Читать книгу The Girl from Ballymor - Kathleen McGurl, Kathleen McGurl - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThe rain was heavy, turning the lane in front of the cottages into a muddy stream. Kitty slipped several times as she picked her way up through the village to Martin O’Shaughnessy’s cottage. She hadn’t much to give him on this occasion – only a sketch Michael had made of the view across the valley, which might cheer him a little. Nothing to eat. She knew Martin still had some potatoes, and if he was unwell she could stay and boil some for him. She could milk the goat as well. Her gift today was her time and her labour.
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to keep the worst of the rain off. The sketch was rolled up and tucked into her skirt. Martin was ailing and it was her neighbourly duty to go to him every day.
As she approached the end cottage, she stopped a moment and patted the goat, tied by a frayed rope to a post beside the door and huddled under the eaves out of the rain. It clambered to its feet and nosed around her skirts. ‘I’ve nothing for you today, girl,’ she said. ‘Maybe next time.’
But something was wrong. There was no plume of smoke from Martin’s chimney. He always kept a turf fire alight, but today there was nothing. The cold hand of dread clutched at her heart as she tapped on the door.
‘Mr O’Shaughnessy? Martin? Are you there?’ There was no answer, so she pushed open the wooden door and peered into the gloomy interior of the cottage.
A rasping cough came from the corner, and with relief she saw that the old man was lying there – sick, but alive.
‘Has your fire gone out, Martin? Will I light it for you?’ Kitty didn’t wait for an answer but set about immediately raking out the ashes, laying turf, kindling and a few sticks of wood in the fireplace and lighting it with her own tinderbox and flint.
It wasn’t long before she had the fire going again. Martin had coughed piteously throughout. When she turned back to him, she could see by the firelight that he had weakened considerably since the previous day. ‘Ah, Martin, let me clean you up a little. Have you had anything to eat today?’
‘No, Kitty, and there’s nothing I want to eat. Just a sip of water, if you would . . .’ His voice was weak and rasping.
She fetched him a cup, filled it from his bucket which she’d replenished from the stream the day before, and held it to his lips. He could barely lift his head to sip it. It wouldn’t be long now, she knew. But for once it wasn’t the hunger ending a life. Martin still had potatoes, and the goat.
‘Will I milk the goat? Perhaps a sip of fresh warm milk will perk you up a little. Or a hot drink? The fire’s burning nicely now,’ she said.
‘No, Kitty, nothing more. You’ve done enough for me. Milk the goat if you like, but take the milk for yourself. Now away back to your own home and your children. How’s your young Michael doing, anyway?’
‘Ah, he’s grand. He’s strong, and is getting plenty of work. That reminds me—’ she pulled out the picture Michael had drawn and handed it to Martin ‘—he said to give you this. To cheer you up, like. ’Tis the view from in front of our cottage, across the valley. Look, you can see the hills, dropping away there to the sea.’
Martin peered at the drawing. ‘He’s a talented fella, your Michael. He deserves better than this life. He should get himself to Dublin, find a sponsor, have his pictures shown in a proper gallery. People would pay money for them, so they would.’
Kitty sighed. ‘He should. But how can he? He’s not got the money to get himself to Dublin and set himself up. I’ve no way of helping him.’ And, if he goes, it’s the workhouse for sure, for me and Grace, she thought but didn’t say.
‘Poverty is the tragedy of the Irish,’ Martin said, then succumbed to a coughing fit. Kitty stayed with him, mopping his brow, helping him sip from the cup of water, until he was settled, and drifting off to sleep. She resolved to call in again before nightfall. Poor Martin. She hoped the end would be painless for him.
The rain had stopped when she left Martin’s cottage, and the sun was trying to break its way through the clouds. Good. She needed to walk to Ballymor and see if she could buy a little cornmeal. She had a few pennies left from Michael’s last wages, and they were short of food again.
The walk along the lane, down the hill and into town was pleasant enough as the sun came out, drying her hair and shawl. As she entered the town and passed the church, she decided to go inside and sit for a minute, to pray for Martin O’Shaughnessy. She had no money to spare to light a candle for him. Her silent prayers would have to do.
The church was dark and cool inside. There was a stained glass window, depicting St Michael, at the far end above the altar. She slipped into a pew and smiled, remembering how she had gazed up at that window on the day she’d brought her Michael here to be christened.
