Catherine screamed the whole way to Paddy Mac’s. His wife, Bridie, took the baby from Mary and gave her to their eldest daughter to bring outside.
“Show her the hens. That will distract her and mind you keep the shawl around the two of you. There’s a bitter wind out there.”
Mary stood by the fire, her back to Bridie, preparing herself for the worst.
“Turn around now, girl, and face me. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m going to be honest with you. We got a message from a man passing through on his way back from Sunderland. He was asked by a Rose McGrother to call with news of James. Here, sit yourself down,” she said pointing to a bench.
Mary shook her head, and remained standing.
“Bridie, just tell me, for pity’s sake, and put me out of my misery.”
“James has pneumonia. His brother’s wife, Rose, works at the infirmary near where they live and she has medicine. A doctor has examined him, so he is being well looked after.”
Bridie had made some tea. She sat down and patted the space beside her.
“Come on now. Have a sup, it will make you feel better.”
Mary took the cup being held out to her, but instead of sitting, she paced up and down the room, asking what else had been said.
Bridie sighed, “James didn’t want you to be told of his illness. He knows you would want to go to him if you found out. Rose asked this man to call. She said if it was her husband, she would want to know. That’s the message that was delivered to me.”
Mary ran outside, having thanked Bridie for the tea and the news about James. The children were playing with Catherine and making her laugh, but she began to cry again when her mother took her away. Holding her baby close, Mary walked to Brigid’s house, deep in thought.
Her friend knew as soon as she saw Mary’s face that something was wrong.
“Is it Michael, has he had an accident?” asked Brigid.
Mary shook her head, unable to speak for a few seconds.
“It’s James,” she said.
A wave of relief swept over Brigid, just for a moment, then she felt bad.
“What happened, is he not well? Sit down and let me take Catherine.”
Brigid placed the child beside her son, Francis. As the two babies lay on the bed kicking their legs into the air, Mary told her about the message from Sunderland.
“What do you make of it?” Brigid asked. “Do you think he is worse than Rose is letting on?”
“I do,” said Mary, “She would never have gone behind his back if it wasn’t serious. Don’t we ourselves know many a poor soul taken by pneumonia?”
Brigid tried to reassure Mary by reminding her how fit her husband was.
“I need to talk this over with Pat and Annie, but if I go to James, would you be willing to help them take care of Catherine?”
“Of course I would. She can have some of my milk. She is taking meal and soup now, anyway. I know there will be no talking you out of it if you make your mind up to go, but please Mary, be sure you are doing the right thing.”
When Mary returned home, Annie was back from foraging in the woods. Pat was at the bog, cutting turf with some of the other men and boys from the village. The old woman was very upset to hear of her nephew’s condition.
“I’m sorry I had to break such bad news to you, Annie. I want to ask your advice about something and I already know what Pat will say, but you will understand my reasons better than any man.”
Annie took hold of the young woman’s hands.
“I know what you are thinking, Mary, and if it was my husband lying on a sickbed in a strange land I would be on the first boat over. Does that answer your question?”
Mary smiled, “Pat will go mad, won’t he?”
“You leave that old goat to me. I might head up to the bog and meet him on his way home. Better to break the news about James to him as he is walking in the fresh air.”
By the time Annie met up with her husband it was quite late and he was nearly home. He was surprised to see her, usually she would be at the house preparing food and keeping the fire going. As he got closer, the smile faded from his tired face.
“Have you been crying?” asked Pat, putting an arm around her shoulder.
Annie nodded and wiped her eyes.
“James is sick, he has pneumonia.”
She gave him the news that had come from England.
They walked along in silence, not a sound being made by their footsteps on the grassy track. Each time a group of men or boys passed by, all the old couple could give was a wave of the hand, too sad to return the usual cheerful banter that always accompanied the end of a day at the bog.
“Why were you walking on your own, Pat?” the thought suddenly struck Annie.
Her husband shrugged his shoulders, saying, “I’m an old man now, love. I just got tired and had to leave before the others.”
Telling him that Mary was planning on going to James, Annie asked what he thought about it.
“What difference would it make how I felt? That young woman is as stubborn as you. Once she has an idea in her head about something there’s no changing her mind, is there?”
There was more than a hint of annoyance in Pat’s voice.
Annie replied, “Now don’t be mad at me, but I sold two of my wooden bowls to that woman who …”
“YOU WHAT?” roared Pat.
His wife jumped at the sound of it, as did two young men who had just walked past them.
“I could have raised the money for the fare. You can go and get them back, do you hear?” Pat said in a slightly quieter voice.
“All right so, I can do that. Calm down will you? Just don’t tell Mary what I did,” said Annie sheepishly.
Mary was standing by the fire when the door opened. She saw the worried look on Pat’s face. Trying to keep everything as normal as possible she smiled at the elderly couple as she placed some food on the table.
“Annie, two of your bowls are missing, did you lend them to someone?”
Pat glared at his wife and slammed the door shut. He walked past Mary and climbed the stairs to his bed. The two women looked at each other for a moment, then Annie confessed to Mary what she had done with her bowls.
