Brid lived down the road from the yellow and black facade of the Purdy Kitchen bar where Sinead O’Connor had played. The rented basement flat was centred in a Georgian terrace. Living with Brid were two of her kids and a jobbing gardener whom she was looking to marry if the government of that ‘bruiser’ Bruton succeeded in getting the landmark Divorce Bill passed. Someone told me that he had hit her. It must have been Shelagh even though we’d been split for most of her pregnancy. Brid opened the door half hidden below the descending steps. Her greying hair loose down her back exposed lengthening lines drawn along her brow. I could hear the yelps of eight year old Hills as she practiced her bouncing on the sofa and as I kissed Brid’s pale but warm cheek I could hear the gardener telling her to stop.
“Do you know?” Brid asked as I walked in.
“Know what?” I asked as I listened to Hills continue her bouncing in defiance of the killjoy in the living room.
“You’ve a daughter,” Brid beamed.
A Memory Held in a Falling Tear
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