CHAPTER 1
The train that transported Peggy Flynn for the first time to Dublin, capitol of the Emerald Isle, carried her a hundred miles away from her oldest friend, Doreen Connoly, who remained on her father's potato farm because her mother was ailing. Peggy looked forward to her new life with a feeling of intense excitement, the kind of shy but impulsive excitement that many country girls had experienced on their first journey to a big city. For the first time in her life, she realized, she felt free!
"I wish I were you!" Doreen had said as they took their leave of one another on the platform of the small country station.
Poor Doreen, whose parents were even stricter than Peggy's. How often the two girls had walked along the narrow country roads together, confiding in one another their dearest ambitions, their great longing to be away from the harsh country with its poverty-stricken belt of potato farms, its hard, suspicious, colorless people, the strict surveillance of the parish priest who used his influence with the older people to make things dull, intolerable for the young. Susan, Peggy's elder sister, a girl of nineteen and only a year older than Peggy, had herself been forced by the narrow morality of Father Hogan to marry a young man of the neighborhood with whom she had been seen walking after dusk a little way out of the village. Worse still, poor Susan was not in love with the young man, but she was caught, ensnared; at nineteen, her life was over. She had no future except as mother of the children of a common laborer she didn't love. The priest had spoken to her father, his tone severe, adamant in his purpose. Her father had looked grave. Susan, unable to control herself, had burst into tears, her face a mask of misery, her young bosom heaving with shame and terror. Her mother had sat silent, old and gaunt at thirty-nine, darning the eternal socks of rough wool. All Susan's protestations of innocence had been to no avail. It made no difference, the priest said, whether or not any intimacy had taken place. The whole village knew of the affair. If there was no marriage, there would be scandal. It was the priest's duty under the circumstances to protect public morals. Susan, innocent or guilty, had transgressed against the canons of modesty. She was, in the eyes of the villagers, a fallen woman; there was no redemption outside Christian marriage.
Sorrowfully, for he was proud and of greater than average intelligence, Peggy's father had consented to the union. He had hoped for better things for his eldest daughter, and now, almost like a divine thunderbolt, had come the judgment and command of the priest. To Peggy, such a fate was too terrible to contemplate. It drove her, who had herself on one or two occasions allowed a young man of the village to hold her hand in a narrow country lane, to ask her father's permission to go to Dublin to find work. At first he had refused even to listen to her entreaties, but later, after he had given away his eldest daughter to the good-for-nothing ploughman who was indirectly responsible for her fall, he came to understand what terror it was that moved in the breast of his second daughter. And so he gave his consent.
Originally, Doreen was to go with her. Peggy's father was friendly with Doreen's, and he had used his influence with the other man to persuade him to allow his daughter to accompany his own. No one knew better than he, he argued, the dangers awaiting a young country girl in a big city. Of course, he realized that there were similar dangers much nearer home, he said, dangers that not all the vigilance of a loving father could control. Look what had happened to Susan, one of the gentlest and most modest girls in the neighborhood. He had no illusions about what her future would be. Two, three, four, perhaps even ten children in a ploughman's hut, to accompany the poverty, probably misery, which his own small wealth could do little to alleviate. No, he had to admit that he did not think that the city was any more dangerous, especially if the two girls went together. He said frankly that he would feel much better about the matter if Doreen accompanied Peggy.
Mr. Connoly at last gave his consent. The two girls would go together to the house of a distant relative of Mrs. Connoly's in Dublin. This lady, Mrs. Agnes Sprott, would act as their counselor and foster parent.
Mr. Flynn was jubilant. A kind man, he was sympathetic to Peggy's fears. He wanted the best for her. He had no wish that she should share her sister's fate.
Unfortunately, just before the time set for their departure, Mrs. Connoly became seriously ill and bedridden. Doreen was now required to perform the work of her ailing mother. The cows had to be milked, the chickens fed, and the meals for the men prepared. Doreen was the only daughter. She could no longer be spared.
