Emmie Blake
Bridget O’Brien sighed as, disturbed by all the activity outside, she left her reading and opened her front door to look. The road was ablaze with action. Blue flashing lights went racing past and the sound of sirens echoed throughout the neighbourhood. Streetlights revealed a platoon of soldiers, guns poised at the ready, running ‘at the double’ in the direction of Lisburn town centre. She could hear cries of anger and confusion and see flames curling into the night sky. The smell of burning tyres hung in the air. ‘Will the ‘Troubles’ never end? Will we ever know peace?’ she wondered. With a heavy heart, she closed the door firmly and drew the curtains across the windows; she knew that the best thing to do was to stay quiet and not get involved. She returned to her reading. The book cover with its Celtic images of circle, scrolls and mythical beasts declared its title in bold print: ’Celtic Mythology and Modernity.’ Bridget turned to the page she had just left and began reading: ‘Brigid, Imbolc and Christianity.’
She was fascinated by what she read. Brigid, a Celtic goddess, apparently had a multiple personality, being the goddess of Spring, fertility and life as well as of poetry and architecture. Some of Ireland’s many wells had been dedicated to her and, as a result, those waters were believed to have the power to heal people. The goddess held a contradiction of characteristics within her being: passion and fire sitting alongside serenity and healing. ‘Sure now, aren’t we all full of contradictions!’ Bridget thought. She read on. Brigid’s feast day, Imbolc, was celebrated at the beginning of February, a time when winter was beginning to loosen its stranglehold. Brigid, with her flaming red hair and cloak of light, was the personification of the coming of Spring and its promise of fruitfulness. A sudden thought occurred to Bridget and she looked across the hallway, though the open door into her kitchen. Trays of ‘Christingles,’ oranges decorated with a candle and dried fruits, sat there, ready to be taken to St Joseph’s church for the Candlemas service the next day: the second of February. It was a much loved service to honour both the presentation of the infant Christ in the Temple and a time when the medieval monks would bless their annual store of candles. Bridget loved that moment when the candles were lit and distributed throughout the congregation to the children whose little voices were then raised in a hymn of praise. It had taken her many hours to make the ‘Christingles’ but she did not mind that; with her husband long dead and her grown up sons living ‘across the water,’ she had plenty of time on her hands. The making of these was just one of the many jobs she was happy to do for the local church. Father Martin jokingly called her ‘The Matron,’ a pillar of the local community. She shared in the joke, but deep within she yearned for something far more precious than a title: to be loved and have someone to love. ‘After all,’ she reckoned, ‘I’m still in my forties; too young to be a matron. ‘
Now, though, as she looked at the Christingles, a disturbing thought occurred to Bridget. She had been brought up to think of the candle and circlet of fruit as representative of the Light of Christ, Lord of all creation. Her mind started wandering as she considered other possibilities. Maybe the practice started long before Christianity reached Ireland, with the candle and fruits being signs of the Celtic goddess Brigid. Did the ancient community use similar symbols to sing her praises and invoke her blessings upon them? Possibly the Christian ritual was window dressing of an ancient practice, imposed by the early saints, over the festival of Imbolc. Her thoughts became even more disturbing. What if all the tales of that most revered saint, Bridget (or St Bride, as she was sometimes called), were no more than a Christian overlay of Brigid? Her head started to reel at the implications. She felt a thrill of shame. ‘Maybe I should tell Father Martin these thoughts next time I go to Confession?’ She felt confused. She needed a cup of tea.
She stood up, stretched her aching back and wandered through the hall, passing a mirror on the wall. She paused and looked. A woman with smooth skin and fading red hair looked back at her. She gave a wry smile and murmured, “Well what do you think? Am I turning into a heretic or what?” The reflection gave no answer. She shrugged and continued into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Rain was now lashing the window panes and a wind howling like a banshee through the gaps in the window frame. As she stood waiting for the water to boil, she noticed that the rubbish bin needed emptying.
‘No time like the present,’ she thought, flinging on a raincoat. She picked up the bin and opened the kitchen door. Bridget gasped as the force of the storm hit her. As she stepped outside, her foot hit something firm, causing her to frown. Someone had left a pile of sodden rags on her back door step. Tutting loudly, she bent down, ready to collect them and throw them away, But then the ‘rags’ moved. She jumped back in fright. She heard a moan as a blood streaked face was turned towards her. It was that of a young woman.
