She could feel music in her head, songs she had sung in Ireland, bubbling up now, and she began to hum.
And then the carriage turned once more. She saw a row of stone houses in front of her, the sun glinting against the windows as the driver pointed with his crop. “This is where you’re going,” he said. “It’s somewhere on this street.”
She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if something in her chest had become so large it was going to burst. She thought of Maggie the last day she had seen her, big Maggie with freckled face and hands. “You’re a great girl, Nory, a stór.”
The clopping of the horse’s hooves slowed and the driver began to say the house numbers aloud.
“Look, Nory.” Sean grasped her hand tightly in his and pointed with both of them.
A woman was coming down the steps with a baby in her arms, and a man leaned over them both, guiding them. “It’s my own brother,” Sean said. “Francey.”
“Yes,” Nory said, but she knew she wasn’t making a sound. The carriage stopped as the man and woman reached the bottom step. And it was Sean who called out to Francey, Sean who said Maggie’s name.
Patch climbed down from the carriage, but Nory felt as if she couldn’t move, as if she would sit there forever. She watched Maggie, her face crumpling, holding the baby in one arm and Patch with the other hand, sinking down into the street. “Ah, Patch, Patcheen,” Maggie said.
And then Nory was out of the carriage, dropping her bag, her legs with that strange feeling of still being on the ocean. She was close enough to see the part in Maggie’s hair, the soft curls around her face, to hear Maggie sobbing as she rocked Patch and the baby together in the dusty street. And Francey, a step behind her, reaching out to Sean, both of them laughing and crying at the same time.
Granda, Nory thought. She went toward Maggie, still breathless. Tears blinded her as she ran her hands over her sister’s thick hair, as she touched the small baby swaddled in a pink blanket, smiling at the blue eyes that were so much like Patch’s, like Mam’s.
Maggie struggled to her feet. “How long we’ve watched for you, waited for you.”
She put her hand under Nory’s cheek, turning her head so she faced the door. “Look now,” she said.
And there was Da coming down the stairs, his arms out, the lines around his eyes deeper, his hair gray. He held his arms out to her, calling over his shoulder, “Celia, come!”
All this time, Nory thought as she went to meet him halfway. “We are here, Da,” she managed to say, “here at last, a stór.”
AFTERWORD
In the late summer of 1845, people in Ireland awoke one morning to find their potato fields in ruin: blossoms gone, stalks bent, leaves covered with black spots. It was a devastating loss, for until that time, potatoes had been eaten by the poor for all their meals, anywhere from seven to fifteen pounds a day for each person.
The blight was caused by a fungus, Phytophthora infestans, and would return each year for the next several years. It was the worst hunger that Ireland had ever known. People starved to death or died from terrible diseases caused by lack of food.
Those who could get to the ships somehow, who could find the money for tickets, left Ireland, most of them to sail to America. My own great-grandparents were among them. They came from Galway, Meath, Tipperary, Longford, and Down, the Reillys to settle in Brooklyn, New York, and the Tiernans, Cahills, and McClellans in New Jersey.
My ancestors were among two to three million people who left Ireland in the years after 1845. So many people! Anything that could sail was pressed into service: dirty ships, dangerous ships, old, rotting, and leaky, with scant supplies of food for the journey. The ships were so terrible they were called coffin ships. And coffins they were, often carrying the sick and dying. Some of the ships sank or were stranded on the rocks off the coast of North America.
It’s hard to imagine those dark holds where people were packed together, seasick, homesick, and heartsick, trying to stay alive until they reached the shore. Many spoke only Gaelic; many couldn’t read or write; some had only the clothes they wore.
In the early days when the first wave of Irish came, there was virtually no medical help, not on the ships, and not in the ports as they landed. They walked off the ships at the ports of America, hungry, weak, and penniless, to forge a new life for themselves.
Many of us are here because of their courage and determination to survive.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe a debt of gratitude to . . .
Wendy Lamb, angel editor, whose friendship I treasure as much as her expertise.
George Nicholson, my agent, who has been a part of my writing life from the beginning.
The supportive people at Random House . . . Judith Haut, Kenny Holcomb, Tamar Schwartz, Barbara Perris, Beverly Horowitz, Michelle Poploff, Terry Borzumato, Kathy Dunn, Adrienne Waintraub, Liz Rhynerson, Megan Fink, Alison Root, Kate Harris, and Susan Warga.
Dr. Eileen Reilly of New York University, whose willingness to meet with me in County Longford, knowledge of the period of which I was writing, suggestions for reading, and comments on the manuscript were enormously helpful.
The American Irish Historical Society, whose library was a quiet haven with warm and cheerful help just a step away.
Jimmy at Joyce House and the librarians at the National Library of Ireland in Dublin and at the Famine Museum, Stokestown, who were more than patient in answering my questions and searching out material for me.
My grandmother Anne V. Maxwell, and Ella Frech, whose family stories made me want to know more about my heritage.
St. Jim, my husband, who has tramped the roads of Ireland with me all these years.
My children, who read, and comment, and read again.
And the six who are here to write for: Jimmy, Christine, Billy, Caitlin, Conor, and Patti.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PATRICIA REILLY GIFF is the author of many beloved books for children, including the Kids of the Polk Street School books, the Friends and Amigos books, and the Polka Dot Private Eye books.
Several of her novels for older readers have been chosen as ALA Notable Books and ALA Best Books for Young Adults. They include The Gift of the Pirate Queen; All the Way Home; Nory Ryan’s Song, a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators Golden Kite Honor Book for Fiction; and the Newbery Honor Books Lily’s Crossing and Pictures of Hollis Woods. Lily’s Crossing was also chosen as a Boston Globe–Horn Book Honor Book.
Patricia Reilly Giff lives in Connecticut.
ALSO BY
patricia reilly giff
FOR MIDDLE-GRADE READERS
Pictures of Hollis Woods
All the Way Home
Nory Ryan’s Song
Lily’s Crossing
The Gift of the Pirate Queen
The Casey, Tracy & Company books
FOR YOUNGER READERS
The Kids of the Polk Street School books
The Friends and Amigos books
The Polka Dot Private Eye books
Published by
Wendy Lamb Books
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Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Copyright © 2003 by Patricia Reilly Giff
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Giff, Patricia Reilly.
Maggie’s door / Patricia Reilly Giff.
p. cm.
> Summary: In the mid-1800s, Nory and her neighbor and friend, Sean, set out separately on a dangerous journey from famine-plagued Ireland, hoping to reach a better life in America.
1. Ireland—History—Famine, 1845–1852—Juvenile fiction. [1. Ireland—History—Famine, 1845–1852—Fiction. 2. Emigration and immigration—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G3626Mag 2003
[Fic]—dc21 2003002415
eISBN: 978-0-375-89039-0
v3.0
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