And The Beautiful Miss Bradys

Joan Fitzgerald

Miss Emily Brady was not beautiful. Her severe and usual dark dress did nothing to flatter or enhance her plain features. I knew there was another Miss Brady, though I had never seen her. It seemed very important to me that one of them should be at least pretty, to fit the words of a song I had heard sung. When I asked my mother she said, "Well, she used to be" and promptly changed the subject.  Whenever Miss Emily passed by, walking sedately to town, we children instinctively grew quieter and less boisterous in whatever street game was in progress. Sometimes she might nod aloofly - so different from the other women on our road. She was never laden with shopping bags or appeared harassed. Her home was secluded and set apart, surrounded by high walls and hedging, while we lived in one of a cluster of cottages and raw council houses.  One hot summer's evening the group of girls playing was especially noisy in fun and games. Miss Emily passed by and paused, saying primly to those of us nearest, "Ladies should be seen and not heard." Without another word, she continued on her way. We stopped and gazed after her.  Then someone tittered and laughed, imitating the thin high voice while others shushed her in case Miss Emily Brady heard. We would have been skinned alive at home for being so cheeky.  The rope was turned again, the skipping rhyme chanted out and the play went on. My pal Mary and I sat at the kerbside skuffing patterns in the dust with our sandals while we waited our turn.  "Do you think she heard?" I asked.  "Naw," said Mary, "though I hope she didn't see me here. My father works there sometimes and I'd be killed if she told."  "Naw," I reassured her, "Miss Brady was gone on a bit before they laughed." A thought struck me as I mentioned Miss Brady.  "Were you ever in there? I mean, did you ever see the other Miss Brady - her sister?"  "No, anyway I'd be scared to - she's insane you know, that's why she never goes out and no one sees her. I heard my Da tell my Mam. My Mam says she should be put away."  "But what does she look like?" I asked, caring only about that and not understanding "insane" or its implication.  "Ah, I don't know," Mary replied. "What do you want to know that for? I'm going home. See ya tomorrow."  So I was left at the kerbside.  The hot summer days passed. Long never-ending days. Apart from some chores at home freedom was ours. Where we lived was half-country, half-town and as children we enjoyed the best of both worlds.  Days spent messing about in the river. Picnics in the woods and cold ice-lollies from the newly opened corner shop. And what a delight, an ice-lolly, licking it slowly while swinging on the swing slung from a bough of one of the old apple trees at the bottom of our tangle-wood of a garden. This, without having to trudge the half mile or so to a shop in town with a fridge for ice-cream.  The afternoon of our escapade we were swinging in turn on the swing and climbing the apple trees in between. The apples were as yet unripe and untempting. However, perched high in the tree, I glimpsed the rosy-red of early ripened apples, a couple of gardens away. I called down to Mary to come and see.  "Which garden is it?"  "Murphys?"  "Naw, too near."  "I bet they're sweet out."  "Hey, do you know what?"  "What?"  "The laurel hedge goes all the way down between the gardens."  "So?"  "It's so overgrown at the backs of the gardens I bet it would be a cinch to get through."  "And rob some apples?"  "Of course!"  "We'll be killed if we're caught."  "Ah, come on - just a couple. There's tons there."  The tangy smell of laurel leaves and earth assailed our nostrils as we tunnelled along, our skirts catching on twigs and occasional thorns that had invaded the hedge in places. The biggest difficulty was to get into the right garden. Eventually, we reached the garden of the rosy apples.  The orchard area was secluded from the house side by tall fragrant bushes of rosemary so the identity of the house remained unknown to us. We didn't care, greedy little beggars that we were, as we filled our pockets.  "We've enough," Mary said, "Come on, let's go."  "O.K. Do you know the part of the hedge where we got in?"  We headed towards the tall laurels, clutching our skirts to keep our stolen booty from falling from our bulging pockets.  Unexpectedly, a voice called out - a high thin voice.  "You're going in the wrong direction. The gate is this way!"  We froze in our tracks, or I froze. Mary, more quick-witted than I, had bolted through the opening in the laurels and was gone.  I turned slowly to face Miss Emily Brady. "Come on, girl," she said, "this way." I approached. Foolishly I began to empty my pockets.  "What do you want me to do with them? Stick them back on the trees! Hey? But what I will have you do is earn them a little. Come along!"  Meekly I followed her down the path to the back door. She motioned me to wait and went inside, to return minutes later with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush.  "Now," she said. "You may scrub the window sills at the back of the house - only those on the ground floor," she added, seeing me look stupidly at those on the upper story.  "Carry on, then," she said and went inside. I began to scrub. The number of sills of smooth limestone seemed endless and the sun was hot.  I'm not sure when I became aware of the singing. Gently, tuneless notes drifting through an open window near the back door. A pause in the singing was followed by loud crying. Then, a small dumpy figure appeared in the doorway. Greying auburn curls framed an adult but childlike face. Bright blue eyes stared steadily above tear-stained old-young cheeks. We stared at each other and cautiously smiled.  I realised I had met the other Miss Brady. She stood watching as I continued scrubbing those limestone sills, silent - smiling and gesturing occasionally. Finished at last, I looked about. My companion had gone. There was no sign either of Miss Emily Brady. Was I free to go? As I hesitated, the little person came out again dragging a cardboard box behind her. She squatted beside me and proceeded to take out her treasures one by one for inspection. We were thus occupied when her sister told me I could go. "By the front gate," she added with the suspicion of a smile, seeing me glance in the direction of the orchard.  The other Miss Brady wasn't as happy to see me go and started to bawl in the manner I had heard earlier.  "I'm afraid Nora likes you. Would you mind staying a little longer?"Miss Emily said, glancing at the younger Miss Brady. Such a glance I had seen between mothers and their children. It was a look of exasperation and love.  I did stay a little longer that evening and many other days and evenings after that. For thus began my unusual friendship with the strange and, soon I realised, beautiful Miss Bradys. Copyright © 2001 Joan Fitzgerald