A Pocket Full of Shells

by Jean Reinhardt

  They laughed and chased each other until the beach came into view and James ran onto the sand. Pulling seaweed from the rocks, the young man held it to his face, inhaling deeply before draping it over his daughter’s head. As they approached the open door to his aunt and uncle’s cottage, the wonderful aroma of rabbit stew wafted out.

  When Annie had finished smothering him in kisses, Pat grabbed hold of James by the shoulders and looked him up and down.

  “Well now, we are still eye to eye. You haven’t grown an inch, have you?” his uncle teased.

  “I reckon it’s you that has shrunk, Uncle Pat.”

  James sniffed the air and said, “I see you finally outran a poor old rabbit.”

  The bantering and joking went on all the way through the meal and as Mary looked around the table at her smiling family, she thought of the news she was going to give her husband later that evening. She felt it was a good thing that he was laughing and in great form, as that would probably change when he found out he would have another mouth to feed in the winter.

  CHAPTER 25

  A sound much like a choir of pigs came up through the floor boards. It made James and Mary laugh as they lay side by side, feeling complete once more.

  “It sounds like Pat and Annie are speaking to each other in some strange piggy language,” whispered Mary, “I don’t know how Catherine is staying asleep, down there next to Annie, through all that snoring.”

  As she leaned away from the mattress to blow out the candle, James turned on his side to face her and propped himself up on an elbow.

  “Leave it lit awhile, Mary. I want to keep looking at you.”

  “James McGrother, you are making me blush. Besides, it’s a waste of wax.”

  Pulling Mary slowly back onto the mattress, James kept his eyes locked on hers. He ran his fingers lightly down the side of her face, onto her neck and along the length of her arm. Sliding his hand across her abdomen, he let it rest there. Every muscle in Mary’s body tensed. James suddenly pulled away from her to sit upright against the wall. He drew his knees towards his chest, without once averting his gaze from her eyes. They stared silently at each other in the soft light. The only movement in the room was the shadow created by the flickering candle flame. The only sound, a symphony of snores from below.

  “He knows, he knows,” thought Mary.

  She had wanted to tell him in the dark, to conceal the anxiety she knew would be written all over her face. Mary closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “James, I have … I am …”

  “You are carrying our son. I knew it the moment I saw you. Why did you not tell me sooner?”

  Mary sat up and hugged him, relieved that he was being so calm about it.

  “I thought you might consider it another load to bear, having an extra child to feed. I know times are hard, James, but I feel this is more of a blessing than a burden.”

  James leaned over his young wife and quenched the candle flame. Lying on his side, he drew Mary into his arms. The moment she was dreading had passed and he had made it easy for her to tell him what she had been avoiding all day.

  “What makes you think it’s a boy, James?”

  He kissed the back of her neck.

  “You seem different this time, I don’t know what it is, just … different. How far along are you? It must have been when you came to see me in England.”

  “It was, I came back with more than I went over with, didn’t I? I certainly feel different this time, I was really sick every morning up till last week. That never happened me on Catherine.”

  “You were starving on her. The winter that you carried her was a hungry one. At least this time you have some food in your belly to throw up.”

  James closed his eyes, pretending to drift off to sleep. He thought about returning to England for a few more months before the birth, wanting to make sure Mary was well nourished for her second pregnancy. It was something they could discuss with Pat and Annie. He heard Mary’s breathing change to a slow rhythm and knew she had fallen asleep. James kissed her hair and smiled at the thought of her fretting over telling him her news. She really didn’t know him as well as she might think.

  It was late next morning when the young couple came down the stairs for breakfast. There was some stirabout in the cauldron over the fire, but no sign of Pat, Annie or Catherine. Mary dished up food for James and didn’t seem surprised that they were alone in the house.

  “Where is everyone? Annie is usually here at this time of the morning, isn’t she? Do you think she has taken Catherine for a walk?”

  “Oh James, so many questions. Let’s just eat and enjoy the peace and quiet before your daughter gets back, shall we?”

  “I think I will go find Pat when I have eaten. He’s probably mending nets for tonight’s fishing. It will be good to get out in the bay after all this time. I missed it almost as much as I missed you, Mary.”

  “Such a charmer. I’ll come with you, the fresh air will do me good.”

  As they neared the beach, James could see Pat working on the nets while Annie chased Catherine around one of the boats. On their approach, Pat looked up and smiled.

  “Ready for a trip out to sea, tonight, son?”

  “I am, to be sure, Uncle Pat, and the weather is perfect for it, isn’t it?”

  Mary caught hold of Catherine and swung her around. She sat the child on her hip while Annie stood beside them. They were all looking at James as he ran his hand over the boat that his uncle’s nets were draped upon.

  “This is a fine boat, Pat, don’t tell me you’ve joined another crew. Who owns it and can I come out with ye?”

  Stepping away from the bow, Pat admitted he had recently decided to sail on another boat and he was sure there would be room for one more crew member. Mary brought Catherine over to the nets that covered the side of the vessel and they lifted them up to reveal what was written on the boat. The name, Mary Catherine, stood out in newly painted, white letters.