“Oh no! There was no need to sell them. I have enough to get me to Liverpool.”
Mary was distraught and feeling guilty for being the reason the older woman had parted with such treasured family heirlooms.
“People are more important than things, Mary,” said Annie. “Don’t mind Pat, his pride is hurt. He feels he’s let us down because I had to sell something to raise a bit of money. We have never had to do anything like that in all the years we have been together.”
Annie excused herself and went upstairs to talk to her husband. Mary poured the broth she had made back into the cauldron, having lost her appetite. She picked up her baby and cuddled her. Catherine squirmed and wriggled, as if she knew her mother was about to leave her.
“Don’t be cross, little one. Don’t you want me to fetch your daddy home? Sure you’ll have a great time without your mammy to scold you. Pat and Annie spoil you rotten, don’t they?”
As she was tickling her daughter under the chin, Pat appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He sat on the bench beside her, smiling at Catherine.
“So, you are determined to go, are you?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the gurgling baby.
“I am, Pat,” she said, continuing to play with the child.
“What if I went instead, Mary? Would that make any difference?”
The young woman placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.
“You are the kindest man I know. I can see where James gets his soft heart from, but Catherine and Francis need a man about the place to look after them. Who else but you could do that, with both of their fathers away?”
Annie crept quietly down the stairs, not wanting to interrupt the conversation she knew would be taking place. Hearing the tail end of
it, she smiled at how tactfully the young woman spoke. Before she even saw his face, Annie knew that her husband had resigned himself to the fact that Mary was leaving. She crossed the room to the fireplace.
“Something smells good,” she said, looking into the cauldron.
CHAPTER 14
Mary stood on deck, one hand waving, the other in the pocket of her heavy woollen skirt. She was clutching the shells her daughter had picked up from the beach the day before as a present for James. The sight of the little girl waving goodbye almost broke Mary’s heart. Pat had hoisted Catherine onto his shoulders so that her mother would see her as the boat moved away.
“Is that your little one with her grandfather?” asked a young woman standing next to Mary.
“It is. She doesn’t realize that I won’t be back for a long time, her father is sick in England and I’m going over to nurse him.”
“What ails him, not the fever, I hope?”
Keeping her eyes glued to the quayside, Mary was afraid to blink in case she lost sight of her family.
“He has pneumonia,” she said.
A young boy came up to them and dragged the woman to the other side of the deck. Mary was glad to be left alone, to savour the image of Catherine smiling and waving until she became a soft blur in the distance. Just as James had done, she stood looking back at the land until it disappeared from view.
The deck was crowded and noisy, babies crying, children complaining and women shouting at their disgruntled offspring. The men were quiet. Mary tried to read the expressions on some of their faces. She imagined what it must have been like for James to stand on deck, surrounded by such chaos, knowing he was a man who preferred solitude. He loved to be out with his uncle in the bay, or on the beach repairing the nets, laying them out over the upturned boats. Everything about her husband’s life was the total opposite of what Mary was experiencing at that moment.
She knew it would be even worse in Liverpool, with people arriving from, not just Dundalk, but Dublin, Drogheda, Belfast, and from other countries, too. Mary closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds, but it didn’t work. She kept them shut tight, not wanting to look at the poverty and distress of her fellow passengers, or ‘deckers,’ as the crew called them. Not once did Mary consider herself as poor as those around her. Being content with her lot, she felt blessed to have a roof over her head, a good husband, a healthy child and people who cared about her. The lack of money was unfortunate as far as Mary was concerned but her life was rich in other ways. Now and then, someone would ask the young woman a question, or try to make conversation, but her eyes remained closed as she pretended to be asleep.
When the ship docked, there was a rush to disembark. Standing on the quayside, Mary looked around for a shop or a ticket office where she might ask for directions and advice about transport to Sunderland. The sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestoned road failed to alert Mary to the fact that a coach was fast approaching. As the crowd parted, the driver saw the young woman and reined in the horses. Mary turned at the last minute, suddenly realizing the danger she was in. It was too late; one of the animals knocked her aside as it came to a halt, sending her flying against a wooden barrel, head first.
As Mary was trying to pick herself up, firm hands grasped her shoulders, steadying the shaken young woman.
“Is she hurt, Alexander?” a well-spoken female voice enquired from within the carriage.
The gentleman who had come to her aid stood back, releasing Mary. There was a large red mark on her temple and some scratches to the side of her face from the rough wood she had landed on.
“Are you about to swoon, my dear?” he asked.
Mary looked up into the eyes of a tall, stocky man in his late thirties.
“I do feel a little strange, sir,” she said, “But I will be fine in a moment or two.”
She held onto the barrel to steady herself, embarrassed by the stares of the crowd gathering around them.
“Alexander, offer the poor girl a seat in our carriage,” the soft voice urged from inside the cab.
The gentleman insisted that Mary sit up beside the driver, at least until they were clear of the crowded docks. Anxious to escape from the onlookers surrounding her, she allowed herself to be steered towards the coach and pulled up onto the seat by a strong pair of hands.
