An Irish Girl

by Marilyn Hering

  Dinner had been finished and she knew her mother would be especially worried as it was now dark. The branches and leaves of the trees now seemed like black skeletons. The sun was down and a light mist hung in the air but she was not afraid. It looked as though the clouds would burst with rain and she hoped to be home soon before then. A stillness settled across the land and sky, more typical of Irish weather, but she was so filled with joy she felt fearless. Finally she reached home just before the first lightning crashed across the sky.

  Her father was frowning when she entered.

  “And where did you go today, lass?”

  “I know you’ll be mad at me but I went looking for work. It’s time I put in my fair share to help out. And I got a job!”

  “Doin’ what may I ask?”

  “I’m goin’ to be a helper to a fancy seamstress in a dress shop.”

  Kathleen squeezed her hand.

  “Why, that’s wonderful. With jobs so scarce nowadays.”

  “In—Belfast.”

  Silence reigned. Belfast was in Northern Ireland and parts were governed by the British, their arch enemy.

  Her father stood up, knocking over the chair. “I’ll have no daughter of mine workin’ for the dirty British scrum!”

  “But I won’t be seen. I’ll be in the back all the time, da. And it’s such a wonderful chance for me.”

  Katherine grasped his arm, led him back to his chair. “Liam, it’s a wonderful chance for her. She’ll not be involved in their politics. Please,” she began to cry, “Give her her dream.”

  Tara knew one thing Liam could never tolerate was seeing his wife in tears.

  A few minutes passed. Finally, he grumbled, “I suppose you could try it out.” He pointed a finger at her, “And there’s to be no political talk.”

  So, thanks mostly to her mother, it was decided she would work for Miss Rouche. When the time came to plant their precious potatoes again, she promised she would do her share, rising earlier in the morning to plant them.

  All seemed settled. For now.

  She was surprised at the size of the back room when she fully stepped into Miss Rouche’s shop, which was so large. Tara loved every minute of her sewing for her, and as the months passed she even gave her a raise of an extra shilling.

  One day Miss Rouche went next door fifteen minutes of so for a cup of tea. From the back room, Tara heard the door to the shop open and peeked through the curtain. She saw a handsome gentleman, his hair dark and slightly graying on its sides, neatly combed, prominent cheekbones and tanned, as though he had just returned from a mission somewhere or other. He wore black boots, navy blue pants, and a red jacket with gold braid and an insignia that signaled he was a British captain.

  She froze.

  “Is anyone here? I need to pick up a gown for my mother for tonight. Is anyone here?”

  Tara remembered that under no circumstances was she to leave the back room behind the curtain but surely he must need the gown for tonight and know someone was in the shop.

  She took a deep breath and emerged at the counter.

  “May I be helpin’ you?”

  As he looked at her, he appeared stunned. He observed her long auburn hair, trailing down her back, her creamy skin, her emerald-gray eyes. He had been with many women in his time and was somewhat of a gigolo, but none compared to the beauty of this seamstress. Tara was confused as he stared at her. Was he deaf?

  “May I be helpin’ you, sir?” she asked again.

  “I—errr-a gown.” He handed her a paper. “For my mother.”

  She stared at the order slip he gave her.

  “Ah, that is a beautiful gown. I worked many hours on it and enjoyed every minute.”

  She went behind the curtain and emerged with a satin gown, each French seam individually pressed flat and smooth, with a low neckline and mutton sleeves. The bodice was completely beaded with purple flower designs and the skirt, a dark green, was adorned with purple beaded flowers to match as well.

  “That dress is a work of art,” he said. “And you tell me you created it?”

  She blushed.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I wonder—this is so sudden I know—but would you care to share dinner with me sometime?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “If it’s because you’re Irish, that means nothing to me. The whole idea of separation of British and Irish makes no sense to me. We should all live happily together. But, nevertheless, I must uphold my rank.”

  “It would hurt me to my bones. I love Ireland, you see. More than anything in the world. It would be a betrayal. But I thank you with all my heart for askin’.”

  Just then the front door opened and Miss Rouche entered.

  Her eyebrows raised. “Forgive me, Captain Litchfield. I had to step out for a few minutes. How do you like the gown?”

  “It’s gorgeous. My mother told me to tell you she would be stopping by for another fitting soon. You certainly outdid yourself on this gown,” he said.

  He winked at Tara.

  “Why thank you so much,” Miss Rouche said.

  She wrapped the gown carefully and handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” He turned to Tara. “And, please, won’t you think about what we discussed?”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  And then he was gone.

  “And what may I ask did you discuss,” Miss Rouche, her usual busybody self, asked.

  “Out of the clear blue sky he asked me if he might take me to dinner sometime.”

  Miss Rouche’s curls quivered up and down.

  “One of our richest families, owner of Carlyle Hill, asked you? Does he know you’re Irish?”

  “Yes, he does. I said ‘no’ of course.”

  “You foolish girl!” was her only reply.