*
Finding out she was pregnant had been devastating. She’d been not yet sixteen and terrified. Part of her had wanted to hide it for as long as possible, refuse to acknowledge what was happening to her body. If she ignored it for long enough maybe it would all go away, maybe it wouldn’t be happening to her, maybe things would be as they had been, before. But the more rational part of her realised that she could not hide this, and neither could she handle it alone. If it was God’s will that she should have a child then she would have one, and would do her very best for that child, regardless. She’d steeled herself, and told Mother Heaney about the pregnancy early on, before the old lady suspected anything herself.
‘How did this happen, child? Who is the father?’ Ma Heaney spoke with repressed emotion. Kitty had the impression she wanted to scream and shout, but knew that would not help matters. She told her then how the pregnancy had begun, and Ma Heaney grabbed the mug she’d been drinking from and flung it across the cottage smashing it into the fireplace. Kitty flinched in fear, but the old lady’s rage abated as quickly as it had arisen, and she’d slumped in her chair. ‘I’m not after blaming you, Kitty. That monster! Well, what’s done is done, and I will help you with this child as far as I am able to.’
Kitty had knelt on the cottage floor at her feet and laid her head in Mother Heaney’s lap. ‘Thank you. I’m after thinking I’ll need all the help I can get.’
She’d been sixteen by the time Michael was born. He had torn his way out of her as though he couldn’t stand another minute inside, and had emerged red-faced and shouting, leaving her drained and exhausted, although the labour had been mercifully short. Old Mother Heaney had wrapped him deftly and passed him to her. Kitty gazed into his deep blue eyes and ran a finger across his furrowed forehead.
‘Whisht, there, little man. Hush, now.’
And he had stopped crying and looked back at her with eyes full of suspicion and confusion, an old soul in the youngest of bodies.
‘I’m your mammy, so I am,’ she told him. ‘I hope we’re going to be friends, now.’ The baby regarded her as though making up his mind about this, then turned his face towards her, mouth open.
‘He’s looking to suckle,’ Mother Heaney said, and helped her get him latched on. He sucked at her strongly and greedily, and fell asleep immediately after.
‘I think you and I are going to get along very well,’ she told him, smiling. She hadn’t known how she would feel about this baby, when he finally made an appearance. But, as he suckled, and she felt the warm weight of him in her arms, she knew that she loved this child. He was a part of her and always would be, no matter how he’d been conceived.
‘What are you after naming him?’ Mother Heaney asked.
Kitty had not given any thought to what she’d name her baby. She’d spent the first few months of her pregnancy ignoring the signs, praying it wasn’t happening. And then the latter part had been all about fending off the taunts and jibes of the townsfolk, disgusted at her for having a baby out of wedlock. As if it was her fault! ‘There she goes, the slattern!’ women had called after her, spitting as she passed, while men had looked at her with a disconcerting mixture of disgust and desire written in their eyes. She’d done her best to keep working: looking after Mother Heaney who’d put her foot in a rabbit hole and broken a bone, and tending their potato plot. She’d barely paused to consider the idea of actually holding a baby, her own baby, in her arms, and being required to give him a name.
‘Well, girl? Father John will be asking. He can hardly baptise a baby that has no name, can he?’
‘I’ll decide later,’ she said, ‘but don’t worry, I’ll have a name ready for his baptism.’
‘’Tis Sunday tomorrow. You can take him for baptism then, at the end of Mass.’ Mother Heaney bustled about the cottage, tidying up, putting water on to boil to make tea.
She was a good woman, Kitty thought. What Kitty would have done without her these last few years since her parents died she did not know. Mother Heaney had taken her in, brought her up, shared her cottage and potato plot and been like a parent to her. She was a distant relative – an aunt of her mother’s – but it had been out of kindness that she’d given a home to Kitty. ‘Well, if you call it kindness to let someone share your work and look after you in your old age,’ she’d said with an amused snort, whenever Kitty had thanked her for it.
Kitty spent her first night as a mother curled on her straw mattress, with the baby tucked in beside her. Even as she slept deeply, exhausted from the birth, she felt herself still aware of the warm little body pressed up against her. Once or twice she woke, helped him to latch on, and lay quietly, savouring the delicious scent of his soft head, as he fed. He was only hours old but already she felt the deepest, most profound love for this tiny being that she could ever have imagined. Despite the way he’d come into the world, she knew that she would do anything for him, anything at all.
