgomery up and let us take sticks and knives and pierce his big yellow belly - give us Montgomery, I wanted to say - but it still wouldn’t bring Daddy back.

  Half way down the road, when he realised I wasn’t for talking he stopped trying and we made our way down to Dowth, only the horse’s hooves sparking off the ground to be heard. As we approached the Brannigans’ house, the sound of people talking and murmuring came at us in the dark and we pulled up, the house all lit up, neighbours and other faces I knew standing about the yard.

  They jeered at him when they saw who it was.

  ‘Are ya happy now?’ they said making low groaning and hissing noises at him as he stepped down out of the carriage and put his hand out for me. I ignored his open palm and jumped out, and folded my arms back around my body.

  ‘Don’t come in,’ I said to him, the only words I’d spoken since I’d been put in the trap.

  ‘I’d like to offer my condolences,’ he said to the group, looking at them, his face all sincere.

  ‘Don’t come in,’ I warned again, only this time my voice was lower and in a growl.

  ‘I’d like to speak with your mother,’ he said.

  I didn’t think Mam would want to speak to him. And as I looked into the yard and saw that there were people piling out the door now, when they’d heard that Henry Brabazon Esquire was standing outside, with me, I knew they were gunning for trouble. I felt we’d had enough upset for one night.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘it’s for the best.’ And then I nodded into the yard at all the men standing around, some of them tapping sticks against their legs and I said, ‘It’s not safe.’

  He gave me a bit of a slow look then, a sort of sorry stare and he climbed back up into the trap and I watched him manoeuvre the horse out of there, back up the road, his head bent forward and down.

  In all the pandemonium, it hadn’t been noticed that I was gone and when I told them I’d gone up to the big house, to the grand ball, to find Montgomery, a load of the men shook their heads in disbelief and said, ‘Holy God’ and ‘Her father’d be proud.’

  My mother told me I’d done a stupid thing but then she took me in her arms and held me tight and whispered, ‘What are we going to do?’ into my hair.

  I didn’t know what we were going to do. I had done what I thought was the right thing - to let Montgomery know that he needed to pay for what he did to us. But now I was back here in the Brannigans’, a load of people from the dance standing around, Turlough, looking white as a sheet and my daddy, being laid out in the Brannigans’ bedroom, just off the full and heaving kitchen.

  * * *

  It was June and all Mr McKenna talked about was the Boyne Regatta. Before, we didn’t pay much attention to the regatta. Daddy said it was an excuse for people to get drunk and dance and make fools of themselves all day. We’d only been twice that I could remember and after that, Daddy stopped bringing us, saying he’d better things to be doing on the farm.

  This year, Mr McKenna wouldn’t shut up about it. On and on he went – about so and so who’d be there, about how fine we’d all look. We were going to be on the other side of the river this year, where they had a big seating stand and a stage with a roof on it. It was where the rowers climbed off their boats after the race and where the band played.

  Mr McKenna stocked straw hats with black and cream striped ribbon in the shop and put out his finest silk socks and coloured dicky bows for his regatta display. He himself would be wearing purple on the day; a shimmery velvet jacket with black down the lapels. He showed it to me in the shop and made me run my fingers up and down it.

  ‘Feel it,’ he insisted. ‘Can’t you feel the quality? Doesn’t it feel lovely in your hands?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said. Not wanting to feel anything Mr McKenna asked me to.

  I thought he looked like a gombeen; a big purple gombeen when he put that jacket on. I thought, he looks exactly like the people my daddy stopped going to the regatta because of and now, here he was, leading Daddy’s family down the street, the cane still over his arm, my mother dolled up like some sort of lady, with make-up on and everything.

  I’d never seen so many folks making their way down the town, filling the streets, their good mass clothes on, the chatter and atmosphere building. There were bonnets floating on heads, fresh flowers tucked into them, and coloured ribbons fluttering on the breeze. Small children clutched at their parents’ hands, waving little flags.

  I put my hand on my head, feeling the bonnet Mam had fixed there this morning. It was nice to be part of the occasion, I supposed, even if we were there with Mr McKenna.

  The crowds grew into a throng at the bridge, bicycles queuing up, pony and traps stuck in the middle, trying to get through. The police were there waving and shouting at people to move along but it was like pouring corn into a funnel - you just had to give it time, let it stack up and watch it trickle.

  I liked the warm press of the bodies. I could smell soap and cigarette smoke and the stink of a pipe carried over our heads. Mam kept looking back, telling us to stay with her, but I didn’t care if I got lost. I was happy to be out on my own, away from everybody and just milling, free.

  We got over the bridge and moved down the Marsh Road, where the factories with their chimneys were quiet. Regatta Day and Christmas Day were the only days in the year when there was no black smoke billowing out over the rooftops and floating down the river out to sea.

