With her decision made, she wrote to Mary. It was 1st 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.
‘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