“Holy Mother of God!” Bridget exclaimed, “whatever have we here?” She bent down and put an arm around the prone figure and, with some difficulty, helped her upright. The woman flinched as she tried to put weight on her left foot. With some considerable effort, they made it back into the kitchen and Bridget helped her into a chair. The girl, for she looked no more than twenty, was in a mess. Her hair was all tangled and caked in blood, with fresh blood still running down the side of her head and a large bruise spreading across her face.
“For goodness’ sake, whatever happened?” Bridget asked. “But never mind that now. Let’s get you cleaned up first.” She fetched her first aid kit and a basin of warm water and gently cleaned the scalp and face. A gaping wound was revealed. As she staunched the flow of blood and wrapped a bandage around the woman’s head, she gave thanks for her early years as a nurse. Her attention then turned to the swollen and discoloured ankle, as she tenderly felt all around it. “Nothing broken. Just a bad sprain I would say. But we should get you to a hospital for proper treatment. That wound might need stitches.”
The young woman reacted as if stung, jumping out of the chair before her legs gave way beneath her and she slumped back. “No! Not the hospital!”
“Why ever not? You need medical attention.”
“They’ll find me. Come and get me. I won’t be safe,” she wailed.
“Who will? Who’ll come and get you?" Even as she spoke, Bridget realised that sometimes it was best not to ask too many questions; she lived in threatening times.
“The police! They’ll know that that I was in the the riot, part of the mob torching cars. They’ll do for me!” She shook her head in distress.
“Okay, okay.” Bridget tried to calm her. She understood that fear of hospitals. No-one around here would go into hospital, unless absolutely desperate. They all knew that it was a dangerous place: too full of police, renegades and informers. Dangers all! ‘What to do now, though?’ she thought. Practical as ever, she turned from her unexpected visitor and made two cups of tea, putting several spoonfuls of sugar into the one for her ‘guest’. “For the shock,” she explained. The young woman sipped the hot liquid carefully. She started to focus on her surroundings. Bridget introduced herself, “I’m Bridget O ‘Brien. What’s your name?”
“Peggy Brown,” came the slow reply.
“Well Peggy, I guess I’ll just to have to make you as comfortable as I can for now. Maybe things will look better in the morning. But first we ought to get you out of those soaking clothes.”
She helped the injured woman across the hall into the her bedroom at the back of the house. Peggy collapsed onto the bed and sat passively as Bridget quietly undressed her and wrapped her in a blanket. She lay back on the pillows as her feet were gently lifted onto the bed.
“That’s better,” Bridget said. “Now. Is there someone I can ‘phone to come and collect you? Family or friend?”
The girl’s face closed, her mouth set in a grim line. “No. Nobody.”
“Really! There must be someone.”
Peggy shook her head. “Nobody.”
Bridget stood and looked at her in bewilderment. Clearly she was not in a fit state to leave just yet. “Okay. You can stay the night here and then we’ll sort something out in the morning.”
Peggy gave her a grateful smile. But the look on her face turned to one of horror as she gazed past Bridget at the picture of ‘The Sacred Heart of Jesus’ hanging on the wall. Her hand flew to her mouth in shock. “My God!” she exclaimed, “You’re Catholic!”
Bridget was taken aback; she hadn’t been expecting that. “Aye, a Catholic, an’ proud of it,” she said. There was a pause. “You a Protestant then?” The girl nodded. Centuries of oppression and hate suddenly fractured the growing bond between them. They looked at each other with suspicion.
“I must go. I can’t stay here!” Peggy tried to scramble out of bed but collapsed back, sweating with exertion.
Bridget grimaced. “You’re not going anywhere tonight, my girl. We’re stuck with each other.” She drew up a chair and sat at the bedside. Within a few moments, Peggy fell asleep, moaning as she tossed and turned. Bridget, worried by the head injury, kept watch. She was doubly worried. The girl’s head was cause for concern but even more so was the thought, ‘I don’t want to be doing this; she belongs to ‘the other side.’ I’ll be in real trouble if I’m found out harbouring a Protestant; they’ll say I’m an informer.’ She shuddered at the thought. She knew what the IRA was capable of doing to people accused of that. ‘But I can’t throw her out. Do I phone the hospital, regardless of what she says? That’s her problem surely.’
For comfort she pulled out a bible from the locker drawer and opened it at random. It fell open at the Gospel of St Luke, on the page headed ‘The Good Samaritan.’ She knew this parable of Jesus by heart, but still she read every word closely before shutting the book and sitting back, reflecting. The story told of the Samaritan who helped an injured man lying by the roadside. It was a stranger, a despised enemy, who had helped the man; his own people had passed him by. Bridget felt challenged by the scripture; it seemed to be speaking directly to her. She took out her rosary and began to pray. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” The familiar words brought her some comfort and she nodded off to sleep in the chair.
