Chapter 17: Imbolc

February began, just as cold, blustery and disappointing as January had been. At the breakfast table, trying to eat her porridge, Brigid watched grey rain drive slantingly against the window. She tried to invent ways to avoid school, but could think of nothing that had not yet been attempted. Her mother, though tired and moving slowly, was not to be fooled. It was clear from her father’s face, scanning the newspaper, that he would not be taken in either.

“My God,” he suddenly said, and slapped the paper down.

Brigid and Francis looked up in surprise.

“Maurice,” said his wife. “Please. The children.”

“Have you seen this?” he said, waving the newspaper at her.

“No one has had the opportunity,” she replied, reaching for the teapot, “except you.”

“Well, you’ll have the opportunity now,” he said, flicking the paper with a snap. “Listen to this, all of you. There is a call from Stormont to ban an Irish text book for schoolchildren – for schoolchildren – because the children are seen to carry the Irish flag, which contravenes the Flags and Emblems Act.” He began to read from the newspaper: “‘Editorial: Three Boys and a Dog. We suppose we should feel relieved that the boy with the toy gun has not also been singled out for criticism. Who knows whether the gun was meant for Ireland – or Israel? It was the flag upon which most interest was directed at Stormont. Since the Flags Act may not be capable of dealing with children’s lesson books containing pictures of the Tricolour, another Banner Bill may now have to be introduced. Soon we may know whether the boys holding Irish flags in school primers are to be disqualified, as if they held offices of profit under the Crown.’”

There was silence.

Brigid said: “I don’t understand what that means, Daddy.”

A key turned in the door, and Isobel came in, wet and out of breath. Her coat was streaked with dark dampness, and she smelled of rain: “I’m sorry, Mrs Arthur. This rain! I’ll take her down now.”

“No, I’ll take her in the car, and Francis too,” said Brigid’s father. “You stay here, Isobel – you’re wet through.”

“Maurice,” said his wife. “Please. In the car – no politics in front of the children.”

“Ah, holy cats,” he said. “Maybe it’s time they knew the state we’re in.” He laughed. “The State we’re in! Where the police are empowered by law to remove any emblem other than the Union Jack! Dear God. What a place to try to bring up children!” He began to laugh again.

“Maurice,” said their mother, frowning, “you’re not yourself. I don’t think you should go out today at all.” She got to her feet, quite like her old self, before she grew round and slow. “Isobel,” she said, an edge to her voice, “I’m sorry to ask you, but you’ll have to go out again. Borrow my raincoat and take Brigid to school. Francis, get your coat on too. You’ll both be late at this rate.”

Brigid was sure her father would protest, but he did nothing. He sat back in his chair, head on his chest, arms folded. To her bewilderment, she found herself facing out into the rain with Isobel and Francis.

It was a strange day even at school. Brigid’s teacher, for whatever reason, did not come in, and all the infants were dispersed to other classes. Brigid found herself in a large warm room, full of the biggest girls she had ever seen.

At the top sat a nun she had never seen: round yet wide, head on one side, she was like a plump, black-eyed bird. “Ah,” she said. “You’re the child who writes the stories?”

Brigid nodded, uncertainly.

“Good,” said the round nun. “I asked them to send you up to me,” and she sat Brigid down near the front. She gave her paper, pencils and crayons, and told her to write or draw as she pleased.

Brigid, still wary, waited for a moment – then slowly she began to draw a boy who was Francis, and a girl who was herself, the seven trees, and under the Friday Tree she drew a wigwam, with smoke. She became absorbed, and did not notice the time passing, did not hear the voices of the nun or the girls. Once, when she looked up, she saw they were sewing, their bright needles flashing in and out of folds of cloth.

