Bruar's Rest

that had her press Mrs Sullivan to accept her offer of an extra pair of hands around the house. Much to her disappointment she politely refused, saying, ‘If you’re to be a lady one day, and its no use saying the master hasn’t got plans for you, my dear, then those hands should stay soft.’
    One morning, while Michael was away, the old housekeeper hurried into her bedroom. ‘I have a sighting of the Fureys coming to the house. They’ll be passing any minute, and you’ll miss them if you don’t rise from that bed.’
    ‘Who are the Fureys, Mrs Sullivan?’ she enquired sleepily.
    ‘Why girl, do you niver listen to a word I tells you. Kathleen, Robin and the three little ’uns, that’s who.’
    She dressed, and standing at the door minutes later saw a sight that lifted her heart boundlessly in her chest. Robin came first just as the housekeeper said: red-breasted Robin with a mountainous pack on his back. Kathleen, heavily pregnant, followed behind with three lively wee boys marching at her heel like little soldiers.
    ‘Hello, Mrs Sullivan,’ called Robin, sporting a red face to match his waistcoat. ‘I sees our Holy Mother’s been sending the angels to make you look ten years younger than last time I had the pleasure of your fine company.’
    Megan smiled at his banter. How many times had she herself used those soft words, buttering folks up so they would show acts of kindness; she waited eagerly on the housekeeper’s response.
    ‘Ah, that’ll do with the smooth tongue. Tell me now, how have the children been? Take them round the back door, I’ve a parcel.’
    ‘Bless me soul, if they aren’t just after saying they hoped Mrs Sullivan, God’s very own angel, wid have a bite to fill their little bellies.’
    ‘Yes,’ thought Megan, ‘he certainly knows how to charm the old woman, a handy skill when feeding hungry bairns.’
    At the rear of the house, wooden boxes were set out for the tinkers with food and drink. She’d also been preparing provisions for them, putting the odd titbit in a basket. This she would give to Kathleen, who’d take it with her to their campsite on the forest edge. When a week had passed, the old woman would go back and refill the basket. This was the usual way of things until the small band set off to winter elsewhere once again. Kathleen, because of her shy quiet nature, left all talk to her husband, giving only a gentle nod to her dear old friend who was eager to introduce Megan.
    ‘This is a Scottish girl who spent her early days on the road like you.’
    ‘And what’s up wit the roads o’ Scotia that you’ve left them?’ asked Robin, showing a slight annoyance.
    ‘Nothing but circumstance,’ was the only answer that came to mind.
    For a while he ate and said nothing. Then, when he had finished, he removed a green cotton muffler from his neck, wiped his mouth, folded the neckerchief and put it back on.
    ‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Sullivan, but time is agin us this day. It will be dark if tracks aren’t made now. Will we see you and what’s-her-name here, later?’
    ‘Sorry, Robin, I failed to say, this is Megan. Yes, she wants very much to visit you and maybe help Kathleen. I see another baby is in there.’
    These words seemed to trouble them, so they gathered their boys who were happy playing in the stables and were soon gone to camp up on their usual site.
    ‘What did you say to upset them so much, Mrs Sullivan?’
    ‘Me an’ me big mouth. I forgot that Kathleen has already lost four babies. All girls, and all born dead they were, bless their tiny little souls.’ She reached into her apron and kissed several beads, whispered a prayer and popped them back into the pocket. She continued, ‘Two years past I helped bury the last one. Oh, what a mite it was, no bigger than my fist, didn’t have a chance. Strange thing when a womb rejects girls. All I can say is, God needs angels when he takes the newborn, them being void of all sins.’
    Megan told herself that Mrs Sullivan was far too holy, and perhaps if she thought more along the lines that Kathleen might not carry girls for reasons going on inside her body rather than Heaven’s declining population of angels, she’d not need to pull that rosary from her pocket every two minutes. She thought this, but never would she dare insult such a lovely old woman by stating the obvious.
    That night, when Michael came home, she couldn’t wait to share the day’s visitors with him. His mood, however, was