A shaft of sunlight woke her. She blinked, trying to work out where she was. ‘Why am I not in my bed?’ Then memory returned. She looked across at Peggy, lying under the blanket. She frowned and looked closer. The young woman’s face was pale and grey, her breathing short and rapid. Bridget put a hand on her forehead. ‘She’s running a fever, that could be dangerous.’ She stretched her stiff body upright and headed for the kitchen. A few minutes later, she was back with a basin of cool water and a cloth. Again and again she mopped that fevered brow. She fetched a glass of water and held it tenderly to the parched lips, allowing just a few drops to trickle into the mouth.
Bridget kept an anxious watch as the hours ticked by. Gradually, the colour returned to Peggy’s face and her breathing became less ragged. The fever seemed to have broken. Bridget glanced at her watch; two in the afternoon. A sudden realisation hit her. The church service was due in a couple of hours. ‘The Christingles! I need to get them to church! But - I can’t leave the lass.’ She thought rapidly before splashing water on her own face, combing her hair and throwing on a coat. Swiftly she loaded the trays into her car and, carefully locking the front door behind her, drove as fast as she could without bringing any attention to herself. She parked the car next to a large, imposing house, signposted ‘The Presbytery,’ and ran up the path. Father Martin himself opened the door; his wrinkled face broke into a smile at the sight of her.
“Why, Bridget, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve brought the Christingles, Father. I - I’m not feeling well enough to go to the church service.” It was, she reasoned with herself, only a half-truth, not a ‘proper’ lie. In any case, she could always tell him the truth in the secrecy of the Confessional. He looked at her closely.
“For sure, Bridget. You do look rather peaky. Take yourself home and I’ll see to these.” For someone of his age, he was remarkably fit and quickly unloaded the car. “Off you go now. I hope you’ll feel better soon.”
She smiled her thanks and headed home, worrying over Peggy. She arrived back at her house and listened carefully as she opened the door. No sound, for good or bad, disturbed the silence. Bridget opened the door to the room where she had left Peggy and gasped. The bed was empty. ‘Where’s she gone? What trouble’s brewing now?’ The next moment she breathed a sigh of relief. The young woman, hobbling badly, came back into the room.
Peggy looked at Bridget and registered the concern on her face.“It’s alright,” she said, "I‘ve just been to the bathroom.” She flopped back into bed.
Bridget sighed and turned away. “I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. It was difficult to know what to cook for the invalid. She decided some broth would be suitable and soon returned to the bedroom, carrying two bowls on a dainty tray. “Come on, try and eat some of this. You need to get your strength up.” Patiently, she placed a few spoonfuls into Peggy’s mouth before she fell back, exhausted, onto the pillow.
The girl watched Bridget carefully as she ate her own soup. After a while she spoke angrily.
“You know, don’t you, that I’ll be labelled an IRA sympathiser if I’m found here.”
She nodded. “And I‘ll be seen as a Protestant informer. We’re both in big trouble.”
Peggy continued in a puzzled voice. “ What you helping me for? I don’t need a Catholic’s help.”
Bridget sighed heavily, her worry and exasperation boiling over. She turned to leave the room. “In that case, I’ll just make that ‘phone call to the hospital; they can come and get you. At least that will clear me; maybe I’ll get off lightly then.”
‘No-ooo! Please don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just that - I don’t understand. It’s not what I expect of a Catholic.”
By way of response, Bridget held up the bible. “My faith calls for it. Didn’t Jesus himself say ‘Love your enemy’?”
Peggy chewed her lower lip as she thought this over. “But what are we going to do?”
“We’ll think of something. You just rest for a while.”
A few hours later, Bridget looked in on her patient, now sitting up in the bed. The girl’s elfin face, surrounded by a mop of brown curls, regarded her steadily.
“We need to do something about you. You can’t stay here. We’re both in danger. You’ll be found if anyone comes to the house.”
Peggy looked sullen. “But I can’t move far with this ankle.”