By twelve o’clock Brigid, used to the half-day granted only to the infants, was tired and more than ready for home, but Sister was telling the big girls what they were going to do next. It was something special, she said, and then, most unexpectedly, called Brigid to stand beside her. “Watch, now,” she said. Brigid watched. Sister took from her desk a sheaf of green reeds, and began to fold and plait, rapidly bending and sliding and twisting the pliable greenery until, by a miracle, she had woven a cross. “Now, girls,” she said, “that’s a Saint Brigid’s cross, and I want you all to reach inside your desks and take out the reeds I have placed there, and do as I have done. I’ll come round and see how you do.”

After a puzzled silence, the big girls began to do it, some with dexterity, others with slow frustration.

Sister took Brigid by the hand and walked her about the room. Brigid watched with fascination as the nun lifted up the girls’ work, her hands guiding theirs, her fingers flying in and out, swift as knitting needles, plaiting and weaving the green stems until a cross of rushes appeared on each desk.

When she went back up to her desk, Sister let Brigid try one with her, her hands, cool and dry, over Brigid’s. As they worked, Sister said: “So you are the child who likes to try new words?”

Brigid thought of her cannonball story, and all her wariness returned. “Not any more,” she said, quickly adding “Sister.”

The nun went on guiding Brigid’s fingers through the plait of rushes. “Well,” she said finally, “I think you should keep at it. I hear you have a great store of general knowledge. When you are a bigger girl and come up here to my class, I’ll want you to write a great deal, and I’ll want to see all the words you know.”

As Brigid turned to look at her, she found the face no longer watchful, the eyes kinder than she had thought.

“Meanwhile, when you write stories, if you want to, you can show them to me. St Brigid herself was a writer. Did you know?”

Brigid shook her head.

Sister looked out the window. “The other infants are going home now,” she said, “and so must you.” She stood up, her roundness made rounder by the full pleats of her skirt. She motioned with her finger to a tall girl with a fiery pony-tail: “Take Brigid Arthur downstairs to the other infants. And come straight back.” She turned to Brigid as if she were an adult and, cocking her head to one side, as she had when Brigid saw her first, she said, “That girl would forget her own head if it wasn’t attached, but she’ll mind you going down. On you go now, and don’t forget what I told you. Oh, and Brigid?”

Brigid turned round.

“I liked the cannonball,” the nun said.

It was a long time before Francis came home that day. He was in the middle of school examinations, and when he did come in, he went straight up to his room, and Isobel brought him something to eat. He had to study: no one was to disturb him, and the house was to be kept quiet. Brigid, with no homework and no television, found the silence exhausting, and nothing, books or puzzles, caught her interest. She went from room to room, restless, ending up in the sitting room, where her mother sat sewing a small something, white and fine. Seeing Brigid, she put it down.

“Stop prowling,” she said, “and come here.” She reached out her hand, pulling Brigid gently to stand beside her. “Brigid,” she said, “would you like a little brother or sister?”

Brigid thought. “I have a brother. Perhaps a sister. Are we getting one?”

“We may be,” said her mother. “God may send us a new baby.”

Brigid clapped her hands. “A baby? When?”

“Oh, in the longer day. Now, I want you to do something for me, like a good girl.”

Brigid did not reply: she was not sure if they were really getting a baby. ‘In the longer day’, like ‘we’ll see’ and ‘perhaps after the holidays’ often meant ‘never’: it might be unwise to count on it.

“Brigid, are you listening? Go up and tell Francis to come down and take a break: you can watch some television with him.”

Brigid did not need to be asked twice. She ran upstairs as fast as she could. Somewhere, low, she heard a throbbing beat, and when she opened the door of his room, it grew louder.

“Francis, is your wireless on?”

Francis, his head bent over his work, looked up: “Yes.”

“Can you turn it up?”

“No,” said Francis. “It’s not supposed to be on.”

Brigid stood by the radio: softly, it danced and pulsed, joyous and energetic. “Who is that singing?” she said.

“Buddy Holly,” he said, wearily. “How was today?”

Brigid could see his eyes were tired and strained, but she climbed on the bed anyway.

