Free The Light of Evening by Edna O’Brien Page A

lamplights roosting in the trees that skirted the park, we’d stop and laugh and go over every bit of it, his lips puce as if he’d painted them, his coffee-colored suit, his waddle, the Turkish Delight he fed us on a wooden spatula, wiping the sherbet off our lips, and the sudden umbrage in him at being called a scoundrel.

    Dear Dilly,
    I yet again take my pen in my hand since we have not heard from you in four weeks. Are you sick or what? We understood that people have good health in America. Making and trimming bonnets or having yourself photographed cannot take up all of your time. We are crazy with worry over your brother. He is a wanted man because of an ambush in a graveyard beyond Moynoe two weeks ago in which a British soldier died. A thousand pounds on his head. His picture on posters nailed to trees with three other suspects who are also on the run. He called once in the night, stole in while your father and I were asleep and took a pike that was in the thatch. He lives in bog holes and potato pits. If the army don’t get
    him then pneumonia will as the weather is wretched. Raining, raining, raining. With the last money you sent us we repaid one set of cousins, the Duracks, for their contribution toward your passage. I keep seeing you in my dreams. If only you knew how I miss you, especially on Sundays when I sit in the plantation for a rest. I enclose a prayer. Tuck it into the cavity in the back of the amber brooch that I gave you.
    The days grow longer
    The nights grow shorter
    The headstones thicken along the way
    Life grows shorter and love grows longer
    For Him who is with us night and day
    I hope your silence does not denote anything serious. I bring this scribble to a close.

Your worried mother,
                                            Bridget

    Bless This House

    it began great.
    “Bless this house, O Lord, we pray. Keep it safe by night and day,” played over and over again on the gramophone. It poured down the steps to where Solveig and I were working helter-skelter. The singer was a favorite of Pascal’s and he kept clippings and photographs of him coming out of concert halls in cities all over Europe.
    “Bless the people here within. Keep them pure and free from sin.
    Earlier when she came from Mass, the missus was in a foul mood, yelling at Solveig and me because one of the fires smoked, the logs were not properly stacked in their brass boxes, the goose not pierced of excessive fat, the napkins not folded into miter shape, which she had particularly requested, in order to show off the monogrammed M in blood-red silk needlework. M for Matilda.
    It was all bustle. A ham with cloves and crusts of brown sugar lay on a platter, a white paper frill around it, dishes and chafing dishes being kept hot, boats for different gravies, and the sizzle sound of the goose when Solveig basted it. The trifle, jellies, and a blancmange dyed green for the patriot effect were on the pantry floor to be kept cool. In small bowls of carnival glass the bonbons, the crystallized violets, and the maraschino cherries for when they would have their liqueurs.
    Mr. and Mrs. McCormack’s annual Christmas “at home.”
    The rooms were decorated differently for the contrast, the drawing room all light and blaze with two roaring fires and the fobs and pendants of the chandeliers that I’d washed in sudsy water and rinsed, twinkling as if to say, “We’re here … we’re here.” The cushions and velveteen sofa had to be re-covered because the chimney sweep being so absent-minded, he only put the dust sheets down in half of the room. An impertinent little squirt, with his brooms and his brushes and his set of rods, ordering Solveig and me about as if he owned the place.
    A man had done the hall, spent days doing it, dressing the tree that was as tall as the house and decking it with the small penny candles like the ones in the chapel because the missus wanted a woodland effect. Along with the