An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  Also by Marilyn Hering:

  A Woman Possessed

  A Woman Beloved

  A Woman Endures

  An Irish

  Girl

  Marilyn Hering

  An Irish Girl

  Copyright © 2017 Marilyn Hering.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1692-9 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-1693-6 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017901674

  iUniverse rev. date: 02/06/2017

  Contents

  1845

  1846

  Epilogue

  Bibliography

  In memory of the millions

  of men, women and children

  who died in the Irish famine

  Tara O’Brien stood in the doorway of her stone cottage with its thatched roof. She studied the beauty of the disk of sun against a background of bright blue sky, a few clouds scudding across it and the sacredness of the green swath of grass across their land. It was a gift for usually the weather was overcast and gloomy. She smiled at Tessie her Pig who was drinking at his trough, at Deborah, Danny, Dooley and Donahue, her sheep, lying lazily in the grass, at Bessie and Tessie, their cows munching on the grass. She could hear the neigh of Chestnut and Spotty in the barn. She looked to the right at the meager garden of vegetables of cabbage, wheat, and barley they were growing. The soil of Ireland was terrible for producing vegetables but it was perfect for one crop. Potatoes. She walked over to the field where hundreds upon hundreds of potatoes grew, their green, shiny leaves beginning to burst above the ground, bent down and pulled one from the ground. It was the size of a fist. She shook the loamy soil from it and could see it was a lovely color of beige, strong and healthy. She smiled. Potatoes were the main crop of the Irish; they averaged eating five to eight pounds a day.

  She felt the strong hand of her father on her shoulder.

  “Ready for another day, Tara?”

  “I am, da.”

  By the time they got the tools they needed, gloves, spades, pitchforks, wheel barrows, her brother, Patrick, freckle-faced with uncombed sandy hair, still sleepy eyed, stood in the doorway. He rubbed his eyes.

  “You don’t look so good. Better tell your mother to make you some oatmeal.”

  Patrick turned and walked into the cottage. He looked back at Tara and could see she was far ahead of him, spade and pitchfork in her wheelbarrow, ready to search for her first full grown potato.

  She plunged the pitchfork gently into the trench in the earth. The leaves of the potato showed through the compost and sand mixture they thrived in. She took great care with the pitchfork for bruises and cuts could develop into pitchfork rot. Exposure to light creates a bitter tasting build up of food chemicals that she knew from her father were poisonous. She immediately threw the large potato in the cart and covered it with a tarp.

  After they kneeled, exhausted from hours of work, the larger potatoes they’d found had to dry out a few hours and be placed in a shaded place before storage. They put them in the shed where they stored them year after year. It was not only dark but possessed good ventilation with a temperature in the high thirties. Autumn would turn to winter as they sat in the root cellar ready to take the family through the year.

  Kathleen O’Brien, her mother, auburn haired with green-gray eyes, creamy skin, and a slender figure, thought by many to be the prettiest woman in Montague, Ireland, covered with an apron and twirling the fried potatoes in her hand, flipped them one more time and let them simmer another minute from the turf they had cooked over in the kitchen.

  “And so who’s hungry?” she shouted, then coughed.

  After a chorus of “I am” she called them inside and distributed their breakfast.

  “And how does the potato crop look this year, Liam?”

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful,” he smiled, entering the door of the cottage. “A bunch coming up slowly but surely. Beauties that will surely see us through winter.”

  She made the sign of the Cross. “Thanks to our blessed Father in heaven.”

  Someone knocked at the cottage door and Sean McConnell, a short, stout balding fellow with stained teeth and a good friend of Liam’s, entered, pushing his dark hair from his full face.

  “Will we be goin’ off to Mass now?”

  He questioned the group but had his eyes on Tara. He’d had a crush on her since childhood. Now that she would soon be eighteen, he planned to ask for her hand in marriage, pretty certain her answer would be no. But that was his secret.

  “You know better than to ask me that,” Tara’s father frowned. “You know I haven’t stepped foot in the church for years.”

  “You’re a wonderful example to the children,” Kathleen sighed.

