Bridgey wiggled the toes of her bare feet in the mud at the water’s edge as she talked to them. The ducks were used to the sound of the little girl’s voice. “Now don’t stray too close by those bushes on the other side. Who knows, some divvil of a fox or ferret might devour you, feathers and all.”
Rafferty began paddling over to the very spot Bridgey had warned them about. She stamped her foot, causing mud to splatter the frayed hem of her skirt, and waving a willow twig at the drake, she called out, “Mister Rafferty, are you deaf or just disobedient? What’ve I told you? Get out of there this very instant!”
Rafferty did a stately turn, cruising out into the center of the lake, with an ill-assorted two dozen followers in his wake. Bridgey was still shaking the stick in reprimand.
“And stay away from there, d’ye hear me, or I’ll tickle your tail with this stick, so I will. Wipe that silly smile off your beak, Mister Rafferty, and that goes for the rest of you. Stay this side, where I can see you well. The lake’s safe, sure there’s only the ould Grimblett down there—he watches over little maids and disobedient ducks good enough, ‘tis his job.”
“Bridgey!”
She flinched momentarily at the sound of her uncle’s voice.
“I’m over here by the lake, Uncle Sully.”
Sully McConville trod gingerly through the mud to his small niece.
“Have y’cleaned the duckpens out, girl?”
“I have so, while you were still abed.”
“Less of your lip. How many eggs today?”
“Seven and twenty, Uncle.”
Bridgey smelled the raw whiskey on her uncle’s breath as he brought his unshaven face close to her. McConville’s bleary red-veined eyes shifted slyly as he grabbed the willow twig from Bridgey’s hand.
“Are y’telling me the truth now?”
“I am so, Uncle Sully.”
He twitched the stick close to her nose.
“If you’re lyin’ I’ll skelp the skin off your bones, girl. I think you’re going soft in the head, talking to yourself out here. What’s all this about a Grimblett?”
Bridgey remained silent in the face of her uncle’s sour temper. Sully growled at the mud which had seeped in through his leaky boot soles.
“Go on up to the house now. Put the kettle on for tea and boil me two eggs in it, no, make that three. I’ll be taking the other two dozen in to sell at Ballymain market. Cut me three slices of white bread and put the honey jar on the table. Move yourself now!”
He snapped the twig and hurled it out into the lake, causing the ducks to quack and swim off in a half flutter. Digging a broken yellowed clay pipe out of his vest pocket Sully sucked on it. He spat noisily into the lake, calling after the girl, “And you know what you’ll get if I catch you eatin’ eggs, honey or white bread, me lady.”
Bridgey called back cheerfully, “Aye, so I do. You’ll skelp the skin off me bones!”
She busied herself around the ill-equipped kitchen of the crumbling cottage, murmuring to herself happily. “Oho, Sully McConville, don’t you think yourself the big bold man now. But you’ll find that you can’t throw broken sticks or spit into the Grimblett’s lake without the creature himself knowing it. Sure, wasn’t I a witness to the whole thing meself, to say nothing of Mister Rafferty and his ducks. Small wonder they were all smilin’ to themselves. Finer men than yourself haven’t got away with less.”
The kettle was bubbling merrily as Bridgey spooned three duck eggs into the water. Facing the open window, she laid the well-scrubbed wooden table with white bread and a brownstone crock jar of honey for her greedy uncle. There was buttermilk and two of last night’s cold boiled potatoes, still in their skins, for Bridgey’s breakfast. She watched Sully walk up from the lake, shaking mud from his boots and muttering darkly to himself about the injustices of life. The mist had begun to disperse under a yellow late spring sun, and Bridgey could make out the Grimblett. It was lying just beneath the clear surface of the lake, all green and misty, spreading wavery tentacles far and wide across its realm.
“You look fit and well today, Grimblett, though I can tell you’re angry with me uncle Sully, and sure, why wouldn’t you be? The way he sucks that dirty pipe and spits on you every day. I’ll have to go now; he’s coming for his breakfast. I’ll talk to you later.”
Sully McConville sat across the table from his niece, watching her as he sucked tea noisily from a chipped mug. Bridgey kept her eyes down, munching industriously on the potatoes and washing them down with sips of buttermilk. Sully wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
“Eat up now, girl, and thank the Lord who left me to provide for you after your ma and da passed on. Leave a clean plate now, and thank God for his goodness and bounty.”
He cracked an egg and spooned it hastily into his mouth, yellow runny yolk dribbling through the coarse whiskers onto his chin. Tearing a crust from the bread he dipped it in the honey and sucked noisily on it. Bridgey could not help the disgust that showed on her face. Sully wagged the crust at her across the table.
“Straighten your gob, girl, or I’ll skelp the skin off your bones. Duck eggs are too rich for children and the honey would only bring you out in a rash of pimples. I need it for me chest.” Here he coughed to illustrate the point. “Taters and buttermilk are what I was brought up on. They never harmed me, so you eat up now.”
“I will, Uncle.”
“And don’t waste any. There’s goodness in potato skins.”
“I’m not wasting any at all, Uncle.”
“Well make sure you don’t.”
Bridgey would rather have died than eat a duck egg. The ducks were her friends and she had seen the ducklings that came from the eggs, little, downy, smiling creatures, with tiny comical wings. But white bread and honey, that was a different matter altogether. She had dipped soft white bread into the honey when her uncle was absent—it tasted like heaven on earth. Then one day Sully had caught her; he had beaten her soundly with a blackthorn stick he kept behind the door. Bridgey had never stolen bread and honey again, though she often dreamed of the bread, with its fresh smell and crispy crust, together with the sweet, heavy, mysterious stickiness of deep amber honey, with chewy fragments of combwax which clung to the teeth. Sully’s voice broke in on her imaginings.
“Right, I’m off now to the Ballymain market. Mind you boil those taters the way I like them, so they’re floury when they split. See to the ducks, put fresh straw in their pens, and tidy up around here. Sweep the floor, wash the dishes, and scrub the table well. I’ll be back at nightfall, and you know what’ll happen to you if there’s anything amiss, Bridgey.”
“You’ll skelp the skin off me bones, Uncle.”
“Aye, so I will.”
Sully licked honey from his whiskers, belched, lighted his pipe and set his hat on squarely. Then he left for Ballymain market.
The afternoon was peaceful; under the warm sun the lake lay smooth and placid. Even the ducks had stopped paddling; they floated about silently, napping in the noontide. Mister Rafferty stood on the bank, gently squelching the mud under his webbed feet. Though he was facing away from the house his bright little eye oscillated backwards, as he watched Bridgey come to the water’s edge, her bare feet disturbing the thin crust that the sun had baked upon the mud. Rafferty gave a short quack of welcome, declining to comment further on the loaf and honey crock which the little girl placed upon a stone. She sat down next to them. The drake wandered over, his slim graceful neck nodding slightly as he waddled. Bridgey passed her hand gently over his sleek head.
“Good afternoon to you, sir. Have you had enough of the swimming?”
Mister Rafferty nodded and settled down by her.