  You could see all the factory workers among the crowd, some of them with beautiful woollen shawls and coloured skirts, the women who could afford to dress themselves nice. Most of them were just a bit older than me, and I wondered if I could get a job there instead of slaving in the shop with Mr McKenna. At least I’d get my own money then, paid into my hand every Friday, mine to do with what I wanted.

  On this side of the river, the crowds were less. You could feel the wealth as we moved down the road and approached the gate, where we were to go into the arena. I spotted all the ladies now, the colours and feathers moving and gently swaying in front of us.

  My eyes stuck to their bustled rumps, taking in their waists, smaller than a child’s, their pin stripe brollies held aloft. I wondered how they got their hair to curl like that, all piled up under hats that seemed as though they could fall off their heads at any minute. They were so refined, so beautiful; they were nothing like Mam and me. I looked at Mam and felt sorry for her. She was gripping Mr McKenna’s arm and he was leading her round like a horse, stopping to say hello to everyone he met.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I heard everyone say. ‘What a fine family you have now, Mr McKenna.’

  I looked around at the arena, the first
time I had ever been in it and thought how small it was. From the other side of the river it looked giant, with the big green stand for everyone to sit on. I noticed a group of rowers standing together, their muscled shoulders stretched out under striped cotton shirts.

  I let myself look at their bottoms, my eyes dropping to waist level, taking in the shape of their behinds in the tight, white cotton. I couldn’t help but wonder what it might feel like to run my hand over those breeches, to feel the shape under my palm.

  I was telling myself to look away, when I saw the bottom I’d been staring at turn around and when I looked past the waist and up to the face, I recoiled. It was Henry Brabazon. I’d forgotten that he might be here. I thought he lived in England most of the time. And if he was here, well that could mean Montgomery was here too. I felt sick and giddy all at once. How was this day going to turn out now? Henry turned his head and I looked away, moving to the side a bit, so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I hoped he didn’t see us and then I thought, he wouldn’t know us anyway.

  An announcement came over the tannoy system. The races would be starting in a quarter of an hour. Mr McKenna took the cue to lead us over to the catering tent where they were serving tea and plated sandwiches with ham and pickled onion, and cheese and cucumber.

  ‘Isn’t this a spectacle?’ Mam said to me, her eyes all aglint.

  There was a table on the stage with seven silver cups on it, all as tall as a small child. Engravements curled round the cups between the half-heart handles, all the previous years’ winners’ names scraped into the metal. Mr McKenna had sponsored a race, it was to be the third one and he was going to present the cup to the winning team. He couldn’t wait to get on stage and have everyone look at him. The band was set up to the back of the stage, playing marches and upbeat numbers for the crowds. The music carried across the river to the other side, over the warm air and smell of tidal water.

  ‘Look, Molly, a parrot,’ said Michael and I looked to where he pointed at a blue bird with green and yellow feathers. He ran over and the man holding the bird gave him some seeds to lay flat on his hand and Michael didn’t even flinch as the parrot put its big, strong beak on his clammy palm. I noticed there was hardly anything for children to do on this side of the arena. Over on the other side were the hurdy-gurdys, sweet stalls, and even a big tower spiral slide that had been especially built for the day.

  The band made a trumpeting sound to mark the first race. We clambered up the green stand and took our seats and waited. It didn’t take long, within minutes you could hear the crowds up the river roaring, the noise distant at first and then growing closer and closer.

  We all looked left, straining our heads to see and I realised what a vantage point we had, compared to the crowds across the river who could only jump up and down. Then they appeared, two boats, like long darts, thrusting along the top of the water, quick as blades on ice. We leapt to our feet, shouting and cheering now, competing with the crowds across the river who were roaring and screaming in excitement too. It was Drogheda Rowing Club and then Dublin University Rowing Club. Ahead, then back. In front, then not in front. I gave a big roar too, enjoying that I could scream like that and nobody could say anything to me.

  We held our breaths between the squeals, focusing our eyes on the flag that marked the finish line. The two boats shot past the stand, and we strained forward to watch as Drogheda Rowing Club nudged a margin ahead of its rival, right on the last stroke before the line.

  The crowds leapt even higher, whooping, cheering, and screaming for our local winning team. I roared too, caught in up in the excitement, clapping and feeling pure joy in my heart.

  And when the rowers climbed on shore, when they pulled their boat up on to the wet muck and silt, I looked down at the heaving chests and red faces as they recovered from the exertion. I realised then that I, my mam, and my brothers had been roaring in support of Henry Brabazon, the man whose family had overseen the theft of our home and the death of my father. I felt like a traitor and I sat down in my seat and between all the commotion and the shouting and the noise, said a quiet prayer to God and asked him to ask my father to forgive me.

  * * *

  Henry Brabazon caught me unawares when I was leaving the arena to take the two boys over the bridge to see if they could find at least a little fun. Patrick was antsy at the thoughts that he might get on a hurdy-gurdy and he was sure he’d seen a man with a monkey.