  Kathleen O’Brien had been a student at St. Theresa’s Academy in Killarney in her younger days. She was a beautiful girl, even then, with her auburn hair and green-gray eyes and the rest of the girls in the class thought she would ‘fit in’ with them beautifully. But that was not so, for she was painfully shy. When the other girls were playing tennis or on the softball team after school, she was in the library doing her homework or reading. She had no great dreams for her life. Her main goal was to marry a man who made a decent living and wanted children. When she graduated the Academy, she got a position as a seamstress and was content with that. Her sewing was excellent and she made dresses for many of the women of Montague and passed her knowledge onto Tara. Then she met Liam O’Brien at a dance given on St. Patrick’s Day. He was a good-looking fellow, his dark hair graying on the sides with intense blue eyes and a neatly-trimmed beard; but when he told her he had a farm and a great amount of acreage for potatoes, plus sheep, cows, and pigs, her ears perked up. This was what she felt was her goal in life. She had never known love and what it is like to care for a man passionately and so she settled for Liam. Before you knew it, they had a son, Patrick, and she was happy enough. She had no idea that the great love of her life still awaited her and; Kathleen, being a devout Irish girl, would face great conflicts over that love. Yet, it was one of the most important events in her life and would give it meaning she never imagined could exist. She looked at Liam now, with his overgrown eyebrows, scrawny hair and hairs protruding from his nose and wondered what happened to that good looking man she had met years back.

  The church, Our Lady of Sorrows, was filled to capacity, as usual. Father Boyle who had been priest there many years entered adorned in gold and red vestments. He was a
tall, handsome man with high cheekbones, a sensual mouth, a neat beard and clear blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He began the service. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. I will go to the altar of God.”

  The server answered, “The God of my gladness and joy.”

  Father Boyle continued, “Do me justice, O God, and fight my fight. Against the deceitful and impious man rescue me.”

  Alas, already Tara’s and Patrick’s eyes were beginning to close, try as they might to keep them open, especially for their mother’s sake. It wasn’t until the Consecration of the Host that Kathleen noticed and slightly elbowed them in the ribs.

  Father Boyle held the Communion wafer in his hand and began, “Who, the day before He suffered took bread into his holy and venerable hands, and having raised his eyes to the heavens to You, O God, His Almighty Father, giving thanks to you He blessed it, broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, “All of you take and eat of this for this is my body.

  “In like manner when the supper was done, taking also this goodly chalice into His holy and venerable hand, again giving thanks to You, He blessed it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “All of you take and drink of this, FOR THIS IS THE CHALICE OF MY BLOOD OF THE NEW AND ETERNAL COVENANT, THE MYSTERY OF FAITH, WHICH SHALL BE SHED FOR YOU AND FOR MANY UNTO THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS.””

  After further prayers and Father Boyle’s taking of the Communion, a long line of parishioners kneeled at the altar to receive the wafer they believed was the Body of Christ.

  Among them stood Kathleen, their mother; Tara, her daughter; and Patrick, her brother.

  Mass ended rather quickly after that.

  Father Boyle stood at the bottom of the church steps to greet his parishioners. He gave a special smile when he saw Kathleen and her children. His face darkened when he didn’t see Liam.

  “I pray for the day Liam comes to Sunday mass, Mrs. O’Brien.”

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it, Father Boyle. But, then again, we all know the power of prayer.”

  “Do you think he’s given up on the power of faith completely?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that. But he’s very involved in –political things—his love of Ireland is very deep, Father.”

  Tara chimed in. “I believe he thinks the church should be more supportive of the fight for Ireland’s separation from the British more than it has. And I feel that same way.” Her comment emerged more as a challenge than a plain statement.

  “We do what we can, Tara, but above all Ireland and its freedom is in the hands of the Lord.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “It’s not our prayers alone that will free us. We have to fight for our independence as well, even if it means violence.” Her mother clenched Tara’s arm.

  “Enough, Tara! Father, forgive Tara’s outburst. She’s a very strong-willed girl.” Another family approached Father Boyle, and excusing himself he turned his attention to them but not without a last glance at Kathleen O’Brien and her children.

  “Perhaps you’ll change your mind about violence, Tara, but that is a topic for another time.”

  She wondered how much he really knew about Ireland’s past, that in 1801 the Act of Union between Ireland and England was imposed. England and Ireland became one. With the economy of Ireland incorporated into England, the Parliament in Dublin became nonexistent and the Parliament at Westminster legislated for both countries from that time on.

  At first glance the Parliament was overjoyed, felt they had everything to gain for finally the discrimination of the English against the industry of Ireland would end. Combining with English wealth Ireland would finally attain the money she desperately needed for moving forward and developing to the best of her capacity. The hundred Irish members, the Irish believed, who were to be located at Westminster, would finally give Ireland a voice in imperial affairs. And also an impression had been created that when the Union became the law, Catholic freedom would soon follow, with Catholics freed and finally guaranteed justice and the laws that had prevented Catholics from membership in Parliament or judges would be repealed.

  The truth of the situation the Irish soon found was very different. The Union’s primary goal was not to improve Ireland but to bring her into complete subjection to the British.

  And so, as time passed, no joy resulted and a pall fell over the Irish.

