Till the Sun Shines Through by Anne Bennett Page A

her uncle’s hand.
    â€˜Don’t be mean to me,’ Francis said. ‘Sure aren’t you the loveliest thing to walk the earth?’
    â€˜Stop it, Uncle Francis!’ Bridie said. ‘It’s the beer talking.’
    â€˜Aye, the beer,’ Francis agreed, shaking his head sagely. ‘The beer unlocks the flood of words I’ve longed to speak to you. Words like “love” and “adore”. Words like “bewitch”, for that’s what you do to me.’
    â€˜I won’t listen to this,’ Bridie declared. ‘It’s wrong. You’re drunk and you’ll regret all this tomorrow, if you remember it at all.’ She glanced around furtively to see if she could break away from him. But even as she thought of it, she rejected it. Francis had been right about one thing: the wood was inky, pitch black. The harvest moon must have been covered by cloud, for no light from it penetrated through the canopy of leaves and she knew she’d probably fall headlong before she’d gone any distance. In fact, the only thing she could see in the dark was the strange light dancing in her uncle’s eyes and then the flash of his teeth as he opened his mouth and said huskily, ‘I’ll regret nothing. I just want to remember you just as you are tonight.’
    Oh God, Bridie thought in annoyance. The bloody man was a pest and the only thing to do was humour him. She wasn’t exactly frightened, she was unnerved, but knew better than to show him that. ‘Go home now, Uncle Francis,’ Bridie pleaded with a sigh of impatience. ‘Go and sleep it off, for God’s sake.’
    â€˜Sleep off this madness I have for you?’ Francis cried. ‘The thing that gets between me and sleep, my work, my peace of mind? Dear Christ, Bridie, you don’t know what you do to me.’
    That’s it! Bridie thought, angered at last. This sort of talk had to stop and if Francis wouldn’t listen to reason, maybe he’d listen to fury. How dare he think he could just accost her whenever he had the notion and spout such rubbish? ‘Now look here, Uncle Francis …’ she began angrily.
    She got no further for suddenly her mouth had been covered by his. But this kiss was different from the others, for she felt her uncle force open her lips and thrust his tongue into her mouth.
    Revulsion filled her being and she fought him like a wild thing, lashing out until she felt her own arms firmly pinned her to her sides. She writhed, squirmed and wriggled, trying to free her feet to stamp on his toes, or release her knee so that she could thrust it into his groin. But Francis held her so fast to him that she could do none of these things. Suddenly, she realised with horror that her struggles to escape had excited her uncle further. She was crushed into him so tightly that she felt his penis rise and harden and heard him moan as if he were in pain. But Bridie knew it was no pain. Never in her whole life had she been so terrified.
    Francis released her mouth and her arms to pull the dress down over her shoulders and expose her breasts. Bridie gave a yelp of terror and, pushing him with all her might, she twisted from his grasp.
    As she attempted to run, Francis made a grab for her and she felt her bodice nearly ripped from the dress entirely as Francis used it to swing Bridie round to face him. He held her as she stood before him, her dress open to the waist, her breasts exposed. She wanted to die with shame. Bridie saw her uncle’s eyes looked stranger than ever and his breath was coming in short gasps. ‘Ah God, Bridie. You’re lovely, so you are.’
    Bridie trembled from head to foot. ‘Please let me go Uncle Francis. I won’t tell a soul, I promise it, on my mother’s life.’
    â€˜Let you go?’ Francis repeated, as if in surprise. ‘You stand with your luscious breasts inches from my face and my manhood throbbing and ask