Читать книгу Little Drifters: Kathleen’s Story - Kathleen O’Shea - Страница 9

‘Come on, children, let’s get a move on,’ my father yelled. ‘We want to get there before it gets too late. On the wagon now!’

Finally, the day came for us to move out of the cottage and onto the open road. We packed and transferred all our belongings into the wagons, which didn’t take long as we didn’t have that much.

I took a long last look at the cottage – I was sad to leave it behind but at the same time I was stirred up by the excitement of our new life and all the adventures to come.

It was the start of our life on the road!

My father moved around the wagons and cart, checking that everything was in place, giving it a final inspection, tucking and pulling, making sure that the horses were safely strapped in before he was ready to hit the road.

He lifted Colin up into the wagon. Brian, Tara and myself climbed in, then he hauled himself up at the front, reaching for the reins. My mother was already there, and next to her was Floss, seated in prime position between my parents.

‘Giddy up,’ my father called and he tapped Big Mare’s backside with a stick. Big Mare moved forward and we began our journey.

We made ourselves comfortable, trying hard to contain our giddy spirits while looking out of the small window behind the wagon at the sights that passed us by.

The day was already brightening up and I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face. It was a glorious, gorgeous August day – just the right time to set off on an adventure!

My father was at the helm of the first wagon with Ginny tied up behind us. Claire and Bridget were on board the second wagon with our brother Aidan taking the reins. Our brother Liam took charge of the cart with all the other horses tied to the back. We travelled slowly in a convoy along narrow winding back roads through the countryside and small villages. After a few hours, my father pulled into a lay-by where there was a water pump. He fed and watered the horses before starting a small campfire to boil the kettle for our tea while my mother made up some bread and jam.

Then we scrambled back to our places and started up again. But the hours now dragged by, and Brian, Tara and myself were all restless. We’d had enough of sitting down at the back of the wagon. So Brian poked his head up to talk to my father: ‘Daddy, we want to stay out and walk. We’re bored in here. There’s nothing to do.’

Brian was always the bold one – he could get away with it because Daddy was very fond of him.

‘Stay out then!’ my father snapped back. ‘I’m sick of the feckin’ lot of you making a racket back there. You lot stay off the road and keep into the side of the ditches. You better keep up with the feckin’ wagons, you pack of blaggards!’

So we jumped down and ran around behind the convoy, playing along, trying hard not to lag behind too far but at times we were so engrossed that Daddy had to stop for us to catch up.

‘What did I tell you kids? I’ll kick the shite out of you lot!’ Daddy warned whenever we got close to the wagons.

When we were tired of playing, chasing and keeping up with the wagon, we ran up to my father’s side so he could lean over to pull us up into the wagon one by one. My mother, sensing my father was losing his patience with us, put her finger on her lips: ‘Shush! Quieten down now, children. Your father doesn’t like all that racket going on. He’ll get really mad. Go and lie down on the beds.’

We were so tired from all the running around that we didn’t even argue. I lay down on the bottom bunk bed, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves clip-clopping as they hit the tarmac, echoing like a lullaby, and the swaying of the wagon was so soothing and serene that before long I fell asleep.

I woke to a different feeling. We had stopped and I stretched out my arms and legs before poking my head out the wagon. Daddy had pulled us off the road to a spot near the river with a bit of woodland for shelter and firewood. It was now late in the day and the warm orange glow of the dipping sun filtered through the branches in a patchwork of light. Daddy set the wagons close together and untied the horses from the shafts. Aidan and Liam helped take them to the river for a drink before letting them loose to graze in a nearby field. They tied a rope around the horses’ back legs so that the horses wouldn’t wander off too far for my father to get them when he needed to. Claire and Bridget came and helped us down from the wagon.

‘Come, we’ll go get the water and the wood so we can get the fire going and get some food into us,’ said Claire as she handed me a pail.

We collected firewood, tied them into bundles then carried them on our backs to the campsite, which was near the farm where my father was due to be working the next day.

My father got the fire going while my mother prepared a vegetable stew. By tea-time it would be pitch black but for the glow from our campfire. I felt peaceful and safe in the woods with all my family by my side. But after filling my belly with warm, soupy vegetables I could barely keep my eyes open. Exhaustion soon got the better of us all and we clambered into the bunks for the night, all of us young ones curled up together on the one bed.

In the morning our mother shook us gently awake and I was filled with excitement once again at the thought of being in a new place, far away from the cottage. We each had a slice of bread and cup of tea before heading up to the beet field to join a group of other farm hands waiting for the farmer to arrive with the sack of tools so we could start work.

