The Adventuress


My brother and sisters didn’t really like Brenda at all but I did. She
was a couple of years older than I was and I was devoted to her. She
had a long, grave, bony face and a power of concealing her real
feelings about everything, even about me. I knew she liked me but she
wasn’t exactly what you’d call demonstrative about it. In fact there
were times you might even say she was vindictive.

That was part of her toughness. She was tough to the point of
foolhardiness. She would do anything a boy would do and a lot of
things that few boys would do. It was never safe to dare her to
anything.  Someone had only to say ‘Brenda, you wouldn’t go up and
knock at that door’ and if the fancy took her Brenda would do it and
when the door was opened concoct some preposterous yarn about being up
from the country for the day and having lost her way which sometimes
even took in the people she called on. When someone once asked if she
could ride a bicycle she replied that she could and almost proved her
case by falling under a milk-van. She did the same thing with horses
and when at last she managed to break her collarbone she took it with
the stoicism of a Red Indian. She would chance her arm at anything and
as a result she became not only daring but skilful. She developed into
a really stylish horsewoman.

Of course to the others she was just a liar, a chancer and a notice-box
and in return she proved a devil to them. But to me who was always
prepared to concede how wonderful she was, she was the soul of
generosity.

‘Go on,’ she would say sharply, handing me a bag of sweets or a fistful
of coppers. ‘Take the blooming lot. I don’t want them.’ I suspect now
that all she really wanted was admiration, for she would give the shift
off her back to anyone she liked. Like all natural aristocrats she
found the rest of the world so far beneath her own standards that all
were equal in her eyes and she associated with the most horrid children
whose allegiance she bought with sweets or cigarettes—pinched off my
brother Colum most of the time.

She got away with a lot because she was my father’s favourite and knew
it. The old man was tall, gaunt and temperamental. He might pass you
for weeks without noticing your existence except when you happened to
be doing something wrong. We were all in a conspiracy against him—even
Mother, who rationalised it on the plea that we mustn’t worry poor
Dad. When eventually there were things to worry about (like Colum
taking to the bottle or Brenda heaving herself at the commercial
traveller’s head) the suspicion of all the things we were concealing
from him in order not to worry him, finally nearly drove the old man
to an early grave.

The rest of us went in fear and trembling of him, but Brenda could
cheek him to his face and get away with it and to give her her due she
never allowed any of us to criticise him in front of her. Oedipus
complex or something I suppose that was.

One year she took it into her head that we should give him a Christmas
box as we gave Mother one.

‘Why would we give him a Christmas box?’ asked Colum suspiciously. ‘He
never does anything for us.’

‘Well,’ said Brenda, ‘how can we expect him to be any different when
we make distinctions between Mother and him? Anyway, only for him we
wouldn’t be here at all.’

‘I don’t see that that’s any good reason for giving him a Christmas
box,’ said Colum who was at the age when he was rather inclined to look
on it as a grievance. ‘What would you give him?’

‘We could give him a fountain pen,’ said Brenda who had it all pat.
‘The one he had he lost three years ago.’

‘We could,’ said Colum ironically. ‘Or a new car.’

‘You needn’t be so blooming mean,’ snapped Brenda. ‘Rooney’s have grand
pens for ten and a tanner. What is it, only two bob a man?’

There was some friction between Brenda and Maeve as to which of them
should be Treasurer and Colum supported Maeve only because he knew she
was a fanciful-sort of girl who would get out of a Grand National
Appeal in imitation print and then bother her head no further about it;
but Brenda realised that this was sabotage and made short work of
it. The idea was hers and she was going to be president, Treasurer and
Secretary—and God help anyone that got in the way.

Two bob a man was reasonable enough, even allowing for another present
for Mother. Coming on to Christmas we all got anything up to ten bob a
man from relatives up from the country for the Christmas shopping and
Brenda watched us with an eye like a hawk so that before Christmas Eve
came at all she had collected the subscriptions. I was allowed to go
into town with her to make the purchase and seeing that I was her
faithful vassal she blew three and six of her own money on an air-gun
for me. That was the sort Brenda was.

We went into Rooney’s which was a combined book and stationery shop and
I was amazed at her self-possession.

‘I want to have a look at a few fountain pens,’ she said to a
gawky-looking assistant called Coakley who lived up our road. He gaped
at us across the counter. I could see he liked Brenda.

‘Certainly, Miss,’ he said and I nearly burst with reflected glory to
hear her called ‘Miss’. She took it calmly enough as though she had
never been called anything else. ‘What sort of pen would you like?’

‘Show us a few,’ she said with a queenly toss of the head.

‘If you want something really first-class,’ said Coakley, producing a
couple of trays of pens from the glass-case, ‘there’s the best on the
market. Of course, we have the cheaper ones as well but they’re not the
same at all.’

