A Pocket Full of Shells

by Jean Reinhardt

  “What is it you want? We have no money in the house and nothing left to sell,” said Mary.

  “Food, that’s all I want. Just give me some food and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Can I put my little one back into her bed, first, she’s getting cold?”

  The man looked at the small child on his lap and his face softened.

  “Fetch a shawl to wrap around her, she’s fine where she is,” he said.

  Mary lifted a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around Catherine. She thought about grabbing her daughter and running outside, but the sight of the knife reminded her of the danger they were in. She had seen the mildest of people driven to madness with hunger.

  “You’re not from around here, I can’t place your accent. Have you travelled far?” Mary was trying to keep as calm as possible.

  “No more talking, please – just give me some food and let me leave you in peace.”

  Catherine began to cry, the change in tone of the man’s voice frightening her. He tried to keep a firm grip but in the struggle to get away from him, she slipped out from under the blanket and landed on the floor. Mary scooped her up and turned towards the door, but as she reached the threshold she heard the sound of a chair falling over and a loud thud. When she looked back, the man had passed out on the floor, the chair overturned beside him. The knife was lying six inches away from his outstretched hand.

  Pat and Annie were still asleep upstairs, and Mary knew she had to get that knife before the stranger came round. Wrapping the blanket tightly around Catherine’s small body, she placed her at the gate, far enough away from the house but still visible from the inside the parlour.

  “Stay there and hold this blanket around you. I am going to get your auntie Annie to come for a walk with us. Don’t move, Catherine, be a good girl.”

  Mary could see the badly worn soles of the man’s boots, a hole in the centre of each of them. His feet didn’t move and the knife was still on the floor. She ran passed him and as she bent down, her fingers about to curl around the wooden handle, a bony hand grabbed hold of her ankle.

  CHAPTER 23

  A loud scream woke Pat and Annie, their eyes shooting open at the same time. They were on their feet in an instant, a fast move for a couple in their seventies. Pat, being first to reach the bottom of the stairs, was horrified to see Mary sitting on the floor, stabbing a knife into the air at an emaciated man.

  “Mary, give me the knife, love. Here, let me help you up.”

  Pat was at her side, pulling her back from the stranger, who was still lying on the floor, his fingers curled around her ankle.

  “What are you doing in my house, frightening my family?” he asked.

  There was a low moan and then a sob. Annie stood at the door with Catherine in her arms. Handing the knife back to Mary, Pat told her to stand outside with Annie. The young woman protested that he might be in danger, suggesting they all go outside.

  “Mary, look at the poor wretch,” said Pat, “He can’t even lift himself up off the floor. Go on outside with Annie and let me have a quiet word with him. Give the man a bit of dignity, girl.”

  “Pat, he had a knife in his hand and Catherine on his knee, he doesn’t deserve to be treated with respect. A real man would never threaten a child.”

  The sobs got louder and everyone turned to look at the man who had managed to raise himself up on one elbow, his body shaking as he cried. Annie pulled the young woman out of the house.

  “Come on now, Mary, this is not something you want your child to see or hear,” she said.

  Pat held out a hand to the stranger and helped him to stand. Picking up the overturned chair, he gestured towards it and the man slumped wearily into the seat.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is all about? You don’t strike me as someone who would harm a child,” said Pat.

  “I wouldn’t harm a fly and that’s the truth, mister. I’m as weak as a kitten, so I won’t be a threat to you or your family. I would be very grateful for a little food to bring back to my children. I promise not to bother you again, we are just passing through.”

  Pat, held out his hand and introduced himself, “And what’s your name, friend?” he asked.

  “Thomas Gallagher. I’m sorry for acting like a madman. I don’t know what came over me. I saw the door open and came inside hoping to find a loaf of bread or something I could grab quickly and run with, before anyone spotted me. I had your knife in my hand because I was going to steal it. It might have bought us a meal. Then your little granddaughter came over to me and hugged my leg. I lifted her up but I was so weak, I had to sit down on the chair. That was when her mother came in and saw me.”

  “You said you needed food for your children, where are they?” asked Pat.

  “Down the road a bit, just before the bend. We slept in the ditch last night. We have been walking for weeks, on our way to Dundalk. I heard that the steamships take on free passengers as ballast whenever they don’t have a full cargo on board. I’m hoping to get to Liverpool, I have cousins there.”

  “Is your wife with you?” asked Pat.

  The man hung his head for a moment before answering.

  “No, she died two weeks ago, from the fever. We had to go into the workhouse in Carlow, when our food and money ran out. Our family was separated. Me and my eldest boy were put in with the men and my wife and three little ones were in the women’s quarters. They made me sign away the lease I had on my land before they would let us in. At least in there, we were guaranteed some food every day, but people were dropping like flies of the fever. Me and my son were given work to do but when my wife got sick there was no one to mind our little ones. She was taken to a shed, set up to isolate the sick and I was only allowed visit her once. She begged me to take the children to England, to our relatives. I promised her that I would. She died before I had a chance to speak with her again. Five people were buried with her, in a common grave, behind the workhouse. I took my children and left straight after the priest’s blessing on the grave. We walked out of the county that five generations of my family have lived in – and I never once looked back.”