“You don’t have to. Just get up the stairs to the attic bedroom; you’ll be safe there.” She helped Peggy out of the bed, wrapping a dressing gown around her, and tried to take some of her weight on to her own shoulder so as to protect the girl’s ankle. Bridget threw a quick glance towards the front door to check no-one was outside. Moving slowly, they crossed the room and headed for the stairs. By the time the reached the top, they were both panting. “In here,” Bridget said, guiding Peggy into a low ceilinged room with twin beds. “It used to be the boys’ room when they were little. Doesn’t get much use now.” She lowered the girl onto one of the beds and covered her over again. Peggy looked around. Bridget watched as she took in the dim skylight above her, the children’s books stacked on a shelf and a model aeroplane hanging from the ceiling.
“Keiran and Finn loved it up here. This was their hideaway, the gateway to many imaginary adventures. I’ve been meaning to do it up sometime but never seemed to have the heart to do it. Suppose I’ve been hoping for grandchildren before too long. Anyway, it’ll do you for now. But no noise, mind, and no light at night. We don’t want anyone outside realising that someone’s hiding up here. Spies are everywhere.”
Peggy bit her lip and nodded in agreement. Just as Bridget was going out through the bedroom door, the girl spoke softly, “Thank you.You’re a good woman - for a Catholic.”
In response, Bridget rolled her eyes, though a small smile played around her lips.
The next day, Bridget shared her time between her daily chores and the room upstairs. On one of her visits, she noticed that Peggy was gazing at the row of children’s books on the shelf. She pointed at one particularly colourful cover. “I had that book too,” Peggy said, “I really loved it.”
“Oh. That was Kieran’s favourite. Night after night, I would have to read that before he would settle down to sleep.” They laughed together at that thought.
Gradually, as time went by, the reserve between the two unlikely companions fell away. Bridget entertained Peggy with tales of her ‘two little boys’ and their escapades: “right little tykes,” she said.
In return, Peggy spoke of happy childhood days on family picnics. Her voice faded though with her next words. “My parents died two years ago, in a car accident. I never even got to say goodbye,” she murmured. A tear trickled down her cheek.
Bridget reached out and took her hand, patting it gently. “Let it out, Pet,” she said.
When the tears had finished falling, Peggy wiped her eyes and said in a small voice, “I was an only child. I’m all alone now except for an aged aunt living in a Care Home and a cousin in England.”
“Oh, you poor wee lass!” Bridget’s voice carried a depth of compassion.
“I had a fella,” the girl continued, “but he’s obviously no good.” She paused. “It was him that dragged me off to the march. At first it was grand, drums and pipes playing and orange banners flying. Then our way was blocked by a Catholic crowd. At first it was just chanting, but it soon turned nasty - as it usually does. Missiles were thrown by both sides, petrol bombs started exploding and cars were overturned. When the police and army came, he ran off and left me to fend for myself. That’s how I got my injuries. The police lashed out with batons and riot shields. I fled, with a group of others, down your alley. I saw your gate was ajar and dived through to hide in your garden.”
Bridget made a mental note to check she kept it locked in future.
Peggy went on speaking, “They carried on chasing the rest of them but I was safe.” A smile flickered across her face. “Guess I was really lucky. I fell into the hands of a good Samaritan. … even though it does leave us with a problem.”
Over the next few days, as Peggy’s injuries started to heal, a genuine friendship grew between the older woman and the young girl.
One morning, as Bridget sat alongside Peggy’s bed, there was a sudden loud knock on the door. They looked at each other in alarm. “Don’t move!” hissed Bridget and, heart pounding, walked slowly down the stairs to the front door. A voice called out, “Bridget, are you there? “ It was Father Martin. She opened the door a little.
“Bridget? Can’t I come in? You usually give me such a warm welcome.”
She put a smile on her face and stepped back, allowing him into the house.
He looked at her closely. “Are you all right? I haven’t seen you in church these past few days and wondered if you’re ill.”
“No, Father, I’m fine,” she said. Just at that moment there was a loud thud from up the stairs. Something must have fallen onto the floorboards.
Father Martin looked at her enquiringly. “Visitors?”
“Umm. Yes. My niece up from the country.”
“I didn’t know you had relatives out there.”
Bridget could feel heat rising into her face. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder.
“What is it, my child?” The old priest put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “Are you in trouble? I’ve known you many a year, you can confide in me.”
“It’s …. best that you don’t know, Father.”
‘Well, I think I would like to meet this niece of yours.” He was clearly wanting to see for himself. Bridget felt she had no option but to invite him in and indicated the way upstairs. He walked slowly up ahead of her; she followed anxiously.