‘How much is this one?’ asked Brenda, looking at the one he had pointed
out to us.

‘Thirty bob,’ said Coakley. ‘That’s a Walker. ’Tis a lot of money of
course but ’tis worth it.’

‘They all look much alike to me,’ said Brenda, taking up one of the
cheaper ones.

‘Aha!’ said Coakley with a guffaw. ‘They’re only got up like that to
take in the mugs.

Then he threw himself across the counter, took a fountain pen from his
own breast pocket and removed the cap. ‘See that pen?’ he said. ‘Guess
how long I have that!’

‘I couldn’t’ said Brenda.

‘Fifteen years!’ said Coakley. ‘Fifteen blooming years. I had it
through the war, in gaol and everything. I did every blessed thing to
that pen only stop a bullet with it. That’s a Walker for you! There
isn’t another pen in the market you could say the same about.’ He
looked at it fondly, screwed back the cap and returned it to his
pocket. You could see he was very fond of that pen.

‘Give it to us for a quid!’ said Brenda.

‘A quid?’ he exclaimed, taken aback by her coolness. ‘You might as well
ask me to give it to you for a present.’

‘Don’t be so blooming mean,’ said Brenda sharply. ‘What’s ten bob one
way or another to ye?’

‘Tell me,’ said Coakley, raising his hand to his mouth and speaking in
a husky whisper. ‘Do you know Mr. Rooney?’

‘No,’ said Brenda. ‘Why?’

‘You ought to go and ask him that,’ guffawed Coakley behind his
hand. ‘Cripes!’ he exploded. ‘I’d love to see his faces.’

‘Anyway,’ said Brenda, seeing that this line was a complete washout,
‘you can split the difference. I’d give you thirty bob but I’m after
blowing three and six on an air-gun for the kid. I’ll give you
twenty-five bob.’

‘And will you give me two pound ten a week after I’m sacked?’ asked
Coakley indignantly.

Even then I thought Brenda would take the dearer pen even if it meant
throwing in my air-gun to make up the price. I could see how it hurt
her pride to offer my father anything that wasn’t of the very best.

‘All right so,’ she said, seeing no other way out. ‘I’ll take the one
for ten and a tanner. It looks good enough anyway.’

‘Ah, ’tis all right,’ said Coakley, relenting and trying to put things
in the best light. ‘As a matter of fact, ’tis quite a decent little pen
at the price. We’re selling dozens of them.’

But Brenda wasn’t consoled at all. The very way he said ‘a decent
little pen’ in that patronising tone reduced it to mediocrity and
pettiness in her eyes while the fact that others beside herself were
buying it put the finishing touch to it. She stood on the wet pavement
when we emerged with a brooding look in her eyes.

‘I was a fool to go near Coakley,’ she said at last.

‘Why, Brenda?’ I asked.

‘He never took his eyes off us the whole time. Only for that I’d have
fecked one of the decent pens.’

‘But you wouldn’t do that, Brenda?’ I said aghast.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she retorted roughly. ‘Haven’t they plenty of them?
If I had the thirty bob I’d have bought it,’ she added. ‘But that gang
is so mean they wouldn’t even thank me for it. They think I’m going to
offer Daddy a cheap old pen as if that was all we thought of him.’

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.

‘I’ll do something,’ she replied darkly.

That was one of the joys of being with Brenda. When I came to an
obstacle I howled till someone showed me how to get round it, but
Brenda saw three separate ways round it before she came to it at
all. Coakley had given us a nice box for the pen. The price was
pencilled on the box and when we got home Brenda rubbed it out and
replaced it with a neat ‘30s’. She smiled at my look of awe.

‘But won’t he know, Brenda?’ I asked.

‘How would he know?’ replied Brenda with a shrug. They all look exactly alike.’

That was the sort of thing which made life with her a continuous
excitement. She didn’t give the matter another thought, but I kept
looking forward to Christmas morning, half in dread my father would
find her out, half in expectation that Brenda would get away with it
again.

In our house we didn’t go in much for Christmas trees. At breakfast on
Christmas morning Maeve gave mother a brooch and Brenda gave Daddy the
little box containing the pen.

‘Hallo!’ he said in surprise. ‘What’s this?’ Then he opened it and saw.

‘Oh, that’s very nice,’ he said with real enthusiasm. ‘That’s the very
thing I was wanting this long time. Which of ye thought of that?’

‘Brenda did,’ I said promptly, seeing that the others would be cut in
pieces before they gave her the credit.

‘That was very nice and thoughtful of you, Brenda,’ said my father,
making, for him, a remarkably gracious speech. ‘Very nice and
thoughtful and I’m sure I’m grateful to ye all. How much did you pay
for it?’

(That was more like Daddy!)

‘I think the price is on the box,’ said Brenda nonchalantly.

