“Ah well, your family look all nice and peaceful there. See Matilda with her head beneath her wing, fast asleep, Lord love her.”
Drake and girl sat watching the water. Bridgey half closed her eyes and began intoning in a soft singsong voice. .
“Grimblett, Grimblett, are you there?”
The lake stayed calm and unruffled.
“I know for sure you’re out there, Grimblett. Will y’not bid me a good afternoon?”
Out upon the middle of the waters a single large bubble plopped and gurgled, causing ripples to widen across the surface. Bridgey and Mister Rafferty nodded knowingly.
“Ah, you’re still angered over Sully spittin’ and throwing sticks at you this morning.”
Once more the lake bubbled and gurgled. This time a frond of the heavy green weed that lay beneath the surface rose momentarily clear of the waters; then it slid back under. Bridgey sighed. “Well I’m sorry for you, but there’s little Rafferty or I can do.”
A huge bubble, like an upturned bathtub, gurgled its way into the noon air; more ripples began, stretching in circles until small waves lapped over Bridgey’s toes. She stood up.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Grimblett. I’ll pour a bit of this honey to you, some bread and all. That should make you feel better, eh?”
This time the lake lay still.
Bridgey broke the bread and scattered it on the water. Immediately the ducks came awake and swam over to gobble it up, though Mister Rafferty remained faithfully at her side. Bridgey picked up the honey crock.
“Oh come on now, Grimblett, don’t be sulking on such a fine afternoon. See, you were too late to get the bread, now Mister Rafferty’s family’ve eaten it. Here, try some honey. You’ll like it, the taste is like flowers and meadows in summer. Come on now.”
Bridgey tilted the crock, shaking it vigorously to make the honey flow. Rafferty watched her intently. The honey did not seem too keen on leaving its container, though a very small amount oozed out onto Bridgey’s fingers. She licked the stickiness and rinsed her hands in the lake, cajoling her friend the Grimblett.
“Ah c’mon now, don’t be shy. You’ll enjoy it.”
Upending the crock, she shook it hard. The smooth glazed earthenware jar shot from between her wet hands and rolled away underwater down the steep lake bed before Bridgey could do anything about it. She slumped on the stone, holding her hands across her eyes, trying not to believe what she had just done.
“Heaven preserve me. Uncle Sully will skelp the skin off me bones with his blackthorn stick. I know he will, he’ll have me very life! Grimblett, is there nothing you can do to save a little maid. Roll the crock back to me. Oh please!”
The water bubbled apologetically and lay calm. Mister Rafferty placed his bill sympathetically in Bridgey’s lap as his family paddled close in and floated there, watching her. Slow minutes of the sunny noontide ebbed inexorably away. Bridgey’s tears flowed along with them.
Nothing could hold back time and the return of Sully McConville from Ballymain market. Bridgey had cried herself to sleep by the lake; she awakened with the slight chill of advancing eventide to a reddening sky in which the sun sank gloriously, like a peach dipped into port wine. Hurrying to the house Bridgey rushed about like a dervish, setting the pot of potatoes on its tripod over the fire and tossing in a dash of salt. As if to redeem her quivering flesh from the crime she had committed the little girl set about her chores with furious energy, piling turf on the fire, scrubbing the table, sweeping the hard packed earth floor with a broom until dust flew widespread, wiping that same dust from shelf, table, chair and windows with a cheesecloth. She put just the right amount of leaves into the battered teapot and trimmed the lamp wick to even the flame as darkness fell. Inside, the cottage was as fresh as new paint. Bridgey stood at the open door, her heart beating fitfully against the leaden weight within her chest as she watched her uncle Sully staggering up the path through the darkness.
It was evident that he had been drinking by the way he weaved to and fro. Under his arm Sully carried a bottle and a piece of smoke-cured bacon from Ballymain market, to supplement his supper of boiled potatoes. He brushed past Bridgey and sat heavily in his chair, slamming down the bacon upon the table.
“Bridgey, slice some of this up an’ fry it for me, a man needs some meat now and again. It’s no good for children, mind, too fat an’ salty. Well, don’t stand there gawpin’ with cow’s eyes, move yourself, girl, or it’ll be mornin’ soon.”
With trembling hands she cut the bacon into rough slices, setting it on the frying pan to sizzle as she drained off the water from the potatoes … fearful that any moment her uncle might call for bread and honey. Sully, however, was not looking to satisfy his sweet tooth, not while there was whiskey to be had. Weary and footsore after the long trek home from Ballymain, he kicked off his boots and pulled the chair up to the fire. Lighting his clay pipe with a spill he started drinking straight from the bottle. Bridgey worked with quick, nervous energy, laying out his plate of food at the table and pouring a mug of tea for him. She gave a fearful start at the sound of Sully’s voice.
“Is that the ducks I can hear still out on the lake, girl?”
“Ducks? Oh I must have forgotten. I’ll get them into the pen right away. Come and have your supper, Uncle Sully. It’s on the table, all nice and hot.”
He swigged at the bottle. His pipe lay forgotten on
the hearth.
“I’ll Uncle Sully you, idle little brat. Never mind the
supper. You get those ducks in or I’ll skelp the skin off
your bones!”
Bridgey fled the cottage, hurrying through the night to the water’s edge. Mister Rafferty stood on the bank. Cocking his head on one side he quacked wearily. Bridgey could make out the shapes of other ducks, asleep on the far bank.
“Oh Mister Rafferty, there you are. I’m sorry I forgot to take you and your family to the pens. You’ve not been fed either. ‘Tis all me own fault, I’m a terrible girl.”
The drake stretched himself, spreading his wings he quacked aloud his various complaints. Bridgey cast an uneasy glance at the cottage. “Hush now, or you’ll have me uncle out here with his great stick. Listen, we’ll never get those others off the far bank until morning. You bide here and hold your noise; I’ve got to go back to the house. I promise you’ll come to no harm. The Grimblett will watch over you and your family, I know he will.”
Mister Rafferty settled his neck down on his crop feathers as Bridgey ran off into the darkness. Behind him the surface of the lake threw up a few bubbles before subsiding into the calm of a late spring night.
Bridgey breathed a small sob of relief; Uncle Sully had fallen asleep in his chair by the fire. Carefully she removed the quarter-full whiskey bottle from between his limp fingers and set it on the table, alongside the now cold bacon and potatoes. It was not unusual for him to sleep all night in front of the fire, fully dressed, after he had been drinking. Safe for the night at least, Bridgey backed up the fire with damp slow-burning turf. Taking some potatoes in a clean piece of cloth she went back to the lake with an old shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Sully McConville snored gently, his mouth half open, chin on chest and hands lying loosely upon his stomach as it heaved up and down in the flickering shadows of the warm room.
Out by the lake Bridgey perched on a stone, sharing her meal of cold cooked potato with Mister Rafferty. A thin moon sliver hung over the lake like a slice of lemon rind, turning the water to a light golden shimmer, backed by the silhouette of the trees which massed on the far lakeshore. Bridgey murmured softly to her friend, “There’s a fear in me for what the morn will bring. I wish it could stay peaceful night forever, so I do.”
Beside her the drake blinked his bright little eyes and smiled that secret smile that only ducks and drakes know the meaning of.