Thus it came about that Peggy traveled alone to Dublin, leaving her friend sad and resigned on the platform of the little railway station and promising to write and tell her everything that happened. That, at any rate, was better than nothing. And one day, they swore, sooner or later, Doreen would join her.
Peggy was nervous on the train.
It was stuffy in the compartment, and she was already hot from the last-minute rush with her suitcase. The wooden seat was uncomfortable. She could feel it against the back of her thighs through her cotton-print dress. She was also conscious of a little tingle of excitement deep within herself, almost an itch, and she could not keep her legs still.
The people in the compartment were dull. Old country-folk for the most part, who gazed through watery eyes at the flying countryside, brown, flat, uninviting. Also, there was a nun in the compartment, a woman with a long, pink face and silver-rimmed glasses, who kept counting her beads and muttering to herself. Peggy felt resentment stir in the very fibers of her body. What a denial of life! It was--obscene.
She got up and went out into the corridor. There she stood with her pretty forehead under her soft, black curls pressed against the cool window. She could feel the vibration of the train enter into her when she did this, and somehow it seemed to speak to her with something more urgent and secret than words. She was free! She drew a deep breath, causing her ripe young breasts to rise under her thin frock, and then, glancing hastily this way and that along the corridor, she leaned forward and pressed her bosom tight against the glass, holding herself there, her hands against the window-rail. At once, the strange, shuddering dynamic took hold of her, a subtle infusion through her pressed nipples, making her, she felt, almost one with the train's movement. She stood like this for some time, never forgetting to look back and forth along the corridor lest someone surprise her. Seeing her face for a moment in the glass in front of her, she blushed. She was very happy. This strange and almost innocent experience seemed to represent for her a kind of bridge, ambiguous and fragile as a rainbow, over which she would surely move towards love and happiness.
Just then, she heard one of the sliding doors open and she hastily moved away from the window. She pretended to be engrossed in looking at the blur of countryside. But, of course, she was not thinking about that at all. She hated the country and the farms and all they represented. She was thinking about love and how the thought of it excited her and frightened her at the same time. Oh, there was no doubt that uncontrolled passion was dangerous! And she was determined to be careful. She couldn't do anything that was morally wrong. She was a good girl. She believed utterly that no good could come of illicit unions. Only sorrow and perdition could result from that kind of folly. She would be cautious, taste of love a little at a time, and then, when she had flirted to her heart's content, she would find some handsome young man with a good position and marry him. Soon enough then to know the delights of mature love. Yes, she would have to be very careful.
A young man passed directly behind her. As the corridor was narrow, he felt it safe to make what she knew to be an intentional stumble against her. His front came softly against her buttocks, lingered and thrust for a fraction of a moment, and then brushed aside. She'd felt his hardness.
"Sorry," he said quietly and suggestively.
Her chin tilted upwards proudly and she looked away from him, out the window. She had no intention of allowing him to take any liberties. He could go wherever he was going, but she certainly was not going to encourage him. She wouldn't say anything. She wouldn't even look at him.
"Going to Dublin?"
The young man was standing about a yard away from her now on her right, his voice polite, but not very cultured.
"It's none of your business where I am going," Peggy said coldly, and with that, she deliberately turned her back on him.
"No offence," he said nervously. "I didn't mean any harm. Really."
She noticed how nervous his voice was, and her confidence grew. There was no danger here. She could talk to him, at least. That wouldn't do any harm. She answered his first question.
"If you really want to know, I am going to Dublin."
"So am I," he said happily. "I'm sorry I bumped into you, really I am!"
Peggy began to like him. He was probably as inexperienced as herself, and to talk to him would pass the time. Better than going back into that stuffy old compartment with the peasants and the nun.
"Don't mention it," she said. "I wasn't really angry. I thought you were trying to be smart."
The young man flushed.