Brian, Tara, Colin and myself stayed at the fringes of the field as my parents and older brothers and sisters spread out to work in rows. We watched closely as my mother showed us how to thin the beet, trimming the excess leaves off the stalks from each plant. It didn’t look difficult so we started helping out, just tearing the leaves off with our fingers. Of course it wasn’t long before we got bored and started messing around so Daddy told us to go play somewhere else.

‘Just don’t be causing no trouble,’ Mammy called after us as we cantered off towards the campsite.

‘We won’t,’ we yelled back, keen to get as far away as possible.

Now, with our family in the field all day, we were free to do whatever took our fancy, and it was Ginny the goat who bore the brunt of our exploits at first. We tortured the life out of that poor creature. We’d get under her, pulling at her teats, squirting her milk into our mouths for a drink and then all over each other. Brian had this notion of riding on top of Ginny like a horse. Brian got on her back, one hand grasping her beard and the other holding on to her horn. Alarmed, Ginny legged it, bucking as hard as she could as she felt his weight on her back while we ran behind, laughing our hearts out at the sight of Brian riding on top of the goat. He held on tight, trying to stay on for as long as he could.

‘Go on there now, Gin! Go on!’ Brian shouted. He was in fits of laughter as he rode Ginny, with a stick flailing in his hand, shoving and pushing Ginny to move faster and faster. But Ginny had other ideas. She headed straight for the ditch full of nettles and bucked him off, head first. The sight of Brian emerging, muddied, stung all over and with his blond head covered in twigs and leaves was the funniest thing we’d ever seen.

Now Ginny ran away from us whenever she saw us coming and it was getting more and more difficult to fetch her. But Brian refused to give up. One day he came up with this idea of putting on my mother’s headscarf and coat.

He wrapped the colourful scarf round his head and the long brown coat hung off him as he called out in my mother’s voice: ‘Come on now, Gin Gin. Come now to Mammy!’

Brian looked so comical with the coat hanging off him and the silly headscarf, we never thought for a minute that Ginny would oblige, but she did! We were surprised but pure delighted as Brian had fooled her and we got to join in the fun. As soon as he managed to hold on to her horn, he was up riding off like a cowboy again. Off and away they went and the rest of us followed behind until Ginny bucked him off again to the same painful ending.

One day my mother came back from milking Ginny. She was rather disappointed at the amount that she’d got from our goat lately and asked if any of us had been at her. Innocently, we recounted how we’d been tugging at Ginny’s teats for her milk and how Brian was riding on top of Ginny and all the chasing we’d done – the full scenario in fine detail. We thought she would find it as funny as we all had. But she was so horrified and appalled that she gave Brian a good hiding, telling him that he could have broken Ginny’s back.

‘Leave Ginny in peace!’ she warned us. ‘Stop tormenting the goat. How would you like it if someone was at you all the time?’

She was incensed at what we’d done.

It didn’t matter. We started exploring further and further from the campsite, miles away, and we only came back when it was time for our dinner. The four of us would wander off into fields, rooting about the hedges, woodlands and everything else that we stumbled upon. When we came across an old ruin or barn, we’d spend hours playing in it. Occasionally, as we wandered across the fields, we’d catch a whiff of the awful stench from the feral goats as they came down from the mountain and we’d run away, screaming, laughing and holding our noses against the unbearable stink.

Sometimes, when we were by the river, we caught frogs and raced them. Our older brothers had shown us how to find hollow reeds to use as straws. We’d stick the straws into the frogs’ behinds and blow into them until the frogs inflated, their fat bodies all puffed up as their little legs stuck out at the corners. Then we’d all get in a line and pull the straws out from the frogs’ behinds at the same time and away they’d shoot, up into the air, as they deflated. The frog that flew the furthest won.

After each race we’d scramble about trying to retrieve our frogs, but as we went to pick them up again they’d often make a horrible squawking sound.

‘Oh, don’t touch that one!’ Tara would warn. ‘He’s putting a curse on you.’

So I’d find myself another frog and we’d start the race again.

Aidan and Liam loved building rafts. And once built, they’d tie a rope to the raft while we little ones sat on it and we’d ride through some fast-flowing water while our older brothers ran alongside the bank, holding the other end of the rope. Our older brothers also used to bring us to the rock quarry where they tied us up with ropes and we scaled up and down the sides. The drop was tremendous. We’d have died if the rope snapped. Sometimes we’d play by the railway lines, throwing stones to try to break the white cups on the electricity wire as we walked the line. There were plenty of occasions when the Garda came to pick us up and bring us back to our parents.