  “It’s yours, James. Your crew is the one I joined. There are two other men coming out with us tonight.” Pat pointed to the nets and lines that lay across the boat, “And this is your tackle. These are fine nets, James. Thomas Gallagher and his son helped me repair them. He painted the names on the boat, too, being able to read and write, like yourself.”

  “How can you afford this? Did you borrow the money?” James was still in shock.

  Mary grabbed hold of his hand.

  “We saved every penny you sent over, we bought the hens and some seed potatoes. The rest was spent on the boat. Aren’t you happy with it, James?” Mary was beginning to think they had made a big mistake.

  “Of course I’m happy with it, but I didn’t earn nearly enough for a boat like that.”

  Pat placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

  “Your brothers and sisters made a collection and sent the money over to Mary. Michael contributed, too – in fact it was his idea to get you a boat. When we added it to your savings it was more than enough to buy this one. It came from Annagassan, the man who owned it died and his widow needed the money. Sure what good was it to her? At least now, she can feed her family for a while. All it needed was a bit of work.”

  James had a lump in his throat and he picked up one of the nets, pretending to inspect it. He was overwhelmed by the generosity shown him.

  “Well, if we want to catch any fish tonight we had better make sure our nets are in order, there’s no time for all this idle chatter,” the young man said, trying to cover his emotions.

  Catherine tugged at her father’s trouser leg and held out a tiny, closed fist to him. James knelt down on one knee, and placed his hand under hers. As she slowly opened her fingers, three little sea shells dropped onto his palm. James smiled at Mary as he picked up his daughter and kissed her soft curls.

  “You will never know how much your wee presents mean to me,” he whispered.

  THE END

  For my parents

  Jack and
Kitty Parker

  Most of the story in this book is fictitious, with historical facts setting the scene in Dundalk, Liverpool and Sunderland, places that have a connection to my mother’s family. I wanted to show the reader how people coped in their own way with the difficult situations they found themselves in. I created a relationship between James and Mary that turned their lives into a love story – it may have been the case, I like to think so anyway.

  Jean Mary Reinhardt 2013

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people for their much appreciated support and encouragement:

  Sharon for giving me a boost when I felt like giving up.

  Eileen and Carol for reading the story as it was being written and encouraging me so much.

  Joan for proofing the final edit and finding all the stuff I missed.

  Pascaline for such a lovely and enthusiastic reaction to the finished story.

  You, the reader, who has taken the time to sample my work and show an interest in it.

  Last, but not least, my mother, who read every chapter as it was written and made it all worthwhile

  Author Bio

  Jean Reinhardt was born in Louth, grew up in Dublin and lived in Alicante, Spain for almost eight years. With five children and three grandchildren, life is never dull. She now lives in Ireland and loves to read, write, listen to music and spend time with family and friends. When Jean isn’t writing she likes to take long walks through the woods and on the beach.

  Jean writes poetry, short stories and novels. Her favourite genres are Young Adult and Historical Fiction.

  www.twitter.com/Jean Reinhardt1

  www.facebook.com/JeanReinhardtWriter

  www.jeanreinhardt.wordpress.com

  Other books by the author:

  The Finding Trilogy: a young adult suspense series.

  Book 1: Finding Kaden

  Book 2: Finding Megan

  Book 3: Finding Henry Brubaker

  Can all be found on Amazon and Smashwords.

  Cover image:

  Catherine (Breen) Parker and Seamus Breen.

  The author’s mother and uncle.

  Ref. Chapter 7

  Navvy, a shorter form of navigator (UK) or navigational engineer (US), is particularly applied to describe the manual labourers working on major civil engineering projects. The term was coined in the late 18th century in Great Britain when numerous canals were being built, which were also sometimes known as ‘navigations’, or ‘eternal navigations’, intended to last forever.

  Many of the navvies employed building the railways in England in the early part of the 19th century had to live in squalid temporary accommodations. The navvies working on the Liverpool and Manchester Railway were paid daily and their pay reputedly went on ale and porter, leaving little for food. When the workers were unfit to work, monies were deducted from their wages and meal tokens were issued. These tokens could be handed in at meal caravans for a bowl of soup and a portion of bread. At first the token was a slip of paper called a "flimsy" because of its thickness. In today's terms it would be similar to a grade called "bank paper". As these tokens could be copied by the forgers, the Liverpool and Manchester Railway supplied its contractors with six-sided food tokens that were surrendered for meals. These were cut from brass and had the initials LMR stamped upon them. This reduced the problems of drunken navvies and eliminated the local farm labourers freeloading from the food caravans. Tokens and a description of their use can be found in the Museum of Science & Industry in Manchester. Wikipedia.

