Читать книгу An Irish Country Childhood - Marie Walsh - Страница 10

MY GREAT-AUNT ELLEN lived alone in the village of Carrowkerribla, about three miles from where we lived. She was the spinster aunt of my mother, and an old lady by the time I was born. She was unable to cope with the everyday chores and had to have the company and help of us children most of the time. Those three miles that I, on my own or with a brother or sister, had to walk, were fraught with danger, or so we thought. First we had to get past Ted Lynch’s mule. Then a mile further on there was Connor’s bull, grazing peacefully until he spotted us, when he would half-raise his head, as if deciding if we were worth a scare. He would then charge, frothing from the mouth, his hoofs pounding the earth. We used to imagine that he would scale the fence but his massive bulk prevented his doing so. We would run for cover, thankful that we had escaped.

Then, further along the same road, there was an empty house where the men o’ the road (tramps) took temporary refuge. We would tiptoe past, scared in case they might do us some harm. Now we were leaving the boreen behind and coming on to the main road into another village, with a lake on one side and Dodd’s farm on the other. This farm stocked a bull and a stallion. We could hear the bellowing of the bull before we came in sight of the farm. If those animals happened to be grazing in the fields bordering the road our lives were again threatened. The bull was fettered but he still pawed the ground and made deep rumbling noises, letting us know that he would make short work of us if given the chance.

The stallion would stand and toss his proud head in the air, neighing and showing his teeth. Sometimes we would watch from a distance as his handler exercised him. This was done by giving him enough rope, tied to a bit in his mouth, to gallop around in a circle. Then he would be led into his stable and we would continue on our way.

These obstacles safely negotiated, we still had some unfriendly dogs to contend with, but at last the journey to my great-aunt’s was completed. We would tell her of the difficulties we encountered, but she would laugh and say that the animals sensed our fear and that was why they seemed threatening.

Her house was the last one in the village. On a fair-sized farm with good, arable land, this comfortable house with its thatched roof, lay snuggled among trees. These protected it from the fierce winds that in winter blew across the bogs that stretched as far as the eye could see. The purple heather grew in abundance on every sod-ditch that surrounded the north side of this dwelling, blooming everywhere it could find a foothold. Wild grass and rushes, plus myriads of wild flowers, all found space to flourish here. White cotton tips looked like bits of cotton-wool stuck on reeds, and in between there were little pools of water. This presented a spectacle beautiful to behold and was an ideal habitat for all kinds of wildlife: duck, pheasant, partridge, grouse, hares and rabbits, foxes, badgers and weasels. I used to hide on top of the sod-ditches, concealed by the heather and watch nature at work.

At nesting time, the parent birds would be seen scuttling through the undergrowth so as not to betray their nesting site. I would sneak a look at the various nests with the different-coloured eggs, my hand over my mouth in case the mother bird should catch a whiff of my breath. We were told that if we breathed on the eggs or on the fledglings, the mother would abandon them and that the parent birds would fly over the bogs and moors wailing for their little ones and cursing the humans who had robbed them of their family.

I once found a wild duck’s nest built on one of these sodditches which was several feet high. I informed my great-aunt of this and was scolded for telling lies. A wild duck always builds on the ground she said, so I took her to see this beautifully constructed nest with the down plucked from the breast of the mother bird covering the eggs to keep them warm while she foraged for food.

My great-aunt was amazed. She said she had never seen the like and wondered how the duck would get the little ones to water. But mother duck had craftily built near a pond and eventually there was the family of golden-coloured, fluffy ducklings bobbing on the water with their proud parents.

Another day I was walking past a field of potatoes, daydreaming as usual, when I heard a commotion in and among the stalks, followed by a screech of terror. It was a weasel which had stalked a rabbit and had pounced with deadly precision. Afterwards I found the body of the rabbit. The weasel only drinks the blood. His trade-mark is a clean-cut hole at the base of the neck, much like a bullet hole. Ellen said that the meat is contaminated afterwards and is poisonous to humans. In Ireland, people had a fear of weasels. In olden times it was supposed that witches took this form. This animal was considered spiteful and malignant so people kept their respectful distance.

My aunt told me a story about three men who were once widening a road in the area and had to rebuild the stone fences knocked down whilst doing so. They came across a weasel’s nest with young ones in it. Being aware of the mystery and might surrounding these creatures and of the consequences of killing one, the men moved the nest further down the ditch. Mother weasel, missing the nest, thought her family had been destroyed. She sneaked into the house where the men’s dinner was being prepared. There were three mugs of milk already poured and seemingly the weasel poisoned them. Going out and finding the nest safe and sound she returned as the men were about to take their places around the table. She jumped up, put her feet on each mug, and tipped the contents onto the table as the bewildered men looked on.

