Against the Tide Read Online Free PDF Page A

a last glimpse of shining, terrified,
tiny amber eyes. Her head was gripped tight, bent into a feathery half circle rainbow of copper red, pressed to the shining edge of the knife. A shudder, a strangled scream for freedom, the kicking
yellow claws protesting hopelessly. Her neck was tougher than he expected, the knife blade not as sharp. He made a desperate sawing action. He surely disliked what he was doing. The pumping flood
of crimson burst at last from the heart of the red feathers, held now quivering under the gushing tap. For years she had strutted the yard, behind the lordly cock, scratching and clucking over her
little ones, tearing at the newly wet black soil for what she might fall on to kill and eat. With that blood down the trap flowed my childhood innocence.
    Beside us lived a widow called Mrs Bracken, who had already reared her own large grownup family. She had grey hair with a wisp that always seemed to straggle out, a reminder of a handsome
curly-haired young woman; she was brisk and vigorous, with a Junoesque figure. It was difficult to understand her speech because she had so few teeth. She didn’t talk much, but smiled
continuously, above all with her eyes. Her sleeves were always rolled up, revealing plump powerful arms, ready for action on her washing board, scrubbing a tubful of washing and wringing out heavy
sheets or blankets on a permanently waving multi-coloured line of washing. As each of the Brownes came into the world Mrs Bracken would take over our house and family. So gentle and natural was her
presence that we hardly noticed the loss of our mother, who was yet again committed to bed to add to our growing family.
    Mrs Bracken acted as mid-wife; we had no money for a doctor. As a new life took its place among us, we asked no questions and were told nothing. Blood-stained cotton wool in a corner waiting to
be burned, and a new tiny voice crying at night; later my mother, pacing the floor with the ailing child. In our ‘big bed’ all of us, boys and girls, top and toed, would lie awake,
tired and puzzled. There was a noiseless burst of violet blue flame as my mother lit the metal, spider-legged, methylated spirit lamp on the small side table, illuminating her white face, broad
forehead and black hair. She would pace the room as she waited for the small saucepan to warm the milk needed to pacify the infant. Peace restored, the small metal cap dropped on the violet flame,
darkness returned, and we all slept. My mother would go back to her cold bed, with its broken sleep. Was it we men who invented that mocking phrase, ‘the gift of a child?’
    Mrs Bracken had a daughter named Lizzie, who had the pale lemon skin of someone always indoors, and the bulging eyes of a goitre. Her voice was shrill, she smoked incessantly, and had greying
hair. She was married to gentle, diffident Pat McKegue, but had no children. Poor Pat got the blame; it simply couldn’t be the fault of a Bracken. Pat was a nondescript man with
putty-coloured grey skin, grey eyes, and uncared-for tousled grey hair.
    His great love was a sleek, well-fed, biscuit-coloured greyhound named Siki. Though he said little, and talked to no one, he once invited me to join him in exercising and hunting the dog. We
walked down through the shanty part of lower Irishtown, over the railway bridge and out the Moate road until we came to the lanes and fields of the countryside. Behind us came the racing machine,
Siki.
    As far as I was concerned this was an exciting change from marbles, conkers, hoop rolling and mock civil war battles, or sailing our toy boats on the Shannon. But there was a sinister purpose in
our Indian file with Siki at the tail end. So quick was the movement behind me that I saw nothing, only the tiny screech of a death agony and a dog wagging its tail, delighted by the rabbit between
its teeth. The deliberate movement of Pat ahead had led the creature to break cover and run straight into the ivory trap of