Read Online Songs of Love and War by Santa Montefiore - Free Book Online Page A

every evening, elbows on the chair, fingers knitted, head bowed. Old
Mrs Nagle remained seated in her chair and mumbled the words of the prayer through toothless gums. ‘Thou oh Lord will open my lips,’ said Mrs Doyle solemnly.
    ‘And my tongue shall announce thy praise,’ they all responded. Then Mrs Doyle recited the prayer she knew so well it might have been embossed on her heart. The tail ends were short:
a hasty prayer for friends and family and for Lord and Lady Deverill, who were both benevolent and fair.
    After prayers the neighbours descended on the cottage, as they always did, with their fiddles and Old Badger Hanratty’s illegal poteen, distilled from potatoes in a disguised hay rick
outside his cottage and of a surprisingly high quality. It wasn’t long before the singing began. Bridie loved to sit with her buttermilk, listening to the Irish folk songs and watching the
sentimental old men reduced to tears as they wallowed in nostalgia. Sometimes they’d dance the ‘Siege of Ennis’ and her mother would shout, ‘Off ye go, lads, twice round the
kitchen, and for God’s sake mind the dresser.’ Or her father would grab her mother and they’d dance to the foot-stamping and table-banging, round and round, until Mrs
Doyle’s red face glowed with pleasure and she looked like a young girl being courted by an overzealous suitor.
    Bridie’s father was rough with coarse black hair and a thick black beard and she doubted she would recognize him if he returned home one day clean-shaven. He was short but as strong as a
bull, and woe betide anyone who dared take him on in a fight. He’d won many a pub brawl and broken countless jaws and teeth in the process. He was quick to temper but just as quick to repent
and the few times he’d struck his sons he’d fallen to his knees in a heap of regret, crossing himself profusely and promising the Holy Virgin Mary not to do it again. Drink was his
curse but a good heart his blessing; it was simply a matter of finding a balance between the two.
    Suddenly her father weaved his way across the room towards her. She expected him to send her up to bed, but instead he took her hand and said, ‘Indeed and I’ll be dancing with my
Bridie tonight.’ And he pulled her to her feet. Embarrassed that everyone was watching, she blushed the colour of a berry. But she needn’t have worried about the steps; she had seen the
older girls dancing often enough. Her father swung her round and round the kitchen just like he did Mrs Doyle, and as she was swung she saw a sea of smiles and among them was her mother’s, a
tender look softening the work-weary contours of her face. After that her brothers took turns and Bridie, so often the spectator, became the focus of their attention and her heart swelled with
pleasure.
    That night Bridie could barely sleep for excitement. Her mind had drifted during the recital of the rosary because it had been such a joyous evening. She didn’t imagine Kitty had evenings
like that, dancing with her father, and she rarely saw her brother who was at school in England. For a moment Bridie gave in to the superior feeling. She bathed in it, allowing her envy to be
eclipsed by a warm sense of supremacy. She tried not to compare her life with Kitty’s, but recently Bridie had grown more aware of their differences. Perhaps it was due to her brother
Michael’s resentful comments or maybe a result of the increasing amount of time they were now spending together; whichever the case, Bridie was being given a bigger window into Kitty’s
life and a greater perspective, causing her to wonder why it was that Kitty had so much when
she
had so little.
    She could hear voices downstairs; her father and brothers playing cards, Mr Hanratty, drunk on his own poteen, snoring loudly from her mother’s rocking chair, and the longing in the lyrics
of ‘Eileen a Roon’ sung to the haunting tones of a lone fiddle. It was a comforting and familiar lullaby, and