Winifred Tennant

Evening Post, Volume CXXVI, Issue 150, 22 December 1938, Page 21 (Supplement)

Winifred Tennant

KATE BRANNIGAN had an austerity few could penetrate, but then she had been plucked from her native Ireland in hei early twenties, and life had been rigorous in the strange places. And always she had yearned foi the softness, the mist, the peopled shadows, the everlasting green, so different from the tawny hills.

the carved outlines, and the windswept skies oi this piece of the strange country.

\ Kate was thirty-two when her big, bluff Brannigan was taken from her, and the rain had smoothed . the earth over him before she could shake herself free of her trance and go about the duties that for days had been the voluntary care of neighbours. But an added remoteness had settled down on her, making her more taciturn thaii ever, and people melted away when she again showed herself. She was fey, too, part- of the community said, for often she would stand listening as if she were hearing something on the wind. But Kate was finding ways of her own in which to combat loneliness. She would dig for hours with Brannigan's spade, stirring the earth to new friendliness and softening it for spring planting, or she would take a stick when the day's work was over and trudge the acres that were now her own domain. And, if they considered her fey, what of it?

In such a mood was she one night in late autumn when her evening meal had been cleared away. "Better let the dog loose," she advised herself. "He's been chained all day." And taking an old hood from its nail behind the kitchen door, she tied it at her neck and went out.

The sky was full of stars after a day fretteu with rain, and the trees stood like crouching fig ures in the half-light An eerie place this, bui every inch of it had become as familiar^ to Katt Brannigan as the palm of her own work-roughenea hand^-the cow-byres, the hay-ricks, the gaunt outline of the barn, and, further away, the roundeo shoulder of the hill that she herself had cleareo of scrub. With the dog at her heels she madt her way across the paddocks and mounted the steep rise. From here she could look down on the house and even glimpse the shadowy line of the boundary hedges. Forty-two acres that had known their presence early and late and had answered to their asking, while day by day she had toileo with Brannigan as weathered with wind and sun as he. i She sighed at the emptiness, and the dog turned sharply at the sound. "It's nothing, Mike.'" she told him as if an explanation were due. "Onl? my own heart talking to me."

IZ"ATE sat down on a flat ledge of rock jutting out from the hillside and looked up at the stars. The dog crouched at her feet. She cast off her hood and let the cool fingers of the night wind work their will with her hair. Slowly, as though some soothing influence had touched her. the austerity melted from her face and left a softness of-which people had never dreamed. And the words that came from her, the stars blinked to hear; "Lake blue for his eyes then, and thank You for that; and if You could possibly spare time to notice Brannigan's smile." Some strange sori of bargaining it seemed.

In the spring of the year her son was born. She called him David, being simple in her tastes and because an old book dealing with name derivations told her it meant "beloved." And beloved he was with his clear blue eyes, his wisdom, his small quaint ways. And because Kate took him always, to the scene of her work, life for him was centred in the thin, vigorous woman milking cows, tilling soil, turning hay, and performing the hundred-and-one tasks necessary on a farm.

At twenty Kate Brannigan's son was spare ana tall, forthright and proud in his dealings with men, and with the strength of a young tree. Her eyes would dim with maternal tenderness as she watched him following the plough, and gleam with pride when he was hewing wood or handling the scythe, for about him was a grace that might have belonged to some domesticated god. Indeed, never was there another such son as Kate Brannigan's, and there was Brannigan's smile shy at the corners of his mouth.

At twenty-five he met Maureen, now come to this corner of New Zealand, and Kate tasted for the first time bitter grapes from the vine oi jealousy. Down the road she lived in a fine house with french windows and a lawn, but Kate would walk by without looking in, feeling only anger for her. It was natural, of course, for him to wish to marry, she told herself, but he was her all, and the ache deepened and clung. And none could tell how she missed those quiet fireside evenings after the stress of the day, the brave talks far into the night with the coals falling to embers and a winged peace in the room. Loneliness again stared her in the face, and the ghost of the old austerity looked from her eyes.

With a stick to aid her slowing gait, she would climb to the flat ledge of rock that had been the site of her early prayers, but now, perhaps because of her very bitterness, the friendliness seemed withdrawn, nd there was no message for her. And she was not of Catholic Ireland with the Saints to see and touch.

It was nearly six nonths that he had known Maureen when Kate noticed a sudden change in him. He seemed older, and never now did he take the lantern and go swinging along the road 'that led to Maureen's warm white arms and winning ways; instead he would build the fire and ait with Kate, and with no talk between them,

jl/TAUREEN had switched on the light because there was neither sleep nor peace in the darkness, and she did not know that the stern, strange woman who also loved David Brannigan was trudging thither through the midnight with the rest of the neighbourhood hours abed. At first she was afraid when she heard the footstep, but not when she saw Kate's hooded face through