He had a broad smile with a fleshy nose, blue eyes, and freckles. Not at all the kind of man she could fall in love with, she reflected, but nice, friendly, and obviously strong, if the breadth of his shoulders was a fair indication. She was glad now that he had come into the corridor. After all, she was not narrow-minded. And it would be something to write to Doreen about. Imagine, her first encounter had come as soon as she had stepped onto the train! And she had felt his thing prodding her behind, too! Poor Doreen would be madly jealous.
"What are you going to do in Dublin?" the young man asked.
Peggy said she didn't know. Her one ambition was to be an actress. She said she would like to play at the Abbey Theatre. But of course, she would have to find work first and earn some money. She wasn't quite sure what she would do. It all depended upon a friend she had who had promised to find her a good, well-paying job.
He said he was sure she would get on and she warmed to him. He seemed an intelligent enough young man, a man of perception. She asked him what he was going to do and he replied that he was going to have a job as a barman. She wasn't quite sure she approved of this. She had heard many stories of the Dublin bars. But she didn't wish to offend him, so she didn't voice her opinion. She felt suddenly very happy to be talking to another person who, like her, was leaving the country to go to Dublin. That much, at least, they shared.
Not at all sure what to say next, Peggy burst out with, "Oh, I'm so happy to be going! I only wish I could read the future!"
"That's easy," he said with a laugh. "Here, give me your hand. I can read palms."
She felt a slight wave of mistrust move through her, but since she didn't wish to appear green and silly, she gave him her hand. He held it firmly, turning it palm-up, near his face. His forehead wrinkled in concentration. That made her feel better. Perhaps it wasn't a trick after all.
"You are going to be a great success," he said after a moment. "I'm not sure you're going to be an actress, but your hand says you are going to be very successful."
She laughed nervously. "Oh, it doesn't really matter," she said a little breathlessly. "There are plenty of other things I'd like to be too!"
"What for instance?" he said, smiling at her.
"Oh, I don't know," she said doubtfully, "but there are. I just can't think at the moment!"
"Neither can I," he said softly. After a moment he added, "How smooth your hand is!"
She flinched, an uneasy sensation growing somewhere between her breasts, but she allowed him to continue to hold her hand. "Go on," she said with a small laugh. "You haven't told me anything yet."
"You'll have to tell me your name first."
"Peggy," she said.
"I'm Bill," he said. "How about letting me take you to the cinema some time in Dublin?"
"I might," she said, "but I'm not promising anything, mind."
"That's fine," he said. He was still holding her hand in both of his, but at waist-level now, and one of his broad thumbs was stroking her palm.
She began feeling really nervous. She wanted to take her hand away and leave it there at the same time. She was gazing at her hand in his. It felt warm, comfortable, and faintly exciting. She would take it away in a moment. There didn't seem to be any harm in it. She wished that Doreen could see her now. A young man of her own already, and he wanted to take her to the cinema!
"What color are your eyes?" he said.
"Why don't you look and see, silly."
He laughed with her, pressing her hand tenderly. "Green!" he said. "Green for jealousy!"
"What cheek!" she said pertly. "Green means a lot of other things too. Ireland, for instance!"
But he didn't appear to be listening. He was looking out the window at a fire that was burning in the distance, and his fingers were absently caressing her wrist. Her own fingers were dull and lifeless. By a great effort of will, she resisted returning the caress. She wanted to. Oh, how part of her wanted to! It was so comfortable, so soothing, she almost loved him! But no, she was going too quickly. He was a stranger. She didn't know him. He might be anybody. She must take her hand away now. She had allowed him to hold it long enough, too long even. And only five minutes ago she had been determined not to speak to him! How could she have allowed this to happen? It made her feel all hot and cold.
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The Celebrated Erotic Classic. From the author of Young Adam. Best friends Doreen Connoly and Peggy Flynn hated life on their respective family potato farms in Ireland and longed for freedom. Miraculously, Doreen talked her father in letting her go to the big city--Dublin in Emerald Isle--and equally miraculously, her father talked Peggy's father into letting Peggy go also. Sadly, Peggy's departure was delayed, due to the illness of her mother, but eventually both young women escaped the drudgery of farm life and plunged into the School for Sin.