My aunt also said that the mother weasel will protect her young with the tenacity of a bear, and if she feels they are threatened will rally help. Then all the weasels will lie in wait and ambush man or beast. They had once attacked a young girl who used a certain path to and from school. She probably found nesting sites and, being curious, she must have had a peep passing by. The weasels thought it was a threat and lay in wait and attacked, biting her in the back of the neck with their long canine teeth. She was found dead in the field by her parents who went searching for her when she failed to return from school.

Even the owl and the hawk, who are natural enemies of the weasel, may become victims themselves. They swoop on the weasel and grab him with their talons to crush him to death. Sometimes the weasel manages to turn and strangle his enemy in mid-air and they will both fall to the ground. Where the weasel will finish his meal and for vengeance will eat the brains of his adversary.

My great-aunt’s brother, James, was a bachelor and since his death our family had the use of the farm. We supplied Ellen with all her worldly needs and she also had her old-age pension. We would collect this from the local post office. She would tell us to buy sweets, plus whatever shopping she needed. She liked to smoke a pipe, so tobacco was on the list. The shopkeeper would ask who smoked the baccy, knowing full well that it was Ellen. We would be embarrassed as it was unusual in those days for a woman to smoke, except in private.

Ellen was getting feeble by this time and she used to sit by the turf fire on a three-legged stool smoking her clay-pipe, her doodeen as she called it. She would nod off and the pipe would fall from her hands on to the hearth, until there was eventually only a stump of stem left. She would still drag smoke out of this semblance of pipe, making smacking noises with her toothless gums as she puffed away to her heart’s content. She was small and skinny with a smig – a pointed chin – and long grey hair. She wore a long black skirt and shawl and, hunched over the fire, she sometimes resembled a witch. Every chance we would get we would steal a puff out of her doodeen and she would grab her stick and aim for our shins, calling, ‘Bad cess to ye for stealing my baccy’ But we were fleet-footed and were soon out of harm’s way.

We had to be ever watchful of her in case she toppled into the fire. No amount of coaxing would entice her to lie on her bed for a nap. She considered going to bed in the daytime a sin. When she was in humour she was a great story-teller. We pestered her to teach us her old songs; songs from way back. She used to say they were as old as the Connemara Hills.

She was a fluent Irish speaker and would translate for us. She had a woman friend of her own age who used to visit. They would gossip in Irish so fast that we could not understand. Winnie was her friend’s name and she was as tall as Ellen was small. She always wore laced-up boots with hand-knitted baneen (home-spun wool) knee-length stockings, layers of flannelette petticoats and black, long, wide skirts. Coming across the fields she looked like a giantess. Ellen was always referring to her as ‘the mountainy woman’. She came originally from a village near the mountains many miles away. This was Ellen’s way of telling us that Winnie was not a local although she had lived all her married life, maybe fifty years, on the neighbouring farm. People were very clannish then. You were considered different if you were not a local. It might take a lifetime to be accepted.

On summer days we would sit on the banks of the river that flowed by Ellen’s land. We were warned not to go near the water, but it drew us like a magnet. There was a natural harbour in one of the fields where the animals watered and the fishermen, fishing for salmon, always brought their boats in at this point. They would sit on the banks and have a picnic. We were always included in this treat as we often brought the fishermen water from our spring-well or milk for the tea. We would often be rewarded with a sixpence which, to us, was a fortune. We would sit for hours talking with these visitors from England with our feet dangling in the water.

We were not allowed to fish the river, even from our own land. It was the property of a Captain Berry who lived in the big house on the opposite side of the river about a mile downstream. A vast acreage of land, including woods, belonged to this landlord: lands that were taken from the original owners. They were not bought, neither were they given. A stretch of the river was also leased to him for the use of his visitors, who only fished for sport. A water-bailiff, named Paul, was employed by this big landowner, who had business interests in England and who spent most of his time there while a manager looked after his Irish interests.

Paul, the bailiff, was a worthy trustee of his master’s woods and river. He kept an eagle eye out for trespassers and woe betide any poachers caught by him. He always carried a gun and would fill their breeches with buckshot as quick as look at them. He also used to swear like a trooper and we were told to give him a wide berth. But when he rowed the visitors up the river to fish or picnic by or off our land, we would talk to him, and often sat in the boat watching the fishermen with their big, modern fishing rods with those newfangled reels and the different bait they used out of tins.

