A Few Oddities of the Bridget Harrington Family
– Bridget has taken the dog out again
– Heavens, what has she done to that poor animal this time? Would you look at Pippas tail? It’s not purple anymore, now its pink! There, see how she wags it!
– Well, what can you do? The girls always been peculiar. At least shes kind and decent! Much of that about these days? You saw how she looked after her gran when she was illBridget hardly left the hospital. She flitted about, never minding her own youth slipping away.
– Oh really now! Just yesterday I saw her getting out of a very smart car, and the chap who dropped her off seemed quite taken with her.
– Maybe hes just an Uber!
– Oh, come on now! Since when do cabbies kiss their fares hands in this town?
– No, Im telling you, our Bridgets soon to be off to the altar.
– Well, good for her! Her gran will be thrilledshes raised such a wonderful girl. Clever, lovely, well brought up! If only her career was less peculiar, shed be perfect!
– Whats wrong with her job?
– A detective inspector! What work is that for a young lady?
– You sound like its a bad thing. Not many honour the law like her gran, do they? And Bridget’s making a fine detective if you ask me! There was even an article in the local paper, and they said nice things about her on telly. Youre talking nonsense.
– I’m not saying anything, just thatwellgood luck to her. You could always tell shed show everyone in the end. Remember how she was as a littleun?
– Of coursespitting image of her gran! Absolutely unstoppable!
And so they sat and chattered on the bench outside the flats, watching as the subject of their gossip passed by, sending them a polite nod before dashing off to chase her small, leaping dogits tail now a gentle shade of rose across the frosted, sanded footpaths.
– And shes off! Wheres she running to now?
– Off to meet her sister, of course. Katherines flying in today.
– And how do you know that?
– Bridget told me this morning. Look, here comes a cab now!
A tall, slender young woman stepped out, didnt say a word, simply strode over to meet Bridget and wrapped her in a great hug, whistling at the dog as she bounded around their feet.
– Bridget! What have you done to the poor dog this time?
– Dont you think its pretty? Gran loves this shade.
– Oh Ive missed you, you daft thing!
Bridget burst into laughter and hugged her sister again.
Everyone in our neighbourhood knew Bridget Harrington was a bit odd. The strange ways had shown themselves since her golden childhood. She was a sweet child with skinny plaits, the ends tied with old-fashioned, bushy bows that Gran arranged with expert care. Shed smile with her slightly wonky teethat least that was before her step-grandad fixed themand greet the neighbours ever so politely.
– How are you today?
But soon enough, even those with nothing to hide would stop answering her. Not that Bridget was dislikedoh nothey just found her a bit much.
She had a gift for listening, remembering, and putting bits and pieces together before dropping the truthwith all due innocenceon precisely those involved, rather like a small Holmes with plaits.
– Auntie Jane, when you were at work, your Uncle Simon brought some flowers to Mrs White in number 17! The same as he brings you, only more, and I asked for a sniff but he said no and went up to hers. Whys she allowed to have them and Im not?
Janewho had long accepted Simons odd working hoursnearly always looked shaken after these encounters, hurrying off and skipping a word with Bridgets gran.
– Darling, why do you talk to Auntie Jane about flowers? She didnt ask you, did she?Gran would say, but she never explained why.
Bridget couldnt see what all the fuss was about. As far as she could remember, she hadnt done anything wrong Had she?
It was always this not-knowing that made her so cross. Would someone have explained why you shouldnt say such things? Maybe shed have kept quiet next time.
But after such incidents, Gran would go quiet, clutching Bridgets hand tightlygently, but firm as a statueand give her that stern look that meant therell be no dessert tonight, and dont you think otherwise.
Of course, that never pleased Bridget. Shed sulk until she remembered at least her gran didnt have pigeons on her head like that statue of Churchill she liked to visit in the town square.
Bridget only found out about Churchill because her step-grandad was always up for her questions.
– Why is he bald?she squinted in the sun, looking up at the monument.
