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in half?’

      ‘That happened as I struggled to stop you stripping off,’ Francis said. Bridie looked at him with anguished eyes. How could she go home and burden her parents with this? It would be her word against Francis’s. Even if they believed her totally, it would split the families in half.

      ‘Look,’ Francis said, guessing some of the thoughts running through Bridie’s mind. ‘Best say nothing. After all, there was no harm done.’

      No harm done, Bridie thought. Christ!

      ‘Come on.’ Francis held out his hand to help her to her feet but she barked out, ‘Leave me alone. If you lay one hand on me ever again, by Christ I’ll kill you even if I have to wait years to do it!’

      Francis laughed a little nervously. ‘Aren’t you taking our bit of fun a little seriously?’

      ‘Our bit of fun? Don’t flatter yourself,’ Bridie said with scorn. ‘There was no pleasure or enjoyment for me in what you did, just shame and revulsion. Get out of my sight before I scream my head off and hang the bloody consequences.’

      Much later, when Francis had skulked away into the night, she got onto her hands and knees and then to her feet, staggering slightly.

      Everywhere seemed to ache or throb and she’d thought she’d probably have a mass of bruises in the morning, a fact she’d have to hide from her parents. She also found that blood had trickled from her and had stained the ground and some of her petticoats and dried onto her legs. She pulled on her bloomers and rearranged her clothes, and hoped she could reach the relative safety of her bedroom without her parents, or anyone else, catching sight of her. She had no idea of the time, no idea whether the dance had finished and no way of knowing. She made for home in a roundabout route. When she got to the head of the lane, unmolested and unseen, she gave a sigh of relief.

      The cottage curtains were open slightly, but the Tilley lamp on the windowsill was lit, so Bridie knew then her parents had gone to bed. She hoped they’d be well asleep too, for their bed was in a curtained alcove in the room and if Sarah was awake, she’d be likely to get up to find out what Bridie had thought of her first dance.

      Bridie lifted the latch of the cottage stealthily and stole in quietly. She could hear the snuffly snores of her parents and thanked God silently. But still she had to wash the blood from her legs. She lifted a small pan of water from the bucket by the door and took it into her room.

      She took the lamp in the bedroom with her and undressed, flinging the ruined dress to the back of the wardrobe along with the kid boots, now not fit to be worn. Then she tipped the water into the chamber pot and began to wash herself all over, dabbing gently at the bruises and abrasions that she could see with a handkerchief from her drawer and rubbing the blood from her legs.

      She folded the soiled underclothes to hide the bloodstains and put them at the bottom of the drawer, intending to hide them until she had her period when she could pass the blood off as her monthly bleeding. She eased the window open and tipped the water away before putting on her nightdress and getting into bed. She didn’t feel much cleaner. Even if she was immersed in water for hours and her skin rubbed raw, she’d never, ever feel clean again.

      When Bridie woke the next morning, it was daylight and she lay for a moment and let the events of the previous night wash over her and felt her face, her whole body, grow hot with shame as she remembered what had happened.

      She got out of bed and began to dress, but all she had for her feet was an old pair of boots of Terry’s which were far too big for her. They’d have to do though. Maybe her parents wouldn’t notice. She hoped Rosalyn would have taken her things home with her and prayed she’d bring them round later, for not even for a million pounds would she go to her house and risk meeting her uncle.

      She found out that her father had already done the milking when she went into the kitchen where her mother was frying rashers at the fire for breakfast. ‘We let you lie,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s not often you have the chance to and you were powerfully late in last night.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Bridie said, but her tone was muted, her eyes downcast. Sarah was not surprised – Rosalyn must have told her the news.

      ‘So Rosalyn told you then, about her going to America,’ she said as she broke eggs into a pan.

      ‘You knew?’ Bridie said accusingly.

      ‘No, no, not at all,’ Sarah said. ‘Not till last night anyway when Delia came to tell me. She apparently mentioned it to Ellen, but it was all up in the air then so Ellen said nothing. Pity, though, that Rosalyn chose to tell you last night. It would have spoilt the night, news like that.’

      Aye, as if that was the only thing to spoil it, Bridie thought to herself.

      ‘You’ll miss her,’ Sarah continued. ‘God, the two of you have been thick since you were weans.’

      ‘Aye, I’ll miss her,’ Bridie agreed. ‘But I’ll get used to it soon enough, no doubt.’

      ‘Aye, surely. Life goes on.’

      In a way, Bridie was glad to have the excuse of Rosalyn leaving to explain her dejected attitude, for she found she couldn’t forget, even for a second, that revolting scene in the woods and she knew her parents were worried about her, for her mother said she looked as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

      Later that day, Rosalyn came around with the things she’d left. Bridie had been on the lookout for her, not wanting her parents to discover she’d left the dance early, and she pulled her quickly into the barn where she exchanged Terry’s boots for her own. ‘Where did you disappear to, Bridie?’ Rosalyn asked. ‘Daddy was hours looking for you. Did you just head for home?’

      ‘I might have,’ Bridie snapped, the mention of Francis playing the part of a concerned uncle making her feel sick. ‘You were hardly bothered and I don’t think it’s any of your business anyway.’

      ‘Oh, Bridie, don’t be like this!’ Rosalyn said. ‘I know you’re upset I’m leaving, but …’

      ‘God, don’t you think a lot of yourself?’ Bridie cried. ‘Don’t you pity me, Rosalyn McCarthy. Pity yourself or some other in need of it. I’m grand, so I am.’

      Rosalyn went home, offended. Bridie didn’t blame her and felt bad about upsetting her dearest friend, who would soon be gone, and probably for ever. Another thing to blame Francis for, she thought, spoiling the last weeks they’d have together.

      An uneasy truce was formed between Bridie and Rosalyn, however, and Rosalyn was glad. She was leaving in just over a month’s time and didn’t want to go without making it up with her cousin.

      As for Bridie, she was desperately unhappy. She couldn’t look at her uncle Francis, or speak to him unless forced to, but she could not afford to draw attention to this and invite awkward questions. She wished the two families didn’t see so much of each other. There were days when she seemed so sunken in misery that nothing seemed to lift her. ‘I didn’t think she’d be as upset as all this at Rosalyn leaving,’ Sarah remarked to Jimmy one day. ‘For all they’d been bosom friends. She always seems to bounce back, our Bridie, but I can hardly reach her at the moment. I wish she was still small and I could cure any hurt with a kiss and a hug. I mean, it’s even stopped her monthlies.’

      Bridie had realised that herself one day when, searching for clean underwear, she came upon the soiled petticoats. Her heart seemed to stop beating as realisation dawned. She sat down on the bed because her legs had begun to tremble. Rosalyn was due to sail in two days’ time, and it was a month since the dance – she should have started her period a week after it.

      Oh dear God! Surely she couldn’t be pregnant? The disgusting episode in the wood couldn’t have resulted in a child?

      The worry of it clouded Rosalyn’s departure and haunted her every minute of the day. Should she write and tell Mary, she wondered? But how could she write something like that? And would Mary feel bound to tell her mother? Maybe she was panicking over

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