“Driver, watch that she doesn’t have a fainting spell and fall off. Stop somewhere less crowded and clear of the docks.”
The young lady was upset that her husband had not brought Mary inside the carriage.
“Emma, you are so sweet and caring, it’s what I loved about you from the moment we met. Do you remember what you were doing when your father first brought me to your home?”
“Of course I do, my parents still scold me over it even though it was so long ago.”
When her father first introduced Alexander to his family, Emma was cradling in her arms a dead robin, wrapped in a piece of muslin.
“I was convinced that if I held the poor thing for long enough and nursed it, that it would recover,” she laughed, “I had even kept it in my bed the night before, unbeknownst to my mother.”
The memory brought a smile to her face. Alexander Somerville, as a young man, had been invited to the Biggs’ home in London when Emma was a child. As soon as she was old enough, they married.
“You grew more loving as the years went by. Even now, as a wife and mother, you still have the sweetest nature,” Alexander kissed the back of her gloved hand.
“You are becoming soft in your old age,” Emma was referring to the age gap between them, “But obviously not soft enough to let that young girl ride in the carriage with us.” She was no longer smiling.
Alexander also became serious and his wife could hear it in his tone.
“That young woman may have been on one of the boats arriving from Ireland. She could have typhus or some other disease. It’s not so long ago I was sick with a fever in Dublin and almost died. Do you think I want to risk you catching something like that – and what about our children, are they to be left motherless?”
Emma knew he was right and felt grateful for his concern. There was no need to answer his question, a slight nod of her head was enough to let Alexander know that she understood.
Soon the horses came to a halt and the driver opened the carriage door.
“I hope you haven’t been too frightened up there, young lady,” Alexander said, looking up at Mary.
“No sir, I have been on top of hay carts much higher than this,” Mary hoped she didn’t sound too cheeky.
The driver offered a hand to the young woman to help her down, but Alexander stopped him.
“Stay seated for a moment, my dear. Tell me, what is your destination?”
“I am on my way to Sunderland. My husband has pneumonia and I want to be with him.”
Alexander questioned Mary about her health and where she had travelled from, then signalled the driver to help her climb down. Asking her to wait while he spoke with his wife, he disappeared back into the coach.
They both agreed that Mary did not seem to have any sign of illness and they should offer her assistance. Emma’s reason being her kind nature and that it was their fault that Mary had been injured. Alexander on the other hand, being a writer and a journalist, was more interested in her story. The door of the carriage opened and a small, gloved hand beckoned Mary to climb inside. Having shut the door, the driver took his seat and once more the horses were on the move. Mary sat looking at this strange couple, the woman quite a few years younger than her husband. She waited for one of them to say something, but they just kept smiling at her. The silence was becoming awkward so Mary cleared her throat, getting ready to thank them for their kindness. Just as she opened her mouth to speak the young lady asked if she had any children.
“A little girl barely one year old, ma’am. Her name is Catherine.”
“Such a lovely name; is she with her father?” enquired Emma.
Mary explain
ed that she had left her daughter with relatives in Ireland. Alexander asked if she would be willing to tell him her story in exchange for some money, explaining that he might use it in his work.
“We are on our way to board a train for Manchester and I would like to buy you a ticket,” said Alexander. “From there we can arrange some transport for you to Sunderland. Does this sound agreeable to you?”
Mary did not have to think too long about it.
“All you ask in return is my story, is that correct, sir?”
Alexander nodded and assured their young passenger that she would be well rewarded.
When they arrived at the station and booked their seats, Emma suggested a meal in a nearby hotel. While Mary forced herself to eat slowly and with as much grace as she could muster, Alexander took out a pencil and paper. Emma suggested they have their meal first, saying it was rude to write at the table and that there was plenty of time before their train arrived.
A short while later, Mary found herself sitting in a sunny conservatory facing Emma and Alexander. A low, mahogany table laid with a silver teapot and delicate bone china cups and saucers separated her from the smiling couple. A tray had come with a collection of small cakes. Emma declined the delicacies but Alexander ate three of them. Mary managed one in spite of being full, a feeling she had not had for a very long time. She wanted to gather up the remaining food to bring with her for the journey and to share with James, but didn’t like to appear greedy. Every so often, as she told her story, her gaze would rest briefly on the silver cake stand, but Mary never interrupted her flow of words, conscious of the interest on the faces of the couple in front of her.
When it was time to board their train, Alexander went to settle the account. Emma beckoned to a waiter, who came over with an empty tray to clear the table. She whispered something to him, pointing to the cakes. Mary watched with disappointment as the remaining food was returned to the kitchen, annoyed with herself for not asking if she could take some with her. Having paid the bill, Alexander signalled to his wife that it was time to go. As the two women walked towards the door the waiter returned carrying a white cotton bundle. It was tied up with a blue ribbon. He handed it to Mary and Emma thanked him.
A Pocket Full of Shells Page 6