I’m sure Lucy will tell me all about it when she gets back.’
A few minutes later, with Lynette off to her bed, and the other girls not yet back, Bridget went through to the kitchen, where the young housekeeper, Tillie, having heard her come in earlier, was already pouring Bridget a cup of tea. ‘Thought you might be ready for this,’ she said, pushing it along the table to where Bridget had pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Had a good shopping trip?’
Having been thrown out of house and home by a violent stepfather these four years past, Tillie Salter had found a welcome at Bridget’s house of pleasure. At seventeen, innocent and plain-looking as the day was long, there was never any intention to recruit her into the ‘business’; so she was given a roof over her head and paid a wage to cook and clean and generally look after number 23, Viaduct Street, leaving Bridget free to keep a tight rein on her business, count her money, take care of her girls, and shop to her heart’s content.
During the four years she had been there, Tillie Salter had loved every minute, and had come to look on Bridget as a surrogate mother. Bridget was her idol – her hero and her friend. She might run a brothel, but she was discreet in her dealings, she looked after her girls well, and had a heart of gold. So those who knew of her business said nothing, and those who thought she was a woman who had come into money legitimately, chatted with her in the street, and saw her as a kind soul, with a happy personality.
Moreover, she seemed ever ready to listen to their problems when others would not.
Bridget thanked her for the tea. She removed her light jacket and fanned her rosy face. ‘You’ve no idea of the crowds,’ she groaned. ‘Pushing you this way and that … treading on your toes and thinking it’s your fault and not theirs. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What is it about shopping that makes martyrs of us poor women?’
Bringing her own tea, Tillie sat at the other side of the table. ‘But you love it, don’t you?’ she said shyly. ‘You love the noise and bustle, and spending your money across the counter. And I bet you went down the docks, dreaming of your homeland across the water.’
Bridget squeezed her hand. ‘Ah, you know me too well, so ye do.’ She gave a deep-down sigh. ‘Aw, Tillie, there are times when I really do miss my Ireland.’
Tillie loved to hear the stories of Bridget’s upbringing in Kilkenny. ‘Tell me again, what do you miss most?’ she asked eagerly.
Bridget was pleased to answer. ‘I miss the rolling valleys and the way the sun goes down behind the hills of an evening. I miss my folks and I miss other people – like the old fella that used to sit outside the pub of an evening and play his accordion, so the people would throw a generous handful of coins into his cap as they sauntered by.’
‘What else, Bridget?’ Tillie persisted. ‘Tell me what else.’
Bridget laughed. ‘How many times must I tell you, before you’re satisfied? I shall have to be careful, so I will, or you’ll be up and off and across the water one of these foine days, so ye will!’
‘Just tell me about the music, and the dancing,’ Tillie urged, her grey eyes bright with anticipation in her homely young face.
‘Ah, the dancing!’ Rolling her eyes, Bridget leaned back in her chair; she could see and hear the festivities in her mind and her heart ached. ‘I remember the fair in Appleby, when the horsemen would come from all over Ireland and even across the Atlantic from ’Merica, just to show their horses and traps and watch the goings-on. And if somebody took a liking to one of their best horses, they’d offer a price and when the haggling was done, they’d do the spitting of the handshake and the deal was agreed.’
Tillie cringed. ‘Ugh! I don’t think I’d want anybody spitting on my hand!’ She hid her hands behind her back as if to protect them.
Bridget roared with laughter. ‘It’s the way things are done, so it is,’ she said. ‘Sure it’s been that way for a hundred years and more, and likely it’ll be that way for many more years to come!’
Caught up in the housekeeper’s excitement, Bridget continued, ‘When the deals are all done, the men go down to the pub and celebrate, drinking and singing and dancing, too – and oh, the good crack they have!’ She threw out her arms with sheer joy. ‘I’m telling you, Tillie me darlin’, it is pure magic, so it is.’
‘And what about the dancing, Bridget? Tell me about that!’
Bridget leaned forward. ‘Sometimes it would be one couple on the floor and everybody watching, and when their feet got a-tapping and their hands got a-clapping and they couldn’t watch no longer, they’d all link arms, so they would. Then they would all dance in a line, every one of them in tune with the other – feet crossing and jumping, and going high in the air as though they were one, and the tapping and the rhythm, and the noise against the boards …’
Her voice rose higher and higher and soon her own feet were a-tapping and her hands a-clapping, and, ‘Sure, there’s no magic in the world like an Irish jig!’
Suddenly she was calling for Tillie to clap a tune, and when the girl started, Bridget leaped to her feet and holding her skirt high, she began kicking out to the sound of the clapping. And soon the clapping got faster and faster and Bridget danced and laughed and it wasn’t long before she fell into the chair, face bright red and aglow with delight. ‘Come on!’ she told Tillie. ‘Get up and I’ll show you how to do it.’
But before Tillie could do so, the sound of a child crying brought the laughter to an end. ‘Oh, the poor little divil, we’ve woke him, so we have!’
Quickly now she ran through to the cot and took the child out – a healthy-looking little chap with a chubby face, startled from his afternoon nap by all the tapping and the clapping and the laughter that rang through the house.
‘Ah, sure he’s a bonny little fella, so he is,’ Bridget cooed, and soon he was quiet on her lap, his mouth open like a fish at feeding time and his small hand stroking her blouse as he woke up properly.
‘Will ye look at him,’ she laughed tenderly. She handed the child to Tillie. ‘Best get his supper ready, me darling,’ she suggested. ‘Then you might take him upstairs for his bath. It’ll soon be his bedtime, so it will.’
Tillie put him in his high chair and there he sat, quiet as a mouse, chewing on his knuckles and watching Bridget as she gazed down on him. ‘I can’t believe how he’s grown,’ she declared. ‘How old is he exactly?’ She was never a one for figures – unless it was a strong man with a gorgeous arse and broad shoulders.
Tillie looked round from buttering his fingers of freshly-baked bread. She added some little squares of cheese for Jamie to nibble on while she cooked his soft-boiled egg. ‘He’s a year and six months old,’ she enlightened Bridget. ‘A real little boy now, no longer a baby.’ She chuckled girlishly. ‘He walked along the sofa-edge yesterday, and his fat little legs went all bandy.’
Bridget laughed. ‘If he keeps on like that, it won’t be long before he’s off to work with his pack on his back,’ she teased.
The women were tender with the little lad, as he had been born with one of his legs shorter than the other, and found it hard to balance. Bridget studied the child’s features. Unlike his mammy, whose eyes were golden-brown, he had the darkest eyes; his hair, though, was the same colour as hers – the shiny rich brown of ripe chestnuts.
Like his mammy, the child had that same quick smile and infectious laughter; though these last two years Lucy had not laughed overmuch, because she was lonely and sad, though as with every deep emotion, she tried hard not to show it. But Bridget knew, and she wondered now about the man who had come to her door. ‘There was a man here today,’ she told Tillie, who had returned with the egg-cup and spoon, and a small beaker of milk for the child.
‘I know.’ Tillie was as discreet as ever. ‘I heard him knocking the door down. He was determined to be heard.’
‘Lynette answered the door, didn’t she?’ Bridget