‘Thirty bob!’ said my father, impressed in spite of himself and I
looked at the faces of Colum, Maeve and Brigid and saw that they were
impressed too, in a different way. They were wondering what tricks
Brenda was up to now. ‘Where did you get it?’ he went on.

‘Rooney’s’ replied Brenda.

‘Rooney’s?’ repeated my father suspiciously as he unscrewed the cap
and examined the nib. ‘Ah, they saw you coming! Sure, Rooney’s have
Walker pens for thirty bob!’

‘I know,’ said Brenda hastily. ‘We looked at them too but we didn’t
think much of them. The assistant didn’t think much of them
either. Isn’t that right, Michael?’

‘That’s right,’ I said loyally. ‘Them were the best.’

‘They were the best, dear’ said Mother.

‘Ah,’ said my father, growing more suspicious than ever. 

‘That assistant was only taking you out for a walk. Which of them was
it? Coakley?’

‘No,’ said Brenda quickly before I could reply. ‘A fellow I never saw
there before.’

‘Hah!’ said my father darkly. ‘I’d be surprised if Coakley did a thing
like that. That’s terrible blackguarding,’ he added hotly to
Mother. ‘Willie Rooney trying to get rid of his trash on people that
don’t know better. I have a good mind to go in and tell him so. Jerry
Taylor in the yard has a Walker pen that he bought ages ago and ’tis
still good for a lifetime.

‘Ah, why would you worry yourself about it?’ said Mother
comfortably. She probably suspected that there was mischief behind, and
in her usual way wanted to keep it from Father.

‘Oh,’ said my father querulously, ‘I’d like to show Willie Rooney he
can’t treat me like that. I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Brenda,’ he
said, putting the pen back in the box and returning it to her. ‘Put
that away carefully till Thursday and then take it back to
Rooney’s. Have nothing to say to any of the other assistants but go
straight to Coakley and tell him I sent you. Say you want a Walker in
exchange for that and no palaver about it. He’ll see you’re not codded
again.’

I will say for Brenda that her face never changed. She had a wonderful
way of concealing her emotions. But the fury among the family
afterwards was something terrible.

‘Ah,’ said Maeve indignantly, ‘you’re always the same, out for nothing
only swank and grandeur.’

‘I wouldn’t mind the swank and grandeur only for the lies,’ said
Colum. ‘One of these days you’ll be getting yourself into serious
trouble. I suppose you didn’t know you could be had up for that.
Changing the prices on boxes is the same thing as forgery. You could
get the gaol for that.’

‘All right,’ said Brenda contemptuously. ‘Let them give me the gaol.
Now, I want to know what I’m to do to make up the extra quid.’

‘Make it up youself,’ snapped Maeve. ‘’Twas your notion and you can
pay for it.’

‘I can’t,’ said Brenda with a shrug. ‘I haven’t it.’

‘Then you can go and find it,’ said Colum.

‘I’ll find it all right,’ said Brenda, her eyes beginning to
flash. ‘Either ye give me the extra four bob a man or I’ll go in and
tell my old fellow that ’twas ye persuaded me to change the price.’

‘Go on, you dirty cheat!’ said Maeve.

‘Oh, leave her do it,’ said Colum. ‘Leave her do it and see will he
believe her.’

‘Maybe you think I wouldn’t?’ asked Brenda with cold ferocity.

Colum had gone too far and he knew it. It was always in the highest
degree unsafe to challenge Brenda to do anything, because there was
nothing you could positively say Brenda would not do if the fancy took
her, and if the fancy did take her there was nothing you could
positively say my father wouldn’t be prepared to believe. I knew she
was doing wrong but still I couldn’t help admiring her. She looked
grand standing there with the light of battle in her eyes.

‘Come on!’ she snapped. ‘Four bob I want and I’m jolly well going to
get it. It’s no use pretending we haven’t got it because I know ye
have.’

There was a moment’s pause. I could see they were afraid.

‘Give it to her,’ said Colum contemptuously. ‘And don’t talk to her
again, any of ye. She’s beneath ye.’

He took out some money, threw two two-shilling pieces on the table and
walked out. After a moment Maeve and Bridget did the same in
silence. Then I put my hand in my pocket and took out what money I
had. It wasn’t much.

‘Are you going to walk out on me too?’ Brenda asked with a mocking
smile.

‘You know I wouldn’t do that,’ I said in confusion.

‘That’s all right so,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Keep your old money. I
had it all the time and I’d have paid it too if only that gang had the
decency to stick by me when I was caught.’ Her smile grew bitterer and
for a second or two I thought she might cry. I had never seen her
cry. ‘The trouble about our family, Michael’ she went on, ‘is that
they all have small minds. You’re the only one that hasn’t. But you’re
only a baby, and I suppose you’ll grow up just like the rest.’

I thought it was very cruel of her to say that and I after standing up
for her and all. But Brenda was like that. 


(1948)