MAUREEN OF THE GOLDEN HAIR

or he would read far into the night, uncommunicative and stern. Kate remembered her prayers with a pang of shame. She had prayed that the Sirl might be plucked from his heart, and well1 was she punished for her pains. David she had to herself surely, but now with this alien shadow between. Perhaps he had deciphered the text of her prayers. At the vhought panic seized her. "What of the girl Maureen?" she asked, her eyes doting on him where he sat, brooding on the yellow tongues of flame searching into the chimney. "She has not been faithful to me." "Not been faithful? And where else would she be looking with a man like you for the taking?" His smile flickered then. "That's mother talk. It's only you with that great opinion of me."' Kate's bewilderment grew. "What happened?" she asked. "At the dance it was, and there were old-time numbers. Three times she waltzed with that goodlooking wastrel Maine—the heartbreaksr with other men's women." "And you haven't seen her since?" Kate now was fearing for the girl. "No." He rose and went to the bookcase. "There's time yet to read you a story before you go to bed. Shall we have Barrie or Dorm Byrne?" Yet, in spite of the story, it was late before sleep came to her. "She lay in the dark, staring at the white blur of the ceiling, across which a procession of possibilities seemed to move.' And wasn't that young Maine the son of the man who once, in the heat of a carting dispute, had called Brannigan, of all things, an "Irish ham"? She smiled grimly as she remembered the reply: "And better to be that in Ireland than myself in this country if I'm to keep on feeding favours to you!" And what an oath had come from the man as Brannigan had touched up the horse and driven off, leaving him with that great heap of goods at the roadside! M"AUREEN was drying her hair in the garden. Wonderful hair it was, and little rivers of light ran through it as she tossed 5t this way and that all in the sweetness of the morning. Now the brush came down with firm, even strokes, the comb made a pathway down the centre of the ?olden splendour, and the fair face of Maureen O'Connor came into view. ~ And there was xCate Brannigan leaning on her stick and looking down at her with enigmatical ayes. "You have not m^t me before," said Kate. 'I am David Brannigan's mother." "I have seen you quite often. Will you come ndoors?" "Indeed, no, and thank you. What I have to say can better be said in the open. What have you been doing to my David?" The girl flushed under the straight gaze. "David knows his own mind and also where to find me." "Knows, too," said Kate, "that you've been as tickle as the sunshine in your own fine curls. What pleasure can it give you to wreck the happiness of my son?" "Perhaps he is wrecking his own happiness by not coming back to me," parried Maureen. "I see," said Kate. "You'd still have him chasing after you when now you deserve to have no man's eyes on you at all." The girl looked fearlessly into the cold face of her inquisitor, showing more spirit than Kate had anticipated. "Weren't you young once?" she asked. Kate stared out across the spreading countryside, lost in speculation, then all at once she seized Maureen by the wrist, her severity falling from her like a cloak. "Come with me," she said urgently, "just as you are with that hair all about you." David was out with the scythe, his figure standing up from the orchard grass. He was keening the implement as they approached, but stopped suddenly at sight of his mother's guest. "I have brought you f caller," said Kate ana went indoors. It was so still they could hear the birds singing. Maureen was the first to speak. "I am sorry," she said. Her face was a primrose in a golden frame. Never had she looked more desirable. David's eyes dwelt briefly on her. "I am sorry, too." "Why didn't you come back?" "What?" —gruffly—"For a second dancing lesson?" "You must have known I was not serious about all that." It was as though she had not spoken. Bitterness does not spend long nights staring into the fire for nothing. "When a man loves a woman," he said at last with great restraint, "he gives of all that is best in him. In return he asks fidelity —a small enough demand. My mother has misjudged the situation. lam not fretting after you any longer because I have put you out of my life." The girl gave a hurt cry, but recovered herselt quickly. "I shall marry Stephen," she said, and with a fine toss of her shining mane, left him staring after her. The steel was whining again under the hone when Kate appeared. David looked at her steadily "A man must keep his pride," he declared 'Otherwise how could he be Kate Brannigan's son?"

the glass of the french window, and quickly she sprang up to admit her unheralded guest.

The night was cold upon Kate when she entered, and she looked weary, but her eyes held much satisfaction when she saw that the girl had been crying. "I am glad to find you like this," she said, "for first love is often only love and too precious to cast away. And this other man, now. If you marry him, the rest of your life will not be long enough for regretting it."

"Oh," said the unhappy Maureen, "there was nothing in it. It was just the dance and the foolishness, and I've refused to see him since. Never once has he come between me and my thought for David."

The elder woman.slipped a forgiving arm about the girl's shoulders and talked to her in a slow, soft voice that did not sound like Kate Brannigan's. And presently the girl was comforted.

But Kate had yet to deal with her proud, young son. Weeks, even months of yearning must be arranged for, yet Kate knew that eventually she must mark the triumph of time over pride. Old songs out of the mist and the green spaces helped, for her tongue could still trip pleasantly over the soothing.airs.

And so it happened that David, coming in from his last outdoor tasks one evening, and knowing nothing of what was in Kate's mind, found the table set for three. Bough flowers, and hothouse ones at that, burgeoned in its centre.

"We have a guest," said Kate, and she opened the door of an inner room.that Maureen might step out.

And in front of Kate Brannigan, who lived not only in her own heart, but in that of her son, the miracle manifested itself. David stood still, quite unbelieving. Then he looked from the girl to Kate, gave a sudden brief laugh, and took the golden one into his arms.

JZ"ATE sat on the flat ledge of rock, looking up at the stars. The night was mild and windless, and the heavens were brimming with peace. All about her was the unforgettable smell of new, sweet grass. On such a night one could people the shadows even in this far country. She could see the house where young love was still engaged with its endless avowal, its passionate explanation. Presently the living-room window darkened, and she could follow the swing of the lantern down the path. Like a will-o'-the-wisp it flirted about the gate, then idled down the road out of sight.

Kate closed her eyes and let her fancy wander. Time had no country. Why, even she could bring back the past with a song.

At last, because it was late, she rose stiffly and fumbled for her stick. Frail she was getting, indeed. Yet, as she returned to the house, with stars in the crowded ether whispering together, she walked sturdily—almost as though she leaned on someone's arm.