  Ref. Chapter 14

  Drogheda Independent (Newspaper)

  THE following notice was posted up along the Steam-packet Quay in Drogheda during the first week in May 1847: 'Notice is Hereby Given'. 'An Order in Council has been issued directing that all Steam-packets arriving in any English port from Ireland shall hoist a yellow flag and remain outside until examined by a medical officer. If any person or persons shall then be found afflicted with fever such person or persons shall be removed to a floating hospital and if sick persons are on a second voyage of the same vessel found on board the vessel must perform quarantine for a number of days according to the state of health of the passengers on board'. This harsh notice also stated that;

  'That no deck passengers can be allowed on board or be taken to Liverpool in any vessel belonging to the Drogheda Steam Packet Company unless examined by some Medical Officer that may be appointed for that service at the port as to their freedom of fever and also that no destitute persons who may not be able to support themselves by their own labour will be allowed to embark between Drogheda Port and Liverpool.

  On and after the 12th next (May 1847), the deck fare will be 5 shillings each way'.

  As a result of this increase in the fares to England for deck passengers from the port of Drogheda the Drogheda Argus editorial comment made the following observations on this alarming situation.

  ‘We are not at all surprised that the authorities of Liverpool should have become alarmed at the spread of disease in their town within the last few months. The number of emigrants who have landed in Liverpool since the first of January is stated to be 165,000, of these 55,000 have emigrated for America and probably 10,000 were returned to Ireland, leaving 100.000 located in Liverpool or scattered about the country or lying in English graves from the ravages of the pestilence that they brought with them.

  Ref. Chapter 14

  An article in the Manchester Examiner march 1847 a letter from Alexander Somerville.

  Seven men were in a field which measured three acres, and such had just been sown with oats. They were employed in breaking the clods of earth, in clearing the furrows for letting off top water, and in otherwise finishing the sowing of the oats. It was about four in the afternoon when I saw them. They appeared to me to work very indifferently; the whole seven were doing less than one man's work. I watched them for some time, while they did not see me, consequently they could not be enacting a part before a stranger. I was soon convinced that the men were, some of them, leaning on their implements of work, and others staggering among the clods, from sheer weakness and hunger. I concluded this to be the case from the frequency of such signs. One of the men, after I had watched them some time, crawled through a gap in the hedge, came out upon the road on his hands and knees, and then tried to rise, and got up bit by bit as a feeble old man might be supposed to do. He succeeded in getting upon his feet at last, and moved slowly away, with tottering steps, towards the village, in a miserable hovel of which was his home.

  I thought I would speak to the feeble old man, and followed and came up with him. He was not an old man. He was under forty years of age; was tall and sinewy, and had all the appearances of what would have been a strong man if there had been flesh on his body. But he bowed down, his cheeks were sunken, and his skin sallow-coloured, as if death were already with him. His eyes glared upon me fearfully; and his skinny skeleton hands clutched the handle of the shovel upon which he supported himself while he stood to speak to me, as it were the last grasp of life.

  ‘It is the hunger, your honour; nothing but the hunger,’ he said in a feeble voice: ‘I stayed at the work till I could stay no longer. I am fainting now with the hunger. I must go home and lie down. There is six children and my wife and myself. We had nothing all yesterday, (which was Sunday,) and this morning we had only a handful of yellow meal among us all, made into a stirabout, before I came out to work–nothing more and nothing since. Sure this hunger will be the death of all of us. God have mercy upon me and my poor family.’

  I saw the poor man and his poor family, and truly might he say, ‘God have mercy!’ They were skeletons all of them, with skin on the bones and life within the skin. A mother skeleton and baby skeleton; a tall boy skeleton, who had no work to do; who could do nothing but eat, and had nothing to eat. Four female children skeletons, and the tall father skeleton, not able to work to get food for them, and not able to get enough of food when he did work for
them. Their only food was what his wages of 10 d. per day would procure of ‘yellow meal’ – the meal of the Indian corn. The price of that was 3s. per stone of 16 lb. This gave for the eight persons 26 lb. 10 oz. of meal for seven days; being about seven ounces and a half per day for each person. No self-control could make such persons distribute such a starvation of food over seven days equally. Their natural cravings made them eat it up at once, or in one, or three days at most, leaving the other days blank, making the pangs of hunger still worse.

  But in the calculation I am supposing all the wages go for meal. I believe none of it was expended on anything else, not even salt, save fuel: fuel in this village must all be purchased by such people; they are not allowed to go to the bogs to cut it for themselves. Nor is this the season to go to the bogs, if they were allowed. The fuel required to keep the household fire merely burning, hardly sufficient to give warmth to eight persons around it, to say nothing of half-naked persons, would cost at least sixpence a day. Wherefore, no fuel was used by this family, nor by other working families, but what was required to boil the meal into a stirabout.

  The following books proved to be a great source of information in the writing of this story. They are full of well documented events and photographs of people whose families have lived in Blackrock for many generations:

  The Parish of Haggardstown & Blackrock – A History by Noel Sharkey.

  First Printed in 2003 by Dundalgan Press (W. Tempest) Ltd., Dundalk.

  The Parish of Haggardstown & Blackrock – A Pictorial Record

  Compiled and written by Noel Sharkey with photos by Owen Byrne.

  Printed in 2008 by Dundalgan Press (W. Tempest) Ltd., Dundalk.