The Journey by Josephine Cox Page B

“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 gray 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, my love!” 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 atapping and her hands aclapping, 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 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