– Worry, lots of worry!hed answer, always direct, never fobbing her off.
– So he had a hard job? Was he a dentist too?Bridget would imagine the bald statue squeezed behind her grandads chair at work, making children scream not from fillings but from sudden glimpses at his shiny head.
Her step-grandad would laugh so much people passing by would stare, and Bridget would tut, not quite getting the joke.
Then shed put on her most serious face, hands on hips like Grans and say, I suppose you think youre Tommys horse, behaving like that! Mind yourself! Its embarrassing!
Hed laugh, buy her a secret ice cream on the way home (which was only secret because Gran forbade treats before lunch), and swear her to secrecy, which she kept. The one thing she never told on was their ice creamsshe understood that some things, when asked to, you keep close.
Her step-grandad had entered their lives like a late Christmas present. Gran, busy and always practical, had decided to finally marry a long-time admirer, thinking that the more relatives for a child, the better. With OIgas parents always off on digs and expeditions, Bridgets world was her gran, and later, her step-grandadwhich suited her perfectly.
She adored her bonus grandad more than anything, for he seemed to exist as proof you could get a second chance at happinessone with more laughter and surprises.
Gran wasnt known for sentimentality, except with her granddaughter or old friend Petebut despite her pragmatism, her heart had always been hopelessly romantic. Shed longed to have someone sing her ballads under the moon, to leave lilac on her windowsill, but her own husband had been one for flowers only on birthdays, poetry only of a practical natureshed received Mayakovsky, not Byron.
After hed left, she raised her son and forgot about romance. It was only when Bridget arriveda scruffy, wailing miraclethat her grans heart softened again. With both her archaeologist parents away discovering treasures, Bridget became her grans everything, growing up among women. According to Gran, it was for the besta child needs roots, not museums and desert camps.
And so Bridget was raised by women of principle and old friendsthen Pete joined them, giving both Bridget and her gran a new lease on lunacy and love.
Bridget, rarely sick, never went to nursery for longshed always come home with coughs, so Gran gave up after a while and said to Pete, Lets just keep her at the cottage through the summertheres more children and more air! Socialisation, they reckoned, could wait until the smell of cut grass and jam was everywhere.
Thats where Bridget found her childhood clanSarah with her ballet obsession, the twins, and all the rest, running like mad things through great beech trees in the old family plots. And when she was six, along came Katherine.
Katherine was nothing like Bridgets usual friendsa scruffy, cheeky, fierce little thing, always after what she wanted. She made her first appearance one bright summer morning, crawling under the garden table to grab strawberries from Bridgets carefully washed bowl, unbothered by being caught.
After the commotion nearly had Gran spilling her jam, both girls ended up under the table, quietly devouring the fruit together, their friendship sealed.
Katherine wasnt just any childshed lost her whole family in a tragic accident and lived with her grandfather, a retired detective, who was a friend of Grans. Gran, unable to say no to a child alone, brought Katherine into their fold as if she was Bridgets own sister.
In time, Katherine became not just her closest friend but the only one who consistently told Bridget the truth. She taught her when to speak out and when to zip it, directing Bridgets knack for details and deduction into more useful pursuits.
– You ought to be a detectivenot a word to my grandad, though, hed say its a dogs work and cats would do better!
– Well, Ill be a detective then, and not a rotten onelet there be at least one good apple in the barrel!
People still found Bridget oddcalling her a quirky one, joking about her waysbut she had a goal, and those who mattered stood behind her, arms folded, eyebrows raised, with Grans usual battle cry:
– Bridget, have you eaten? No? Disgraceful! Stop laughing, Katherine, I bet you havent had a drop since breakfast either! Now, lunch for everyone! Pete, must I invite you too? Let the poor dog off and go wash your hands! Pippa doesnt need a pink tail, honestly. What do you mean I say that all the time? Do I? Well, enough faff! Lunchtime! Now, march!
And honestly, why not? With so much love behind you, what on earth could possibly go wrong?