My father would erupt at my mother: ‘Look at the lot of your feckin’ bastards. Always causing trouble!’

He promised the officers that he’d give us a good hiding but he never did. We played dangerously, fearlessly, never realising the harm we could come to. We were wild, free and happy. There were never any toys to occupy us, no kisses and cuddles at the end of the day, but it didn’t matter. We were uncomplaining and self-assured – we’d been raised to look after ourselves and that’s exactly what we did.

For the most part Brian was our leader. Since he was the eldest of our group we usually played the games he wanted and explored the places he found curious. And what Brian loved most was birds. He was wild about them and we were forever following him up trees, looking at the birds, their nests, the eggs when they hatched and all the little nestlings when they were born. We’d walk miles into the woodland looking for crows. Brian was always high up the trees checking out the crow’s nests in the highest branches. He was determined to have his own bird so we’d try to catch water hens, but without success. They’d glide through the water so fast that they’d be on the other side of the bank before we could even get close. So Brian started making cardboard traps instead. He’d tie a string to the crow’s feet when he caught one and let it fly off just as far as the string would let it go. The crow would flap vigorously mid-flight, but, unable to move forward, it would struggle before falling towards the ground.

Now my father knew of Brian’s interest in birds and was concerned about him climbing trees all the time, fearing he might fall. So one day he came home with a turkey for Brian. Needless to say, Brian was overjoyed at having a pet, something that he could look after and care for. He guarded his turkey tirelessly, never leaving it out of his sight. We young ones weren’t allowed to come close to the turkey, let alone play with it. Brian defended his turkey like it was his own child. Tara would dearly love to have played with the turkey but was too afraid of Brian. We were all afraid of Brian when he lost his temper. Brian could be very vicious when he was angry.

One day Brian went out with our father and Floss to catch rabbits, leaving me, Tara and Colin to amuse ourselves.

‘Come on,’ Tara urged. ‘Let’s get the turkey. They won’t be back for ages.’

‘Brian’ll be mad if he finds out.’ I was worried.

‘He won’t find out,’ Tara insisted. ‘He’ll never know as long as we put it back when we’re finished.’

So Tara picked up the turkey and headed towards the riverbank where there was open ground to play on, while Colin and myself followed close behind.

We were all thrilled to be playing with the turkey at last.

‘I want to see it fly,’ Tara shouted. She grabbed the turkey and tossed it into the air, running after it as the turkey flapped its wings but landed, running rather than flying. We all chased after it and grabbed the turkey again, then threw it up into the air once more and then again, and again.

‘Why doesn’t it fly? Why is the turkey doing that?’ Tara panted, breathless from all the running and throwing. We couldn’t understand why the turkey wouldn’t fly. We kept tossing it in the air, repeatedly, and even tried doing it from raised ground. We kept at it for ages, trying to make it fly until suddenly the turkey dropped to the ground.

And stayed there.

‘The turkey’s dead. Oh my God, we killed the turkey! What are we going to do? Brian is gonna kill us when he finds out!’

Tara was a bundle of nerves. We all were – I trembled at the thought of Brian coming home to his dead turkey. We all stood staring down at the lifeless bird, too shocked to say anything.

Finally, Tara made a decision.

‘We have to leave it here and pretend not to know anything about it,’ she insisted. ‘We have to or he’ll kill us.’

We all agreed and returned to the wagons, leaving the turkey at the riverbank where it had dropped dead. We went about our business as normally as we could, though our hearts raced with anxiety.

Later that afternoon Brian returned and went straight to see his turkey. He looked everywhere around the campsite but he couldn’t find it.

‘Where’s my turkey?’ he asked all of us, including my mother. He was panicky and worried. We all shrugged, innocent.

‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got to look for it.’

So we all pretended to be looking around until eventually my father and mother found it where we’d left it by the riverbank. Brian burst into tears, distraught.

‘Never mind, I’ll get you another one,’ Daddy said, patting Brian’s shoulder. We all felt terrible – we knew how much Brian loved his turkey.

‘No! I don’t want another one. It’s not the same!’ Brian screamed back.

‘I know that Tara killed my turkey. She always wanted to get at it. I’ll drown her in the river if I find out that she has done it,’ Brian sobbed as he held the limp bird.

‘Now, Brian. Tara didn’t do it,’ Daddy soothed. ‘You can bring the nestlings back to the wagon and look after them.’

Later that night my father buried Brian’s turkey – a sombre moment but also one filled with overwhelming relief that none of us got found out. We never did tell him the truth.