  Pat called Annie and Mary into the cottage, repeating what he had just been told. He asked them to go up to the bend in the road and fetch Thomas’s children. Catherine, who had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms, was placed on the bed.

  “Wake up the fire, Pat. We can make some meal cakes and there’s broth from yesterday still in the pot,” Annie shouted back as she followed Mary through the door.

  In less than five minutes, the two women were at the spot where Thomas’s children lay sleeping. The eldest boy was no more than twelve years old and had his arms around two little girls. The youngest, a little boy, was lying face down on top of his older brother, a tattered blanket draped across them as they huddled together to keep warm. Mary cried out when she saw them and the older boy woke up, startled. He tried to get up but fell back onto the ground, the weight of his siblings holding him down. A loud cry from the youngest child woke the others and within seconds three of the children were sobbing, not from fright, but from the hunger that had been gnawing at their stomachs for days.

  Annie explained to them that their father was at her house and a meal would be waiting for them there. She picked up the smallest girl and was surprised at how light she was.

  “Oh Mary, she doesn’t weigh much more than our Catherine, poor wee mite. Can you manage to carry your brother, it’s only a five minute walk?” she asked the older boy.

  Picking up the other little girl, Mary walked silently behind Annie, thinking on the morning’s events. She was no longer mad at Thomas Gallagher, especially after seeing the state that his children were in. He must have been giving them every scrap of food he could find, as he was in worse condition than they were.

  Thomas held his arms out to his children as they entered the cottage and the three youngest ran to him. Looking at the man she had wanted to hurt less than half an hour before, with his
long thin arms wrapped around his family, Mary was flooded with guilt. She beckoned to the older boy, who was standing just inside the door, cap in hand. Patting a spot on the bench at the table, she smiled at the youngster.

  “I can see your parents have brought you up well, young man, taking your cap off like that when you enter a house,” Mary said, “And it’s a fine thing to be able to mind your manners when your belly is crying out for food.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Annie as she poured warm broth into the four bowls Pat had placed on the table. The two little girls were seated in an instant, draining the bowls before their father had taken his first mouthful.

  “I’m afraid the same cannot be said about your sisters’ manners, can it, Tom?” Thomas smiled at his son.

  “What are the girls’ names?” asked Mary.

  “Maggie and Minnie,” said Thomas.

  “My real name is Mary, but everyone calls me Minnie on account of that being mammy’s name too,” piped up the younger girl.

  “Well now, I’m another Mary, so how about we still call you Minnie so we don’t get mixed up?”

  The little girl nodded a head full of matted hair.

  “And who are you, little man?” asked Annie, lifting the child from his father’s lap and placing him on her own.

  “Patrick,” he shouted, “Not Paddy, Patrick.”

  Everyone laughed at the loud voice booming out of such a tiny body.

  “That’s what his mother always said when anyone called him Paddy, in those exact words, too. He’s known as Not-Paddy-Patrick, in our family,” said Thomas.

  “That makes two Patricks in the house as well as two Marys, but you can call him Pat,” said Annie.

  Pat held out his hand so that young Patrick could shake it.

  After the meal, Mary suggested herself and Annie take the children to the beach, while the men talked. Tom hung back, watching his younger siblings take hold of each other’s hands as they followed the women through the door. Mary looked behind and saw an old man’s expression on a young boy’s face. She thought to herself how sad it was that his childhood was gone, at twelve years of age. Time spent on the beach, running in and out of the water, looking for shells and sifting the sand through his toes would be far better for him, than listening to the trials and tribulations of the country the men would be discussing.

  “Sometimes we find lots of driftwood on the beach. It burns hotter than turf and we could do with a strong pair of arms to help carry it back, Tom,” said Mary.

  The boy looked at his father, who nodded his head in reply. With a smile on his face, Tom picked up his little brother and sat him on his shoulders, energized by the breakfast he had received.

  CHAPTER 24

  James looked around his brother’s parlour. Another farewell party was being held, this time for his best friend. He knew he would probably never see him again. Michael saw the sadness on James’s face and looked away. Continuing to dance with Brigid, he held his son in his arms. When the music stopped, he caught James’s eye and pointed towards the door. The two men went outside to talk.

  “What if one of them Indians shoots an arrow through you, or Brigid for that matter,” James asked.

  “I will make friends with them as soon as I get there. Anyway, we will have to earn more money when we get to New York and that means staying there for at least a year, I reckon. My cousin has a room he said we can use in return for Brigid’s cooking and housekeeping skills. There’s four other Irishmen sharing the house with him and they all miss their mother’s cooking. I think my poor wife is going to be more exhausted than me by the end of each week.”

  “How can you make such a joke of it, Michael? What if you or Brigid cannot stand it over there?”

