Catholic.
“That’s why they fell out. Eric and your Dad.”
Lindsey said it, flat. Like she’d been happier while she could tell herself there was a different reason. She turned to Brenda:
“Was it bad like that here as well?”
Maybe she’d thought nowhere could be as bad as Ireland. She didn’t wait for an answer anyhow, Lindsey just let out her breath in confirmation:
“That’s why Eric had to get away from him.”
Brenda nodded, quiet. It was hard to hear it, said straight out like that, bald fact: her brother and father went twenty years without talking, neither of them budging, two decades lost to both of them. She’d sooner have closed the subject, only then she saw the look on Lindsey’s face, like she’d been let down.
“How come you never said? About Franny. You could have just told me.”
Brenda knew she should have.
She’d come close, any number of times, and she wished just now that she’d taken that plunge, instead of it coming out in a mess like this. She’d started off thinking Graham would let slip, surely, or one of his brothers; someone else would take that onus. Brenda ended up leaving it so long, part of her had kidded on, the girl already knew it; that it was unspoken but understood anyhow, in all their Franny conversations. And what to say now?
“I’m sorry, love. I wasnae tryin tae hush it up.”
Brenda could see that must be just how it felt.
Maybe Lindsey thought she was ashamed.
Maybe she was.
Where the girl came from it could be life and death, which side of the great divide you grew up. Why folk over here wanted part of that was a mystery to Brenda. It was mostly just the ignorant who stuck their oar in, as far as she could make out, glorying in someone else’s fight, or taking the battle to the football grounds. All those idiots who sang rebel songs at Celtic Park, or smashed out the green traffic lights at junctions when Rangers lost, stabbing each other on the side roads after Old Firm cup ties. They talked like they were carrying the torch, from the Reformation to the Troubles, but Brenda thought it was just small-minded, taking pride in bearing grudges.
Lindsey asked:
“What did your mother say? Nana Margaret? Couldn’t she have got your Dad to see sense?”
Brenda shook her head:
“She’d passed by then, a good couple ae years back.” Not there any more to temper him, if she ever had.
And anyhow, Brenda wanted to get one thing straight: it wasn’t Franny she was ashamed of, it was her Dad. She said:
“Franny was her ain woman, aye? An she was just right for Eric.”
Brenda thought Papa Robert had known that fine well, even without her mother there to point it out.
“My Da could never bring himself to say it. He just couldnae get over hissel. His ain hurt, aye?”
He said it all went back to Louth. And he’d told them enough times: how they didn’t think about things long enough, go backfar enough, take the time to understand. All the blows his family suffered.
“Course Eric wouldnae hear it.”
Her brother had told her it was just bigotry, and it didn’t matter how their Dad dressed it up. So Brenda sighed now, telling Lindsey:
“It was a hard fight, aw told.”
She’d spent so many years as the go-between, choosing her words; not just with her father, but with Eric as well. Always thinking before she spoke: what she could say and what was best swallowed. It got so she couldn’t even talk to Malky, he got so sick of all that back and forth, and the grief it caused.
“I mind when Papa Robert died. It was a relief, aye?”
It wasn’t what a daughter should say about her father’s passing, but there it was. She’d said it now, and it was true as well: she’d needed a break from all that strife. Brenda thought they all had, the whole family—a fresh start, a gloss put on the past—and she looked at Lindsey now, hoping she might understand.
Lindsey gave no sign, not at first, she just turned back to Eric’s picture, Franny’s
“That’s why they fell out. Eric and your Dad.”
Lindsey said it, flat. Like she’d been happier while she could tell herself there was a different reason. She turned to Brenda:
“Was it bad like that here as well?”
Maybe she’d thought nowhere could be as bad as Ireland. She didn’t wait for an answer anyhow, Lindsey just let out her breath in confirmation:
“That’s why Eric had to get away from him.”
Brenda nodded, quiet. It was hard to hear it, said straight out like that, bald fact: her brother and father went twenty years without talking, neither of them budging, two decades lost to both of them. She’d sooner have closed the subject, only then she saw the look on Lindsey’s face, like she’d been let down.
“How come you never said? About Franny. You could have just told me.”
Brenda knew she should have.
She’d come close, any number of times, and she wished just now that she’d taken that plunge, instead of it coming out in a mess like this. She’d started off thinking Graham would let slip, surely, or one of his brothers; someone else would take that onus. Brenda ended up leaving it so long, part of her had kidded on, the girl already knew it; that it was unspoken but understood anyhow, in all their Franny conversations. And what to say now?
“I’m sorry, love. I wasnae tryin tae hush it up.”
Brenda could see that must be just how it felt.
Maybe Lindsey thought she was ashamed.
Maybe she was.
Where the girl came from it could be life and death, which side of the great divide you grew up. Why folk over here wanted part of that was a mystery to Brenda. It was mostly just the ignorant who stuck their oar in, as far as she could make out, glorying in someone else’s fight, or taking the battle to the football grounds. All those idiots who sang rebel songs at Celtic Park, or smashed out the green traffic lights at junctions when Rangers lost, stabbing each other on the side roads after Old Firm cup ties. They talked like they were carrying the torch, from the Reformation to the Troubles, but Brenda thought it was just small-minded, taking pride in bearing grudges.
Lindsey asked:
“What did your mother say? Nana Margaret? Couldn’t she have got your Dad to see sense?”
Brenda shook her head:
“She’d passed by then, a good couple ae years back.” Not there any more to temper him, if she ever had.
And anyhow, Brenda wanted to get one thing straight: it wasn’t Franny she was ashamed of, it was her Dad. She said:
“Franny was her ain woman, aye? An she was just right for Eric.”
Brenda thought Papa Robert had known that fine well, even without her mother there to point it out.
“My Da could never bring himself to say it. He just couldnae get over hissel. His ain hurt, aye?”
He said it all went back to Louth. And he’d told them enough times: how they didn’t think about things long enough, go backfar enough, take the time to understand. All the blows his family suffered.
“Course Eric wouldnae hear it.”
Her brother had told her it was just bigotry, and it didn’t matter how their Dad dressed it up. So Brenda sighed now, telling Lindsey:
“It was a hard fight, aw told.”
She’d spent so many years as the go-between, choosing her words; not just with her father, but with Eric as well. Always thinking before she spoke: what she could say and what was best swallowed. It got so she couldn’t even talk to Malky, he got so sick of all that back and forth, and the grief it caused.
“I mind when Papa Robert died. It was a relief, aye?”
It wasn’t what a daughter should say about her father’s passing, but there it was. She’d said it now, and it was true as well: she’d needed a break from all that strife. Brenda thought they all had, the whole family—a fresh start, a gloss put on the past—and she looked at Lindsey now, hoping she might understand.
Lindsey gave no sign, not at first, she just turned back to Eric’s picture, Franny’s
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