Till the Sun Shines Through by Anne Bennett Read Free Book Online

rhythmic tap of the women’s feet as they danced on the stone slabs of the cottage floor below. There’d be a break halfway through when they’d eat and drink deeply and talk. The murmur of voices would rise and fall, sometimes heated and raised in argument, sometimes quieter and gentler. But the music would always begin again and she’d go to sleep with the tunes running through her head.
    Now, though, Bridie was allowed to stay up for the rambling. She had turned out of her work clothes and after a wash from the basin in her room, she had changed into her second-best dress and was ready with Sarah to greet the first arrivals.
    Francis was one of the last guests to arrive and there was a whistle of approval as he drew a large bottle of poteen from beneath his coat. ‘I hope you didn’t get that from Tommy Flaherty?’ one of the men said. ‘I heard the Garda are after him.’
    â€˜Christ, haven’t they been after him for years?’ another put in. ‘Haven’t caught him yet?’
    â€˜He’s too wily a fox for them,’ said the first man.
    â€˜Anyway,’ Francis said. ‘They’re only cross because he won’t supply them. They like a drop the same as the rest of us.’
    â€˜The priests do at any rate, I know that,’ said Jimmy. ‘I passed on a bottle to Father O’Dwyer once and he was delighted with me so.’
    â€˜Aye,’ Francis said. ‘Did you hear the one about the young curate from England who came to help out a country priest in Ireland? He’d had a man in confession admitting to making poteen. As he’d never heard of such a thing before and wasn’t sure of the penance to give him, he went to the older priest and said, “There’s a man here making poteen. What shall I give him?”
    â€˜â€œWell, be careful now,” said the older priest. “These men would fleece the likes of you. I never give more than three and six a bottle.”’
    There were gales of laughter at this. ‘It’s right enough too,’ one said when the laughter had died down. ‘Stingy buggers, priests.’
    â€˜Come on,’ Jimmy cried. ‘The night’s running away with us and we’ve not played a tune yet.’
    Bridie helped the women pile food onto plates on the big table, but surreptitiously watched the dancers. Mary had taught her some dances before she went away, but she’d not performed any since she’d left and was surprised how much she remembered. One of the women, seeing her watching, seized her hand and pulled her in to join them and she danced along with the rest.
    She was glad when a halt was called for the food – the sweat was running from her – and she slipped outside for the night air to cool her down, walking a little way 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.
    â€˜Not at all,’ she said.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜No. No …’
    â€˜I don’t think that’s true,’ Francis said. ‘Have I ever hurt you?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Am I likely to then?’
    â€˜I don’t suppose so.’
    â€˜So