The next day Kitty rose, washed and dressed, fed the baby and left with him wrapped in a shawl to go to Mass with Mother Heaney. Some of the town women who’d spat at her while she was pregnant came now to look upon the baby. ‘No one can resist a newborn,’ Ma Heaney whispered, ‘not even one that has no father.’ Kitty still had not decided upon a name. On entering the church, she gazed up at the stained glass window above the altar. It depicted St Michael the archangel, defeater of Satan, guardian of the Church, the angel who attended souls at their moment of death, to ease their passage into the next life.
‘Michael,’ she said.
‘What’s that you’re after saying?’ Mother Heaney asked.
‘’Tis what I’ll name the baby,’ Kitty replied.
The old lady nodded her approval, and an hour later, at the end of the service, Father John anointed him with oil of chrism and poured holy water over his head, welcoming him into the Catholic Church. Kitty swelled with pride as she watched. Michael kept his eyes open and fixed upon the priest throughout, as though he understood the seriousness of the occasion. When Father John handed him back to Kitty, her eyes had filled with tears. Michael had been born fatherless, but now he had God as his father. He would live a long, good life, she’d been certain of it. And she’d known then that she would do everything in her power to ensure it.
*
Now, so many years later, with that tiny baby almost a grown man, she left the church feeling calmed and uplifted. Remembering those good times – the early days with Michael when she’d learned what it was to be a mother, the support and love of dear Mother Heaney – had eased her soul. Outside, the clouds had cleared and the sun was fully out. There was beauty and peace to be found, even if there was poverty, starvation and death all around. She resolved to try to hold on to that thought, no matter what happened.
She paid a visit to the churchyard, laying her hand on the simple wooden cross that marked where her children were buried. ‘May God rest your souls,’ she whispered. And may Gracie and Michael never need join you here, she thought.
The food stores were further up the high street, past O’Sullivan’s pub, where a few men were standing outside, enjoying the sunshine as they supped their pints. Time was when Patrick would have been one of them, enjoying a pint once a week after work. She nodded to the men and continued to the grain store. There was a crowd outside it. She joined the edge of the crowd and asked the woman standing next to her what was happening.
‘There’s no corn. ’Tis all down at the docks in Cork still. They’ve not been able to distribute it to the towns where it’s needed. Disgusting state of affairs. What are we to do? How are we to feed our children?’ The woman shook her head sadly. Around her, the crowd was becoming angry. Two men at the front began beating on the doors of the store with sticks.
‘If there’s no corn, why are they hammering on the door? If there’s none to be bought there’s nothing to be done,’ Kitty said to her neighbour.
‘They don’t believe the warehouseman. They think he has sacks out the back that he’s keeping for himself. I’m waiting here to see if they’re right. If they’re not, and I can’t get any, there’s nothing for us to eat today. And me with seven mouths to feed. Where will it all end, I ask you?’
‘Where indeed?’ Kitty replied, wishing she had something to give the woman. At least she only had three mouths to feed now. She felt a rush of pain as she remembered that only a year ago, she’d had seven mouths to feed too. Poor Nuala, Jimmy, Éamonn and Little Pat. All taken at such a young age to sit at Jesus’s feet.
There was no point her staying in town. The crowd might turn violent, and she wanted no part of it. Her earlier tranquil mood had vanished, and now she wanted only to be home, in the cottage with Gracie and Michael. The chicken had laid an egg that morning. She still had a few of the potatoes Martin O’Shaughnessy had given her. And perhaps if he didn’t want his goat’s milk, he’d let her have it. They wouldn’t go hungry tonight. She patted her companion on the arm in a gesture of sympathy and support, and set off back to Kildoolin, her basket as empty as it had been on her way to town.
On the way home, she paused for just a few minutes to gather some sprigs of wild rosemary and golden broom. Some for herself, and some for Martin, to brighten and scent his cottage. If he was now unable to leave his bed and see the beauty of the day for himself, she would bring a tiny piece of it inside to him.
*
That evening, after Michael had returned and they had eaten their meagre meal, Kitty once more walked up the village track to Martin O’Shaughnessy’s cottage. She had a cold cooked potato, wrapped in a piece of muslin, to try to tempt him to eat. If he did not want it she would share it between Grace and Michael. She also carried the little posy she’d picked earlier. The sun was just dipping down behind the hill, but it would be light enough for another hour, for her to make sure he was settled for the night.
