Bridget

Sister Ophelia leant her bike against the tumbling stone wall, and began unbuckling a wicker basket from the handlebars. She heard shrill children's voices pipping across the yard from the cottage, "She's here, she's here." and looked up in time to see two grubby faces disappearing inside, from the half open stable door.
Slipping the basket over her arm, she walked through the gap in the wall, the gate hanging off and propped open on one corner. A fisherman's cottage, some lobster pots piled up in a heap beside a wall, where a net was hanging, waiting repair.
Three chickens scurried around from the back of the cottage and sauntered in front of her, expecting to be fed. She wafted the basket towards them and they skittered away again.
"Sister." Mrs McCaw stood in welcome, wiping her wet hands on her grey apron, a child peering around her wide skirt. "Come along in, that wind's cold enough to flay your skin."
The nun followed inside and, as usual, six children were lined up behind the table, in a muddle of heights and saggy, ill fitting clothes. At one end of the room was an unlit fire and opposite a dresser, with stacks of mismatched plates and various pieces of porcelain, a water jug and bowl, a charger, all brown and chipped
"Children." Sister Ophelia greeted them, putting the basket on the table.
"Good afternoon Sister." They chorused, as she pulled aside the blue and white cloth covering the contents of the basket, and revealed two loaves of bread, taken from the kitchen of St Catherine's Home for Invalids. She gave one to Mrs McCaw, and pushed the other across the table. Eager hands sprang out and amid much excitement and pushing and quibbling, they tumbled up the stairs to the bedrooms.
"Thank you Sister. Will you take tea?" 
"Thank you no. I've no time to stop, I'll change your husband's dressings and be on my way." Mrs McCaw nodded.
"I've some water boiled ready."
Mr McCaw sat in the parlour, in a high backed armchair, a peat fire burning low in the grate, a blanket over his knees, his eyes closed, his hand gently stroking a stripy cat curled up on his lap.
They exchanged no pleasantries, as she unwrapped the bandage on his crushed right arm, cleaned the wound too wide to stitch, rebound it with new dressings. She checked his broken ribs weren't hemorrhaging, and then retreated to the kitchen.
Mrs McCaw was soaking clothes in a tin tub, a small girl, with her hair plaited in long pig-tails either side of her face, was sat swinging her legs beneath the table.
"No change." The nun reported.
"He's stopped coughing blood."
"Good." Sister Ophelia plonked the basket onto the table, and began to wash her hands in the bowl provided. "Hello Bridget." The child's face lit up, though she didn't look towards the nun.
"Hello Sister and how are you today?"
"Fair to better Bridget. And you?"
"Better to good Sister." She laughed, covering her mouth with both hands. Their little joke, as funny today as the first time.
"And what have you been learning at school?" Bridget twirled one of the ends of the pig tails between her fingers, brushing it against her cheek.
"We did our sixes, would you llike to hear my sixes Sister?"
."No, I've no time today Bridget." The Sister rummaged to the bottom of her basket. "I've something for you."
"For me?" A narrow wooden box emerged and the Sister slid it across the table. Bridget felt it touch her arm and her fingers carefully examined it, doing the job her eyes were unable to. She discovered the tiny key.
"Careful, it's fully wound, you must never overwind it."
Bridget pushed in the little button that released the lock, and the box opened. The serenade began its journey and Mrs McCaw came to stand beside the child, Bridget's face was first surprised, then delighted.
As the notes picked their way through the tune, grubby faces appeared at the stable door, and from around the corner of the enclosed staircase. The tune ended and the enchantment was over, the children gathered in an excited press around Blind Bridget and her music box, Mrs McCaw sensed trouble and pushed them away.
"Go away with you all, go on now. The Sister gave the box the Bridget and that's, that." She waved her hands, threatening to cuff them and they scurried away like the chickens before the basket. "Are you sure?" Mrs McCaw asked the nun, who nodded, gathering her belongings to leave.
"Thank you Sister. I'll keep my very favourite things in it." Bridget promised and carefully rewound the key.


  (For Part 1 see 'Madigan')