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.
‘One o’clock.’ She must have dozed. What had she been thinking of?
She listened intently. The house was so hushed that the ticking of the kitchen clock could be heard. She eased herself from the bed, pulled her coat from the wardrobe, and put it on, tucking her scarf into her neck and pulling her hat over her hair. Then, she lifted up the money box where she’d put the wages she’d fought for, grateful that she had, opened it and tipped the money into the large man’s handkerchief she’d taken in readiness from the laundry basket. She tied it with a knot and buried it at the bottom of one of the bags she’d had hidden in the wardrobe.
Her gloves she stuffed into her pocket and she took the letter she’d already written from beneath the mattress and smoothed it out.
Dear Mammy and Daddy
I’m sorry I’ve had to leave this way, but I could stand the life no longer. I’m going to England, where I’m going to lodge with Mary for a wee while. I will write to you again to let you know how I am doing and I hope you will not be too upset or angry with me.
Love Bridie
She smiled grimly to herself as she re-read the last line. Upset! Angry! She knew her mother would be furious, raging, and doubted she’d ever truly forgive her. But it was too late for regrets.
She laid the letter on the chest, secured it with a candlestick, and then crossed to the window. It opened with a creak and whine that sounded terribly loud in the quiet house and for a while she stopped and listened, her heart in her mouth.
There was no stirring though, other than the wind moaning as it buffeted the house and set the trees swaying and rustling. Bridie lifted the bags out of the window and then climbed out herself.
The raw and intense cold took her breath away and hurt her throat as she drew her breath in a gasp. The moon was full and hung like a golden globe in the clear night sky and the frost crackled underfoot on the cobbles as she made her way across them to the barn. She’d had the foresight to bring a slice of soda bread with her, which she shared between the two farm dogs, stilling the barks in their throat before they were able to rouse the house. She pulled the bike from the pile of sacks she had hidden it under, hung the bags on the handlebars and wheeled it up the lane to the main road.
There she stopped and looked down at the farmhouse. It looked so homely, so welcoming in the light of the moon. What if she could never go back? What if that door was closed to her for ever?
She pushed those thoughts away before she went scurrying back down the lane and into her bed. She mounted the bike and set off, glad of the warm clothes for the night was colder than she’d ever known it and the fields around were rimed in frost, which sparkled in the moonlight. She told herself to be stout-hearted. She was doing the only thing she could do and so she pedalled down the road towards Barnes More Halt and never looked back.
She was familiar with the route to the station at Barnes More and set off confidently alongside the river Lowerymore, the two dark mounds of Barnes Gap towering before her.
She was thankful to see that the rail tracks and the road ran side by side. The moonlight was helpful and it felt no distance to Derg Bridge Halt. It was as silent as the grave and Bridie rode past it quickly. The rail bus tracks then led over a single span bridge across the river known as the little red stream, or Sruthan Dearg, while Bridie took the road bridge further down, meeting again with the rail tracks as she began the route through Barnes Gap.
It seemed almost menacing to ride between those imposing craggy hills with the darkness thicker than ever. The wind channelling through the gap hit her at gale force and she had trouble controlling the bike. She rode on quickly, anxious to get away from the place, remembering suddenly the gruesome tales Uncle Francis used to tell her. And she didn’t want to think of her uncle either. If the man had never existed, she’d not be scurrying from her home at the dead of night, pregnant, frightened and alone.
The darkness was no less dense when Bridie was through the Gap and she looked for the moon, but it was obscured with clouds and few stars twinkled. She wished she’d thought to bring a torch or lantern, something to light her way. She also knew that she had to skirt the edge of Lough Mourne. It was a beautiful loch in daylight, but as she could see so little in the pitch black, she went on cautiously, afraid of going too close to the muddy banks and falling in.
The road and railway began to climb steeply up to Meerglas Halt built, people said, for the sake of Lord Lifford, the first chairman, who lived out that way. But before Bridie had gone halfway up, she was gasping for breath and her legs had begun to shake.
She could have taken an easier route lower down the hillside, but she’d have had to lose sight of the rail tracks then and, in such darkness, she was afraid that if she went too far away from the tracks, she’d never find them again.
She could ride no more so she got off the bike and pushed it up the road to the station, feeling the strain in the backs of her legs. The darkness was so intense, she felt she could reach out and touch it as she eventually mounted her bike again – the road didn’t climb again for some time so she was able to ride more easily.
Suddenly the wind picked up and icy spears of rain began to stab at her and she groaned because she’d brought nothing to cover herself with.
The road began to dip at last and Bridie was glad to ease her legs. She freewheeled down while keeping the tracks in view as much as possible as they ran between shrubs and trees. The clouds shifted slightly and for a brief moment the moon shone down through the driving rain and she caught a glimpse of the steel girder bridge over the River Mourne.
She was nearing Stranorlar, the next halt along.
She redoubled her efforts until the stone viaduct spanning the River Finn came into view and she knew she was almost there. The