  Tara and her mother sat in Dr Beel’s small office. It had taken all these months to save enough payment for them to see him. Kathleen’s cough had grown much worse and Tara was grateful she, a stubborn woman, had finally consented to visit. The office was in Monaghan. It was the only one for miles and people sometimes had to make a day’s journey to get there.

  Dr. Beel a tall, wiry-looking man with small features and stooped shoulders, led her mother into his office.

  He placed his stethoscope upon her chest in various places and asked her to cough, doing the same for her back.

  “How long have you had this cough, Mrs. O’Brien?”

  “About two years.”

  “Two years! And you’re only coming to see me now?”

  “If only the British/Irish question was settled, you’d see more people in doctors’ offices. It’s shameful. That’s what it is.”

  “Would you cough, please.”

  She did as she was told.

  He moved the stethoscope to the other side of her chest.

  “Please cough again. And then would you remove your blouse.”

  She blushed.

  “It’s quite all right, I assure you.”

  She did as she was told and once again felt the chill of the instrument upon her back. He had her cough six times, moving it a few inches apart each time.

  “You can put your blouse back on, Mrs. O’Brien. And then would you wait in the outer office?”

  He went to the door and called Tara in as Kathleen sat down on his couch.

  “I believe your mother has tuberculosis. But, thank the Lord, it’s not the contagious kind. A doctor discovered there are two kinds, the type that is very contagious and the one that is not. Your mother has the latter. I am saying that based on the fact your family seems not to have contracted any of its symptoms. Am I right? But waiting two years, for heaven’s sake, does not give her a good prognosis.”

  “Yes, we’re all all right.” Tara’s eyes were filled with tears
.

  “I’d like to see her every two weeks to keep an eye on it. I’m afraid it can become extremely serious at the stage it’s at.”

  Tara was never more grateful for her seamstress position to help pay for the expenses of their visits.

  She crossed herself as they left the office. She believed her mother’s fate was now in the hands of God.

  The O’Briens, as did the Irish in general, became more and more disenchanted when the promises made by the British in the Act of Union never came to pass. As time went on, by 1844 hope of investment of England in Ireland became more and more a fantasy. The only result of Free Trade between the two countries was that England seemed to be using Ireland as a market for any leftovers of their goods. As was bound to happen, Irish industry fell apart. Each day Tara became more and more grateful for her job. She thought that wealthy British women would always want new gowns as the fashions constantly changed, and they would want to keep up with the times.

  Ireland sought a repeal of the Act of Union and by 1843 the demand was no longer ignored by the British government. The Catholic peasant began to organize as well as the commercial class. Rather large amounts of money were being raised, mostly because of one man, Daniel O’Connell. The British government was thrown into panic and feared Civil War. In the autumn of 1843 O’Connell announced that a gigantic meeting, the largest ever held, would occur Sunday, October 8, on the fields of Clontarf near Dublin. The meeting was forbidden by the government and O’Connell was arrested. If it hadn’t been for O’Connell’s strong belief that “human blood is no cement for the temple of liberty” a massacre surely might have taken place, However, he told the people, which included the O’Briens, to return home. The charge against O’Connell argued that he was attempting to alter the Constitution by force. He was sent to prison but the verdict was reversed by the House of Lords and he was released. But he became a changed man and his health was broken.

  No outbreak took place in 1844. But something more tragic and heartbreaking lay ahead for the Irish ...

  1845

  The potato crop of the Irish was rather unreliable, even as far back as the 1700s. But the faith and hope the Irish people always had in its re-emergence as a fine and healthy crop was never shaken. The lack of reliability of the potato was accepted by them, along with that of the weather.

  In July of 1845 the potato crop seemed to be flourishing, although there had been weeks of gloom before when the weather was hot and dry. The low temperature that emerged even after chilling rains and fog did not worry them because as of the ending of July the potato crop was never before looking so large and at the same time so abundant Freeman’s Journal reported.

  Tara stood outside her small, stone cottage and thought soon now she would be working during the day as a seamstress and digging up the potatoes from their trenches. She was glad of it; few potatoes were left in the shed and the extra shillings she was making still paid for her mother’s semi-weekly doctor bills. The doctor said she seemed to be worsening, but she did not tell her father and Patrick. What good would it do? They had enough of a burden to cope with day to day with chores on their land. As she walked over to Tessie, her pig, to hug her goodbye, she could smell a terrible stench. Had one of the animals died? She surveyed them, checked the barn, and all was fine. She walked across the grass of their piece of land, and it seemed the smell got worse as she neared the potato crop; yet, their leaves were green. This gave her hope. She bent down shakily, dug up one with her hand. It was rotten and the black mush from it seeped through her fingers. Her heart pounded faster.

  She raised her head to the heavens.

  “Dear Lord, no! Please. No! Please,” she cried and made the sign of the cross.

  She ran down adjacent to the trench and dug for another potato. As she scooped it up from the soil, the rot of it once again slipped through her fingers.

  She ran to the house, awakened her father. Sleepy eyed, he said, “It’s too early to get up yet.”

  “Da, the potatoes. They have the rot. The potatoes have the rot.”

  He jumped out of bed immediately.

