away from the house towards the orchard.
When she heard footsteps behind her she turned, expecting it to be one of the other women as hot as herself and taking the air, but it was her uncle Francis.
Bridie hadn’t forgotten her earlier encounter with her uncle, but had passed it off as a one-off experience and not something to be too worried about. And yet she felt alarm as she remembered her uncle drinking deeply of the poteen that evening.
But, she told herself, she could come to no harm. She could see the light of the cottage, other people were no distance away. She was safe and so she relaxed a little. ‘I think you’re avoiding me, Bridie,’ Francis said, wagging his finger in the exaggerated manner of the drunk.
‘Not at all,’ she said.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Francis said. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. ‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘No. No …’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Francis said. ‘Have I ever hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Am I likely to then?’
‘I don’t suppose so.’
‘So you won’t object to giving me a kiss?’
‘No,’ Bridie said. ‘But only on your cheek.’
‘Jesus, that’s a wean’s kiss,’ Francis said and, before Bridie could respond further, clasped her tight against him again, but this time his other hand caressed her breasts and began fumbling at the fastenings of her dress before she managed to break free. Her dress hung half open, the bodice underneath exposed and the hair she’d spent hours putting up hanging in untidy strands around her face, which was red with shame.
‘You mustn’t do such things,’ she said, turning her back on her uncle to fasten herself up and tidy her hair. ‘What if I was to go to the house and say?’
‘Say what?’ Francis said. ‘I’d say you led me on. You left the house first, remember. What if I say you’d arranged it all. No one will blame a man for taking what’s on offer.’
‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Bridie cried, swinging round to face Francis again. ‘You wouldn’t be so cruel!’
But as she looked into his face she knew he would and, what’s more, she knew he’d be believed above her. Maybe her parents would believe her, but even then there would be doubt and suspicion. ‘Why do you hate me so?’ she cried in distress.
‘Hate you!’ Francis said incredulously. ‘How can you say such a thing, Bridie? I love you. You are incredibly beautiful. It almost hurts to look at you, but you’re a temptress. You tempt men with those big eyes, with those long eyelashes you flutter so seductively, your luscious figure, your young beautiful breasts, your …’
‘Stop it! Stop it,’ Bridie commanded. ‘You mustn’t talk this way, Uncle Francis. It’s the drink talking.’
‘Aye, maybe it is at that,’ Francis said, but he knew this feeling he had for Bridie never went away, it was just when he was sober he could keep it in check.
‘I’m going back to the house now,’ Bridie said. ‘Don’t follow me, please …’
Francis said nothing as she walked away and once in the house, she pleaded a headache and said she was ready for her bed. ‘I thought the air might clear it,’ she said, explaining her previous absence. ‘But it didn’t.’
‘I wondered where you’d disappeared to,’ Jimmy said. ‘Did you see Francis on your travels?’
‘Yes,’ Bridie said. ‘He’s over by the orchard,’ and then she fled to her room, closing the door before she let the tears fall.
By the time Bridie was sixteen she was beginning to feel desperate about Francis, for try as she might to avoid him, he seemed to find many occasions when he would get her on her own. Even when he just ogled her, it made her feel sick, but sometimes, usually when he’d had a drink, he wasn’t content with that alone.
Bridie didn’t know what to do, where to go for help or advice. She was at her wit’s end when she decided to write to Mary, though she knew it would be hard to commit such words to paper for even to think of them made her face flame with embarrassment.
Dear Mary,
Please help me. I am having trouble with Uncle Francis and I don’t know what to do. He looks at me funny and sometimes touches me and kisses me. I’ve told him to stop and that I don’t like it, but it makes no difference. I’ve even said that I would tell Auntie Delia, but he just laughed. He knew I would never do that, but what should I do, Mary?
She couldn’t totally avoid her uncle because she couldn’t physically manage some of the jobs on the farm. Frank had readily agreed to help her with the heavy stuff, but it was usually her uncle Francis who came to give her a hand, giving the excuse that Frank was busy with something or other.
Mary had become angry as she’d read the letter and more by what her sister didn’t say than the words she actually used. It brought back to her mind the time she was fourteen. ‘Dirty bloody pervert!’ she exclaimed, tossing the letter to Eddie. ‘Read what our Bridie has written. God, it’s almost unbelievable. Uncle Francis, for God’s sake!’
Eddie jiggled his baby son in his arms as he scanned the page. ‘She doesn’t say much,’ he said at last.
‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’ Mary cried. ‘What d’you want, that she explains it to you chapter and verse? What she says and hints at is quite enough to tell me what’s going on.’
‘Why doesn’t she kick the man in the balls if she’s so bothered about it and tell him to behave himself?’ Eddie asked.
‘It’s not as easy as that,’ Mary said, knowing full well the dilemma Bridie would have found herself in. ‘I should have gone over to see her this summer, especially with Aunt Ellen’s rheumatics starting up again and being unable to go herself.’
‘You knew nothing about this in the summer,’ Eddie reminded her. ‘And then the money was an issue with Junior here taking such a lot of it. There was your aunt being laid up too. How could you have just upped and left for a week or two?’
Mary knew she couldn’t have done, not really, but she felt guilty about her sister. She promised her she’d be home the following summer and until then advised Bridie to be very careful of her uncle and try to avoid situations where she might find herself alone with him and to make sure she never, ever encouraged him in any way.
At the end of the letter she suggested that she should perhaps broach the subject with her mother. But when Bridie received Mary’s reply, she screwed it up in impatience.
What the Hell did Mary think? That she encouraged, even enjoyed, the advances of a man she thought of as a fatherly figure? And didn’t she think she’d tried to avoid being alone with him? The fact that the farm was isolated in many areas made that almost impossible. And as for telling her mother … Well, that was a non-starter.
What had she expected, she asked herself, that Mary