  ‘Do you think I could hold him?’ he said, looking up at me through a smattering of square freckles.

  ‘I’m sure you could,’ I said, smiling. It was nice to be with just the boys among the crowds, looking at everything, getting excited.

  ‘Hullo, there,’ said a voice. I’d been looking at a beautiful woman with a bright blue dress on and a parasol over her head. Her skin was like white glass, no colour in it at all and I thought, if I could look like anyone, if God said, Molly, you can take the looks of anyone in the wide world, I would have said her.

  Patrick tugged on my hand. ‘Molly,’ he said. I looked to where he was pointing. And there he was, Henry Brabazon, stood right in my path and I hadn’t even seen him because I was looking at the beautiful lady.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, stepping back a bit, because by not looking I’d nearly walked right into him.

  His black hair curled into a point at the front. He looked sweaty, from the rowing I suppose. He was still in his cotton shirt, not dressed yet in his summer suit like the other gentlemen.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he said, in his ever so grand voice. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  No, well, you wouldn’t, would you? I thought. But I didn’t say that. Instead I told him that my mother was remarried now. To Mr McKenna. Who owned the drapery on West Street and who had sponsored the third race. Which his rowing team had won.

  ‘Oh, Mr McKenna, yes, I know of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in the shop. Well, that’s nice,’ he said. ‘That you’re settled.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, noticing my heart going into a buzz in my chest.

  ‘Are you enjoying the regatta?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You were very good. In the race.’

  Why am I offering compliments to Henry Brabazon? I feel ashamed as soon as the words are out of my mouth and I want to let go of Patrick’s hand and tell him to go to the railings and wait for me. I don’t want anyone to hear me. I look around. Are people watching?

  ‘A fabulous day for it. One of my favourite rivers, this. That includes the Isis,’ he says. I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  ‘At Oxford,’ he says, explaining.

  ‘Oh,’ says I. A girl walks by licking the air around a large wad of candy floss. I scan the moving crowds. No eyes catch mine.

  ‘Such a coincidence bumping into you,’ he says and he flicks back his head and the black curl at the front flops up and down. ‘I was actually up at your old house today. At Dowth.’

  He watches my face for a reaction but I don’t know what to say to him. I haven’t been back to the house since the eviction. I can’t bear to imagine it and the ghost of Daddy moving round the yard.

  ‘Right,’ says I.

  ‘It’s in good repair,’ he says.

  ‘Is it?’

  Why is he telling me this? Referring to it as ‘ours’ as if we still have a claim to it. I know I should be walking away from him by now, giving him the cold shoulder, letting him know that Montgomery and him did nothing but ruin our lives but I’m still stood there, looking at his blue cornflower eyes. Patrick tugs on my hand, because he wants to go.

  ‘We’re going to see the hurdy-gurdys,’ I say to him.

  He bends down and puts out his hand for Patrick to shake. But Patrick’s shy and he goes behind my skirts and all of a sudden I think of that day, when his little hands were on the back of my thighs the same, gripping through my underskirt, pinching the skin with fear, the eviction men outside, and my daddy like a lunatic in the dark.

 
; Brabazon stands back and says, ‘Lovely to see you, Miss Thomas.’

  Thomas. It’s been so long since I heard that name. All I ever hear these days is McKenna.

  ‘And if I have any news I know where to contact you, now,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, not understanding.

  ‘About the agent’s son in your house. It’s not something I’m happy about.’

  The world goes silent for a second. I’m sure there’s a whistling in my ears.

  ‘Montgomery?’ I say, his name like ash in my mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I saw his son there this morning. I don’t think the board of The Trust would be too happy about it.’

  My mouth’s opening and closing like a trout’s. I’m not sure if I heard him right and I repeat the words in my mind, trying to make sense of what he’s just said. Agent. Son. House. Montgomery’s put his son, that big, bumbling son, the image of him with his rounded tummy and hair all receding, into our house.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, the only word that will come out. And I’m walking away from Brabazon now, clutching Patrick’s hand so tight he tells me I’m hurting him. I know Brabazon is probably standing there looking after us, hands on his hips, his rowing arse clutched tight, wondering why I just walked away like that as though I was in a daze, but I am in a daze. The people are in front of me and all I can feel are those feelings, the same I felt on the night that it happened; that I need to find a knife, that I need to go and find Montgomery and slice him and watch him bleed till he’s cold and gone.

  ‘Who was that man?’ asks Michael as we’re walking out of the arena and down the Marsh Road.

  ‘That was Mr Brabazon,’ I say, looking ahead, my mind fifteen miles up the river, back in our house, my knees on Brabazon’s puffy chest.

  ‘From the big house?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my voice snippy.

  ‘Why were you talking to him?’ he asks. And I know he’s thinking of all the bad things he’s heard, the name scattered about, insults in the air.

  ‘He was just saying hello,’ I say.