  “Then we come home – as simple as that, James, but if we don’t give it a try how are we to know? Australia is further away and there are plenty who have gone there.”

  “A lot of them forced to go, for stealing a pig or a cow. My cousin, Francis, for one,” said James.

  “Well there you are, now. At least myself and Brigid have the option of coming back. Will you not consider it yourself, for your family’s sake? We could get some land between us?”

  “Ahh, Michael, you are like a dog with a bone but I won’t change my mind about going. I am saving to buy my own boat. That is what Mary wants too, and you well know it. Here – hold out your hand to me, Michael.”

  James dropped something onto his friend’s open palm.

  “You can’t give those away; they were a present from your daughter.”

  “I want you to have them. Every time you look at these shells, you will be reminded of your roots and that you have a friend there to welcome you back at any time. Go on, Michael, take them. I still have two left in my pocket.”

  “Even though neither myself nor Brigid can write, I will find someone to put our words into a letter and I promise to keep in touch with you. If ever you change your mind, there will be a place with us over there for you, no matter where we are,” Michael was getting chocked up with emotion.

  “Come on, let’s get back inside before we start bawling like a couple of babies,” laughed James, slapping Michael on the back.

  Four weeks after Michael and Brigid boarded a ship to New York, James crossed the Irish Sea. Even though the blight hadn’t devastated the crop, hardly any potatoes had been planted in 1847 due to the fact that seed potatoes were scarce. Many people had been employed doing public works to earn money for food and rent, so with not enough seeds and labourers, there wasn’t much of a harvest to bring in that year. However, it was disease and not starvation that caused most of the deaths of Irish people in the year that came to be known as Black ‘47.

  As the steamship approached the dock, James could see Mary holding Catherine. The excited child was waving with both hands at everyone on board. As he waited patiently to disembark, he inhaled deep into his lungs the salty, seaweed air of home. Even though his stay in England had only been a few months in duration, the time had dragged by for James. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t dreaming as he stood watching his family on the quayside. As usual, there were more passengers waiting to get on than off.

  When James stepped onto the dockside, Mary rushed into his arms, squashing their daughter between them. Catherine squealed as James kissed her eyes, nose and the top of her head. Mary held onto him, laughing and crying at the same time. Savouring the moment, James would have liked to stand there forever, his wife and child in his arms, enjoying a contentment he had not felt in a long time. A man and his children were standing just behind Mary, looking at the happy reunion, with smiling faces.

  “Do I know you?” asked James.

  Mary stood back and introduced them.

  “This is Thomas Gallagher and his children. They will be boarding the boat you just got off.”

  “Very happy to meet you, James,” Thomas held out his hand. “Your family have been so kind to us, I don’t know what we would have done without their help.”

  “Both you and your son were a great help to Pat in cutting and footing the turf. We were happy to have you stay with us.” As she said this, Mary picked up each of the little ones in turn and kissed them.

  She held out her hand to Tom. The young boy was struggling to remain composed. Lastly, she shook hands with Thomas, who had been tickling Catherine as she wriggled in her father’s arms.

  “Have you somewhere to stay when you get over?” asked James, feeling almost like an intruder in the farewells taking place.

  “I have a cousin in Liverpool. We will be fine there, until I get on my feet again. I would prefer to live in the countryside if there is work to be got harvesting.”

  “There’s plenty of work for navvies, if you have the stamina for it. Railway tracks are being laid everywhere, you could try that for the winter. You might even earn enough to lease a small farm next year.”

  “Thank you, James, I will keep that in mind. Well, children, let’s go join the queu
e, it looks like the passengers are starting to board.”

  Catherine was in her usual spot, high up on a pair of shoulders. James felt as if he had never been away, walking the few miles home from the docks, his wife at his side.

  “What was that all about? Why where they staying with you? Are they friends of Pat and Annie’s?”

  Mary explained how they had come to meet Thomas and his children, leaving out the bit about the knife.

  “Oh, James, you should have seen the pitiful state they were in. They walked from Carlow. When Thomas’s wife died in the workhouse, he took his children and left. He heard that Dublin was full of fever so instead made for Drogheda, hoping to get a ship to England. There was a fever outbreak there too, so he travelled on up the coast to Dundalk. He had pawned their coats to buy food. When they entered some towns, even though they weren’t sick, they were rounded up with other poor unfortunates and put into carts to be driven away and left on the roadside. The fear of strangers carrying the fever drives any bit of compassion out of the hearts of people.”

  “They were just trying to protect their families and stop the spread of disease,” said James, “You saw what it was like in Liverpool, didn’t you?”

  “I know, I suppose nobody knows how they will act, until they are put in that position. Let’s not talk any more of sickness and despair. Tell me about Brigid and Michael’s trip to America.”

  “They invited us over any time we want. Shall we plan a visit there in the spring, my dear?” James spoke in a grand tone of voice.

  “Why, Lord McGrother, I do believe we will need a holiday by then – having spent a year without one. Splendid suggestion, if I may be bold enough to say so,” mimicked Mary.