  When they arrived home, her father was standing by the hearth roasting potatoes for them as he usually did every Sunday, his way of apologizing to Kathleen for not attending Mass.

  He placed a baked potato on Tara and Patrick’s plate and two on Kathleen’s.

  “I’ve had my food already.” He smiled at her.

  She did not smile back and plunged her fork into the potato he’d placed on her plate. Suddenly, she began to cough, not the usual cough one makes to clear the throat but a heavy, husky cough that sounded as though it was filled with phlegm. She took out her handkerchief and spit into it.

  Liam punched the table with a heavy blow.

  “For God’s sake, Kathleen! When will you be goin’ to the doctor to get some medicine and find out what’s causin’ that terrible cough? If it’s the doctor’s cost, I can easily work a few extra hours down at the shipyard. They can always use an extra hand.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  They ate the rest of their food in silence.

  After eating, Kathleen picked up her sewing basket. She was an expert seamstress and often sewed dresses for her and any other repair needed to their clothing or that of her friends. She taught Tara everything she knew about sewing and Tara’s dream was to one day own a dress shop of her own. Now she began to realize more and more how desperately they were beginning to need more money, especially with her mother’s illness, and for any other needs they had. She made up her mind then and there tomorrow she would go to the British section to the more elegant shops to look for work., inquiring if anyone needed a seamstress. If not, she would take whatever job she could get. Her mother must get to the doctor.

  Belfast was located in the northern section of Ireland but Tara knew the wealthier class lived there and the women would be much more likely to want to adorn themselves with expensive gowns and dresses.

  The next morning she rose early, mounted Chestnut, and was on her way from their home in Monagham, to near the British-controlled area of Belfast. There had been an enmity between the south and north for generations and she prayed she would be all right as her hands shook on Chestnut’s reins. The trip was long, but the shops had not closed yet. She suddenly felt foolish looking for work when she knew there were hardly any jobs. She walked the streets an hour or so and saw no signs in any windows asking for help. She was just about ready to give up when she spotted an elegant-looking shop with an awning that said in gold lettering on its window—“Bradford’s-Specializing in Couture Dresses.” Her heart thumped after she read it. Then at the bottom right of the window she read, “No Irish or Colored need apply.” She clutched the sample of cloth she had embroidered showing evidence of her ability, took a deep breath, and entered. What had she to lose? The walls were wallpapered in maroon and cream stripes. On one wall were shelves with bolts of fabric, silks and satins mostly in red, navy blue, lavender, green, cream—so many colors. On the other wall was a printer’s box, each square holding a spool of colored thread. To her right she noticed a table with four or five books on it, filled with pattern designs. The centerpiece of the room was an oak desk embellished with designs of flowers and leaves. Next to the printer’s box was a cutting table and a curtained doorway which she assumed was for clients to be fitted for their gowns or dresses. On the far side of the room were three beautiful gowns already finished, waiting for their clients to pick them up she supposed. And the fabrics! Cream-colored duchesse satin, bolts of jewel-toned satin, softer rolls of sheets of silver faille, powder pink organza and other bolts on the work tabl
e or bundled in labeled bins on the pattern table waiting to be sewn.

  An older woman with crinkled skin and piles of curls bouncing up and down was sewing meticulously. She noticed the liver spots on her hands. She stood up as she turned to observe her. She squeezed her eyelids as she examined her from top to bottom.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Monaghan. My name’s Tara O’Brien.”

  “Didn’t you see the sign in the window? This shop deals with the richest and fussiest clientele. I would surely lose business if I hired you.”

  “But I could stay in the back and no one would know you’d hired someone Irish.”

  She plunged into her pocket and handed the woman samples of her work: couching stitches, grass seed stitches, oblique stitches. The woman raised her eye brows. Tara had sewn a flower on the sample, a combination of satin stitches for the flower and French knots for its center, perfectly sewn.

  “Come closer,” the woman frowned. “The dress you’re wearing. The bodice embroidered with red roses. Did you create that?”

  Tara blushed.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “It’s just the kind of perfection I’m looking for. But we must have one rule. You must always stay in back of the curtain.”

  “Of course!” Tara clapped her hands.

  “You won’t be sorry, Miss—Mrs.?”

  “Rouche. Miss Rouche.”

  “Your hours will be from eight until six. And your salary will be five shillings.”

  Tara would have worked for nothing to get the experience of working in such an elegant shop, but she knew her salary would help towards her mother’s doctor bill.

  She smiled as she rode all the way home. A slight breeze was blowing and she could hear the sighing of the trees’ leaves which reminded her of dark gray lace swaying below the silver sky, the stars shining in the heavens looking down with tired eyes at the peaceful earth.