He paused at the top of the stairs before knocking on the bedroom door and pushing it open. He looked across at Peggy, still a forlorn sight with fading bruises on her face and a large plaster stuck on her head. “Hello. I’m Father Martin, a friend of Bridget. What are you doing here? Looks to me as if you’ve had some trouble lately.”
Peggy shot Bridget an anguished glance. “I’m Peggy, Bridget’s cousin.”
“Strange. She told me you were her niece.” He looked quizzically at Bridget.
She moved swiftly alongside the bed and took Peggy’s hand in her own. “I found her on my doorstep. Her injuries were dreadful. I’ve been looking after her.”
“But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you take her to hospital?” His voice tailed off.
Peggy spoke up defiantly. “I’m a Protestant.”
Father Martin’s eyebrows shot up and he gave Bridget a quizzical look. “May I?“ he said, indicating the nearby chair. She nodded and he sat down, taking off his hat, and mopping his brow. “Well. I think you had better tell me more,” he said quietly.
Between them, the two women told him the full story. When they had finished, he spoke again in a very concerned voice.
“Bridget.You know that you have been foolish and not a little deceitful.” She dropped her gaze downwards. “Yes Father.”
“But,” he continued, with a little smile, “you have also been courageous in helping this young lady. That is commendable. The thing is, what to do next? We’ll have to work out a safe plan to rescue the situation.”
Bridget noted the use of the word ‘we’. She looked at the priest in astonishment.“You mean that you’ll help us? But won’t that cause problems for you!”
“Of course I’ll help you,” he said. “Is not my calling to preach the gospel? That includes helping those in need - whoever and wherever.”
Bridget felt a great weight lift from her. “Oh, Father, thank you.” She seized his hand and would have kissed it but he snatched it away in time.
“Enough!”
Peggy had been listening in silence to this exchange but now she spoke. “I thought you’d want to ‘shop’ me. I was brought up to think of all Catholics as bad people; clearly that’s wrong. Though how I get safely home is still a puzzle to me.”
“I’ve been thinking of that,” Bridget said, “and have an idea. Obviously we can’t just drive you into a Protestant area - that’s far too dangerous for all of us. But if we could get you safely out of town, you could then catch a bus back to your lodgings. No-one would know you’d been sheltering with a Catholic. You’ll have to think up a plausible excuse, though, ready to explain your absence.”
“Two questions,” Peggy asked, “how do we get me out of town, and where do I pick up the bus?”
“The number 45 bus goes past St. Brides Well, a deserted spot five miles out of town, before heading into the town centre. The problem is how to smuggle you out of here.”
“I think I can help with that.” Father Martin spoke hesitantly, “I can put you both in my car and drive you there. People aren’t likely to challenge a Catholic priest.”
They looked at him amazement.
“You’d do that for me?” Peggy asked incredulously.
He nodded. ‘But not just yet. You need those injuries to heal some more first - that face would invite too many questions.”
A week later, just as dawn was breaking, the three of them left the house and climbed into the priest’s car before he drove it quietly away from the kerbside. Once they had rounded the corner, he slowed down and handed a nun’s veil to Bridget, sitting alongside him. “Here. Give this to our friend in the back. Sister Mary left it in the laundry when she stayed with us last year.”
Peggy hesitated for a moment. “Me! Put on a catholic nun’s garb. Never!”
“Listen!” said Father Martin. “It will help disguise you - and give me further protection if we’re stopped.”
Grumbling to herself, Peggy did as she was told. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; her normal sense of the world had been upended so much in the last two weeks.
They drove on through near deserted streets. Suddenly Bridget noticed that the priest’s hands on the wheel had tensed, his knuckles whitened. She looked up. An army road-block lay just in front of them. She looked anxiously at him. He nodded reassuringly, “Just leave this to me.” He pulled up and lowered his window as a young soldier in combat gear approached them. “Good morning, officer,” said Father Martin, “ A chilly morning for you to be standing around.”
The soldier smiled; he liked being mistaken for an officer. He noted the clerical garb of the driver. “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” he said, “Just have to check your credentials.” “Of course.” Father Martin reached into his wallet and produced all the necessary documents. “Thank you. These look fine.” The soldier looked in at Bridget and Peggy sitting there demurely. He spoke again. “And the ladies?”
“My parish secretary and Sister Anna. We’re on our way to the church suppliers in Belfast; they’re going to make some new robes for me.”
Bridget marvelled at the way the lies slipped naturally from those venerable lips. ‘Fancy the priest being able to do that,’ she thought.