  She began to cry, wiped her eyes with the back of her soiled hand. Liam was dressed in no time, ran to the potato field, and examined the crop in ten or twelve places.

  “Dear God, how will we live?” His face slumped.

  Their main meal of eight to fourteen pounds of potatoes, depending upon the size of the family, had suddenly vanished. Their land allowance was so small they hardly had any room to grow anything else, plus the soil was so poor most crops did not survive. Except potatoes.

  Disastrous reports began to grow as the farmers gathered together. They realized very quickly that it was time to be ready to prepare for a famine in Ireland. The Constabulary Reports were the most depressing ever. In Antrim, Armagh, Bantry, Clonakilty, Bandon, Kinsale, Kildare, Wicklow, Monaghan, Tyrone and many other counties the main words reported were, “potato rot.”

  The traditional Irish method was to keep potatoes in a large pit, a simple task, and the tubers were to some degree protected from frost and rain. But common sense was replaced by fear. One suggestion was for the baking of the diseased potatoes in their primitive Irish homes for eighteen to twenty two minutes at a temperature of 180 degrees. When the blackish rot with a foul smell oozed out, they claimed the potato could then be peeled. This was useless when tried. The potato disintegrated into a slimy, decaying mass. Six months provisions which fed the Irish peasant turned into a pile of rot.

  Tara was so grateful to rise early in the morning, dress, hug Tessie her pig and ride to Miss Rouche’s dress shop. The payment she received in shillings, sparse as it was, allowed her to buy three loaves of bread each Saturday, which they rationed for the week, and still had enough for her doctor’s visits. Unfortunately, since so much of the Irish peasants’ land was needed for growing potatoes and had been wiped out, she soon was allowed to buy only one loaf of bread for the week because of the need of others.

  After a few months of such meager amounts of food, the trip to Miss Rouche’s shop was beginning to wear on her as she lost weight.

  A few months later, much to her surprise while she was sewing beads onto a gown she heard the voice of the officer she had sold the green and purple satin gown to enter the shop and speak to Miss Rouche.

  “Hello, Miss Rouche. I’d like to pick up my mother’s blue gown, if I may. And she said she’d be in for another fitting in a few weeks.”

  “Certainly, Captain Litchfield. I’ll get it and wrap it for you.”

  “Where is the young lady who waited on me the last time?”

  “Tara? Oh, she’s in the back, beading a dress for another customer.”

  “I was wondering if I could speak with her.”

  “Speak with her? With Tara?” Miss Rouche began to tremble. “Believe me, Captain Litchfield, I had no idea she was Irish. I—”

  “Oh, it’s not that.”

  Tara emerged from behind the curtain and she could see the look of admiration in his eyes.

  “Tara,” he smiled. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  “Hello, Captain Litchfield,” she blushed.

  Miss Rouche scampered behind the curtain at that point to get Mrs. Litchfield’s gown.

  “I—wanted to—ask you a question.” His voice was slightly trembling. “Although I know the answer will be no.”

  “Why don’t you ask it and see?”

  “I wondered if you would—have dinner with me, perhaps next Saturday at, say, seven o’clock?”

  She did not answer quickly. A Britisher asking her to dinner? What would her parents say? Then again, if she had a full meal that would last her at least two, maybe three days, and leave more food for her family. Plus, it would be nice not to have to hear the constant growling of her stomach as the family attempted to save on food, knowing the coming months would be hard ones.<
br />
  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  His mouth widened. When he finally composed himself, he said, “Well, I’m delighted. Just delighted.”

  She imagined his carriage stopping in front of her stone house, and her family seeing a Britisher emerging from it.

  “I’ll meet you here.” He smiled. “You’ve made me a very happy man.”

  “There’s only one thing. I—don’t have any fancy dress to wear.”

  “I wouldn’t care if you came in rags.” And from the look on his face she could tell he meant it.

  Miss Rouche entered with his mother’s gown, wrapped tidily.

  “I hope she enjoys it, captain,” she smiled. “A lot of my hard work went into it.” Once again he stole a wink at Tara.

  “I can imagine the hours of hard work you put into it, Miss. Rouche.” He took the package and said his goodbyes. Miss Rouche was all aflutter, her curls jingling as she sat at her desk.

  “Imagine! Captain Litchfield asking you to dinner! Why, they’re one of the wealthiest families in town. They own Carlyle Hill. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.” Tara’s eyes widened, “Why, yes I have. I’ve often admired their beautiful gardens from afar.”

  “Promise me you’ll tell me everything that happens at dinner!” Miss Rouche was more excited than Tara.

  “And people are bound to ask about you. They’ll know you work at my shop. What wonderful business that will generate for me, I’m sure. Just don’t say you’re Irish.”

  Saint Boniface Church was, as usual, very crowded that Friday night for confessions of the parishoners to be heard and hope for forgiveness from Father Boyle who they believed was God’s representative here on earth.

  When Tara’s turn came, she entered the dark confessional box, the only light emanating from the seat where Father Boyle sat. He opened the slat that let light fall upon her, indicating he was ready to hear her confession. She suddenly realized she was trembling.

  “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”