“It was St Brigid’s day,” she said. “I learned that.”

“Oh, did you?” he said. “So, what happens on St Brigid’s day?”

“Crosses. The big girls upstairs in school make them. I helped make one today, Francis, nearly all by myself.” She flushed: that was not really true.

“Did you?” said Francis. “By yourself? That was something. She’s the patron saint of cattle. Bet you didn’t know that. Spring begins today. That’s why people make Brigid’s crosses from grassy things, like reeds and rushes. That was what you . . . helped to make today.”

“I did do some of it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Francis. “Anyway, it is a holy time.”

Brigid felt even more ashamed. “I’m not very holy,” she said.

“No, you’re not,” Francis agreed. “But, you don’t have to be. You might like the original Brigid better. The fire goddess.”

“Fire goddess!” said Brigid, starting. This was better. “Is that the one with stories?”

“Yes, that too. In the old days they needed fire to cook and to keep warm. Brigit – with a ‘t’ – was very powerful, and the feast to keep her happy was called Imbolc.”

Imbolc. Imbolc. Rolling around her tongue and inside her head, like the fire he described. What a word. “But, fire?” she said. “We aren’t meant to go near fire.”

“No,” he said, “not real fire. The fire is inside, in the head, not a fire that burns you. It’s a fire that makes you want to make things. In the old stories, she was the goddess of wisdom, the goddess of poets, of writers, protecting them, helping them make their songs and their stories. In Britain she was Britannia – in Scotland, St Bride. Some people think the name means ‘Fiery Arrow’ and some ‘High One’. Here in Ireland they say she was Mary’s friend.”

“What, Mary the Mother of God? How do you know all this, Francis?” Brigid asked, shaking her head.

He laughed. “I read. Apparently too much, and not the right things, but that’s another story.”

“Another story? Now?”

“No,” he said, firmly. “Go. Begone. Go and think what you can do with your name.”

“How?”

“That’s up to you. You could write something, maybe. Now, I’m tired, Brigid, and I’m supposed to be working, and I want to stop, and I can’t, yet. Go. I mean it.”

Francis stopped talking, and Brigid, disappointed to be dismissed, climbed down from the bed, telling him quickly as he walked her to the door that she had met a nun who turned out to be kind, and wanted her to write more stories.

“Well, didn’t I just tell you to? Now, Brigid, please . . .”

Brigid stopped. “Francis! Look!” She pointed to the window. Dim though her vision was, she could make out a shape that could only be Isobel coming down the bare winter plot, stepping on the hard ridges of the frosted soil. Under her arm she carried what looked like a roll of cloth, but Brigid could not see what it was. “Look, Francis! Turn round and look! Why is Isobel in the plot? What is she doing?”

Francis turned, too slowly for Brigid’s satisfaction. “I don’t see anyone.”

Brigid crossed quickly to the window, pulling Francis by the arm. “Look! She . . .”

There was no one there. The trees stood bare and lonely at the back of the plot, and there was no one to be seen. “She was there, Francis. She was. I saw her.”

“Brigid,” said Francis, “you are killed with imagination. You know Isobel isn’t even here this afternoon. Now, I give up. And I am starving. Please go and do something useful somewhere else, or let me go downstairs.”

“Oh, yes, I was to tell you to do that. Come downstairs. And we can watch television, if we like.”

“Well, thanks for telling me,” Francis said. He got up and pushed her firmly out before him, closing the door after them.

Brigid let him go ahead, and slowly followed him, Imbolc in her head. It paused for a second, then bounced to her lips and struck off from her tongue and her teeth. What a lovely word.

Francis called her for television, and she joined him, but her heart was not in it. She was certain that it was Isobel she had seen in the plot. She was certain, too, that there was no point in mentioning it to anyone, when even Francis thought it was her imagination. Instead, she named the princess in her theatre Brigit the Fire Goddess, and set her to defeat Isobel the Wicked, Enemy of Imbolc.