The soldier grinned and touched his cap. “Off you go then - and mind you ladies make sure those robes are good ones for him.” He laughed and motioned to his colleague to let them through.
The car started up and soon they left the army post behind them. Once out of sight, Father Martin pulled the car up. Bridget saw that his hands were shaking and sweat trickling down his face.
“Phew! Wouldn’t like to do that too often. We’ll have to find an alternative route back. They’ll notice one of us is missing.”
They set off again and gradually left the rows of terraced houses, many of them covered with angry graffiti, far behind them. They all relaxed as they drove through open countryside. After a few moments, he turned off the main road onto a narrow lane leading into some woods until he reached a small car park. “Here we are. St Brides Well.” He turned to Peggy who was looking apprehensive. “Don’t worry. No-one will be around at this time of day. You just need to leave the car here, out of sight, and walk back to the main road to wait for the bus. You’ve got your story ready if anyone asks?” She nodded. “Well. It’s a lovely place here and you have time in hand. Why don’t you and Bridget wander down to the well and have a look. Maybe even say a prayer?”
Peggy looked mutinous at that suggestion but Bridget intervened. ‘Thank you, Father, I think I will.”
Removing the veil, Peggy climbed out of the car before turning back, putting her hand by the open window where the priest sat.“I can’t begin to say how much I appreciate all your help. I can never repay you enough.Thank you.”
“Go in peace, my child, and may the good Lord, whom we both worship, guard and guide you in the days ahead.” He patted her hand encouragingly.
Bridget and Peggy set off down a little track. As they walked, Bridget noticed that buds were beginning to show tips of green and she inhaled the smell of the damp moss beneath their feet, so refreshing after the hard concrete smells of everyday life. The path led them to a small glade. To one side, sparkling clear water splashed from the rock face into a small pool. Bridget explained its significance. “Legend says that Saint Bride rested here on her journey from the mother convent to the mission in our town. She was hot and feeling faint but had nothing to drink. She knelt here and prayed. The Lord heard her cries and caused water to spring from the rock to refresh herself. She drank gratefully and washed her face in the waters. Ever since then, they are said to have healing properties.”
Peggy looked at Bridget. “And do you believe all that?”
“No,” she answered simply, “I think its specialness might go back long before the saint - to the days of the old pagan goddess, Brigid. Either way, if believing in the healing property of the waters brings hope or comfort to people, then that has to be good.” She spoke more slowly, hesitantly voicing her thoughts, “Maybe there’s more than one way of finding God.”
Peggy spontaneously embraced Bridget. “It’s you who have brought healing,” she said. “Not just of my body but also my mind. There’s no room in my heart now for prejudice and hate. I think I’m going to leave Ireland and go find that cousin in England. Find me some peace.”
“I’ll miss you’” Bridget whispered. “You’ve become a very special person in my life - almost a daughter.”
“Well then, ‘Mother Bridget,’ give me your blessing and I’ll be on my way. I’ll never forget you and always be thankful that our paths crossed. I’ll write to you from England, and let you know how the years treat me. Maybe one day, when all these troubles are behind us, we can meet again.”
“Please God that may be so. Now, time is slipping by. You must go and I must stay. May your God go with you.” Bridget stood watching sadly as the young girl strode purposefully down the path towards the bus stop.
On an impulse she turned and, dipping her hand into the the pool, muttered a prayer. As she straightened, water dripping off her fingers, a shaft of sunlight blazed through the trees in front of her. Bridget squinted as she tried to see through it for she thought a young woman stood there, one with flaming red hair and a cloak of bright gold. As she watched, the figure lifted her hand in greeting and smiled across at her. “Brigid!” she whispered. The next moment though, nobody could be seen. “Just a trick of the light,” she murmured. Yet as Bridget headed back towards Father Martin, she felt strangely warmed and strengthened by the experience. As she reached the place where that mysterious figure had stood just a few moments earlier, she gasped in wonder. A clump of brilliant yellow daffodils now danced in the breeze, their proud trumpets heralding the heartening news: ‘Spring has come!’
Emmie Blake has been writing for many years but it was only after her retirement that she began regularly writing short stories. Since then, she has had three pieces published in an Anthology as well as winning several regional story competitions. During her professional life she worked variously as a counsellor, educator and activist as well as an ordained minister. She volunteers in her local community and is actively supporting people seeking sanctuary in her part of Wales (UK). She and her husband enjoy their rural life together, gardening and walking their dog in the surrounding hills.
Credit: Ptasha