She tapped on the door, called out, and went straight in without waiting for an answer. No need for him to struggle to catch his breath to reply. The fire had gone out again, though the ashes were still hot, so she quickly banked it up and got it roaring again. She put the flowers in a mug of water on the table. Then she turned her attention to the bed in the corner, and the rasping, irregular breaths that were coming from it.
‘Well now, Martin, are you feeling any better?’ She knew the answer already, but it was as well to be cheerful. She knew Martin was dying, and he knew it too.
‘No, Kitty, I can’t say that I am,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, and his words followed by a coughing fit.
‘Hush now, Martin. Don’t speak if it hurts you so.’ She fetched a cloth, wet it and used it to clean the dried spittle from around his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked. She held the cup of water for him to sip from, but he wasn’t able to lift his head. Instead, she found a second cloth, a clean one, wet it and let the water trickle into his mouth from its corner. He sucked at it like a newborn baby. It was better than nothing.
‘Not long now,’ he croaked. ‘Not long.’
‘Should I fetch Father John for you?’ It was a long walk back to Ballymor this late at night, but she’d do it, if Martin wanted it. Or she’d send Michael who’d be much quicker. She cursed herself for not having spoken to Father John about Martin while she was in town earlier, but to fetch the priest to administer the last rites was an admission that death was imminent, and she had not wanted to frighten Martin or hasten his end.
He was shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve no need of Father John.’ He reached out a crabbed hand, and she took it. It was cold and thin, but he squeezed her hand with surprising strength. ‘Sit with me, Kitty. It won’t be long. Sit with me, till the end. I don’t want to go alone.’
Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. ‘Of course, Martin. I’ll stay, and I’ll do what I can for you.’
He squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes, letting out a rasping sigh.
She settled herself into a chair pulled up beside his bed, keeping her hand in his. It might be a long night. She was thankful she had banked up the fire so much when she first arrived. But if this was all she could do for her kind neighbour then it is what she would do. No one should be alone at the time of their passing.
Kitty watched the light slowly turn to dusk and then dark through the small window. The moon rose, its silvery light slipping into the cottage, caressing everything it touched. She listened to Martin’s laboured breathing, stroked his head and moistened his lips, but otherwise allowed her mind to swim deep into her thoughts.
An hour or so after she’d arrived, Michael tapped on the door and entered.
‘Mammy? We wondered where you were. Grace is in bed. Is there anything I can do? Is Mr O’Shaughnessy . . . is he . . . ?’
‘It won’t be long,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing you can do, except – milk the goat. Take the milk back for Gracie. I’ll be staying here.’
He squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into his arm, drawing strength for the night ahead from his presence. And then he was gone, leaving her once more watching the life slowly leave Martin O’Shaughnessy.
The old man woke once more, and mumbled a few words, gasping between them. She had to lean close, and strain to make them out. ‘Take the . . . goat, Kitty. Don’t let . . . Waterman . . . have it. Look after . . . young Grace . . . and Michael. Write to my sons, tell them . . . And . . . thank you.’
After another hour, or was it two, perhaps three, his breathing became irregular, with long gaps between each one. Each time she wondered whether it would be his last. And then finally, one last breath, a gurgle in his chest, and stillness, apart from a twitching muscle near his eye. A minute later that stopped too. Kitty released her hand from his, placed his hands on his chest, crossed herself, and murmured the Lord’s Prayer.
She sat quietly for a few minutes more. So now there was only herself, Michael and Gracie left in the village. In the morning she would go to Father John, and arrange for Martin’s body to be collected, and buried. She didn’t know whether Martin had any money – if she could find any she would make sure he had a proper burial in the churchyard. If not, he would be put in the mass grave along with the latest famine victims. It was not something she could bear to think on, while she still sat with his mortal remains.
‘Bless you, Martin. May you be at peace now,’ she said, and hauled herself stiffly to her feet. It was time to go.
Outside, the full moon shimmered across the landscape, oblivious to the events inside the cottage. Kitty raised her face to it and breathed in deeply. The air was fresh and clean, damp with the night’s dew but refreshing and cleansing.
The goat had scrambled to its feet as she came out, and now Kitty untied her. ‘Come on, girl. Come on and I’ll see if I have some eggshells and potato scraps for you.’
It walked obediently beside her, down the lane back to her own cottage, as though it knew its master was dead. There would be goat’s milk to drink in the morning, Kitty thought, but immediately chastised herself for thinking of her own family’s fortune, when poor Martin lay dead not a hundred yards away.