This was all new to us. We fished the lakes and small rivers around our home with home-made rods and caught live bait to lure the fish. A live frog was great bait for pike. We could show these grown men a few tricks when it came to catching salmon, but we just sat and watched and listened. If our land was used for harbouring the boat, custom was that we were entitled to a salmon from each catch. This was taken home to my mother and the family used to greet the appearance of this fish with exclamations of ‘Oh, no! Not fish again.’ We got fed up with salmon fried, roasted, boiled and steamed. Often we left the fish to rot on the banks of the river rather than drag it the three miles home.

Ellen used to tell us of the people who lost their lives in this river, saying it had an appetite for youngsters. She remembered a tragedy years before when a boat-load of young men and women were rowing across after a dance. Someone threw an apple and everyone rushed to get it. The weight, suddenly shifting, toppled the boat and all were lost.

She also told us of the story of St Patrick who, with his followers, was supposed to have tried to cross from the opposite side to land somewhere near where my great-aunt now lived. The first time, a flood stopped them and so they waited for the water to subside. They made camp for people and animals. The second time the local people stopped him by throwing stones, so he was forced to turn back in mid-stream, but he cursed the stone-throwers and told them they would always be beaten in battle. When they heard this they relented and allowed him passage, all except five people. On seeing this the saint withdrew part of the curse and told them that in all the battles they would be beaten in, they would never lose more than five people.

There was an aura of serenity and peace around Ellen’s dwelling and anyone who spent any time there always remarked on the balming effect they experienced, especially in the field nearest the river. It was as if the ground itself held on to the holiness left behind by this saintly man and shared it out afterwards to anyone lucky enough to walk the same grounds.

Although my great-aunt’s house was isolated, it had not always been so. Her parents lived through the famine years and used to tell her about the families who lived in a little village beside the bog road which she would point out to us in the distance. She would tell us of the seven families who lived there, all bearers of the same name, ‘Barratt’. Not one family survived that terrible famine. It was a terrible time, ‘a gra’, she would say, when people died from the feargortugh, eating grass like the cow. They did not understand that nature had provided the cow with four stomachs. Man’s digestive system could not cope, and so the grass killed him. They lay where they fell with the sky as their shroud, with no-one to dig their graves, and without the Holy Rites of the church. ‘May God rest their souls,’ she would murmur. And we would chorus, ‘Amen’.

She would also say that the pools and little expanses of water that were plentiful in our area were the tears of the destitute who had suffered starvation in a country where food and grain were being exported. She was full of information and we never tired of listening to her. She had a wealth of stories, songs, verses and riddles; and willing pupils in ourselves.

My eldest brother inherited the farm when he married at the age of twenty-four and Ellen was now quite happy with the young couple to look after her. When she took ill I was staying at the house, helping to look after the new baby who was so welcome in a house that had not witnessed a birth for nearly ninety years. I was now twelve years old and was going to school from here. By now I had the use of a bicycle. I was sleeping in a makeshift bed beside Ellen, and one night she called me to get her a drink. She said she was dying and began to tell me the names of her family long-since dead who had come to meet her. She was talking to them as if they were in the room.

Before I left for school she gave me her blessing and when I got back that evening my dearest great-aunt was dead. She was my greatest teacher and had an important influence on my young life. She taught me a love of my native language and all it stood for, encouraging me to translate it into English and enjoy both.

The first translation I have never forgotten, although I was punished for solving the riddle and finding the hidden message therein. It was suggestive but at the time I did not realize that. The mere fact that I solved the mystery was enough for me: it was the first word in every sentence.

When stormy winds are passed and gone

Shall quiet calm return.

I often saw in ashes dust

Lie hidden coals of fire

With good attention mark your mind

You will a secret question find

Sweet is the secret; mark it well

Heart for heart, so now farewell.

My great-aunt went to the Hedgerow school, as did my maternal grandmother, Biddy, her sister. Hedgerow schools grew up during the period of the Penal Laws (1695–1829) when the native Catholic population was denied education. The teachers taught in the open air – Irish, Latin and English – and were usually paid in corn or turf. The payment at my great-aunt’s school was two sods of turf or a sheaf of oats. The field where it was held is in the next village by the lake, known as Durkin’s Lisseens (fairy fort).