She bowed her head in prayer. Grace would be the last of her children to die. There was only Michael left, but she would make sure he did not die of the hunger or the disease epidemics that ravaged Ireland. He must leave – go to America, where he could live without fear of starvation, and prosper. One way or another she must raise the money for his passage to America. Whatever it cost.
As they walked away from Gracie’s grave, Kitty slipped her arm through Michael’s.
‘Are you all right, Mammy?’ he asked.
She gave him a small, sad smile. ‘You’re all I have left, now, Michael.’
‘I’ll never leave you, Mammy. I’m stronger than the others. I’ll always be here for you.’
She shook her head. ‘No, you won’t. I don’t want you to be. I want you to go, to get away from here, away from the hunger and the disease. Away from this land sucked dry of hope. You deserve more, you deserve better, and I want you to have it.’
‘No, Mammy. My place is here with you. I won’t be going anywhere, sure I won’t.’
She stopped walking and pulled him around to face her. ‘You’ll die if you stay here. Like all the others. As I will too, no doubt. I want you to go – to America, where there’s hope, and food, and opportunities. I want you to go and make your fortune, as Patrick and I would have, if we could. Patrick was lost before we had the chance to go, but you’re still young and free. You must go, in his place.’
He threw up his hands. ‘Mammy, you’re not making any sense. How on earth can I afford to go? We’ve no money to put food in our mouths, no money for a headstone for Gracie and the others, no money to pay the rent. I know you’re wanting to save me – I love you for it – but it’s not to be. I’ll stay here, work alongside you on the roads, earn the money to feed us both. And when the time comes I’ll plant the next crop of potatoes and the next harvest will be a good one, you’ll see if it isn’t.’
‘We’ve no seed potatoes,’ she said. ‘We ate them long ago. And we’ve no money to buy any. So there’ll be no more crops. Michael, there’s no future here. One way or another we have to find a way to buy you a passage to America. Once you’re there you’ll make your fortune, then you can come back and find me.’
‘How will I make my fortune? The streets won’t be paved with gold, sure they won’t, whatever the rumours say.’
‘Your art – you can paint and draw the rich people. They’ll buy your work.’
‘Maybe I can sell my pictures here, then? Maybe I should try that first.’
‘Yes, you should.’ But Kitty knew that idea would fail. No one in Ballymor had any spare money to spend on pictures. Most of them were like herself and Michael – they couldn’t afford to eat let alone anything else. No one other than Thomas Waterman and his agent had money to spare.
She stumbled then, tripping on a loose cobble in the road. Michael caught her and steadied her. ‘It’s been a long day, and you’re after not sleeping last night. Think no more on my going to America, Mammy. You need to rest now. Come on, and I’ll take you home.’
She needed to eat more than she needed to rest, she thought. She still had the bones of the duck Michael had poached. They’d do to make some broth.
The track up to Kildoolin seemed longer, steeper and rougher than it ever had before. And going home to the cottage, knowing there was no Gracie in it and never would be again, was unbearable. She tried to stay strong, to stop weeping, but she could not. The only thing that was keeping her going was Michael and her belief that somehow she must save him.
*
Bereaved they might be but even so, the next day Kitty and Michael made their way to the worksite, and spent another weary day breaking rocks. At least, Kitty thought, she no longer needed to worry that Gracie was too cold or too hungry. Gracie was suffering no longer. Kitty wielded her hammer slowly, methodically, trying to conserve strength. She kept her head down, checking the stones for cracks, trying to use the least number of blows to break them apart. So she did not notice immediately when a man came to stand near her, watching her.
‘Kitty McCarthy? Stand up.’ The voice was English, authoritative.
She stood, slowly, hoping to avoid any dizziness. It was William Smith, Thomas Waterman’s land agent. She hoped he had not come to ask for more rent. Surely it was not yet due?
‘Mr Waterman would like a word with you,’ Smith said, and indicated where Waterman sat on his horse, on the edge of the worksite. He looked just as he did in Michael’s sketch of him – aloof and arrogant.
‘Yes, sir,’ Kitty said. She dropped her lump-hammer and walked over, wiping her dusty hands on her skirt as she went. She was aware of Michael pausing his work, watching her, ready to step in and protect her if she needed him. As she neared Waterman, that old feeling of revulsion at the sight of him welled up in her. What could he possibly want with her? She approached him slowly, keeping her eyes down.
‘Look up at me,’ he said, as she drew near.
She raised her head, squinting against the bright sky.
‘I suppose you’re hungry, like the rest of them? You must be, to want to work here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Of course she was hungry, and she was working there because there was no other choice, not since Smith had laid off Michael. She still didn’t understand what he wanted.
He looked at her, then back towards Michael, who had not resumed his work but was standing some distance away, pickaxe in hand, watching. ‘Your son?’
‘Yes, sir.’
His eyes narrowed. He was calculating, she could see, estimating Michael’s age, working out how many years it was since he’d come across her working on Mother Heaney’s potato patch, trying to remember whether Patrick McCarthy had had dark hair like Michael’s or not. She prayed silently: Dear Lord above, don’t let him guess the truth, don’t let him know it.
He regarded her in silence for a moment, with an expression in his eyes that she could not read, then nodded as though he’d made a decision. ‘Come to Ballymor House when you finish here today. It’ll be worth your while.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but spurred his horse to turn round and trot away off down the newly built road.
Kitty was left staring after him. What did he want from her? What had she seen in his eyes – desire? Pity? Regret? Perhaps a mixture of all three. Or did he want to know about Michael? She would never tell him the truth. Never.
*
Memories of the last time he’d sat on his horse and bade her go to see him came flooding back to her. Back then, she had been fifteen, naive, innocent and trusting. She’d done as he’d bid her to do.
Sundown, he’d said. She’d arrived and waited behind the stables as he’d asked, just as the sun began to sink below the horizon. She’d told Ma Heaney some of the potato ridges had been damaged – well, that wasn’t a lie, they had been, by Thomas Waterman’s great horse – and she was going to work on the plot until it was dark. There was no danger of her great-aunt coming up to the field to check on her, not with her lame leg that had left her almost unable to walk.
She sat on a log, her back to the stables wall, her face turned to catch the last rays of the evening sun. Her thoughts turned once more where they shouldn’t – what gift would he have for her, would this be the start of a romantic relationship? Of all the girls, he’d noticed her, picked her out. What did it all mean? She recalled his long legs, straight back, jet-black hair and handsome features and shivered with anticipation. She couldn’t really believe he was interested in her but he had certainly praised her looks, asked her to meet him and promised her a gift, and why else would he have done that unless he wanted to woo her? She decided, with a secret smile to herself, that she would allow him to woo her, if that was what he wanted.
‘You came. Good girl.’ The voice broke into her reverie, and she leapt to her feet, brushing bark and woodchips from her dress.
‘Yes, sir, I came as you asked.’ She tried to dip a little curtsey but was clumsy with it, and slightly lost h
er balance, staggering back against the log she’d been sitting on. She found herself blushing as he laughed at her.
‘The maids in the house curtsey to me, Kitty Tooley. That’s not what I want from you. Stand upright, and look me in the eye.’
She did as she was told, her stomach churning with excitement.
‘That’s better,’ he said, cupping his hand under her chin to tilt her head back so she was gazing up directly at him. Was he going to kiss her now? She’d never been kissed. What was it like? What should she do? She allowed her mouth to open a little bit, and he smiled wolfishly at her.
‘You want me, do you? Good. But not here. Come on.’ He caught her by the hand and led her around to the front of the stables. A groom was brushing down Thomas’s bay horse, but the man looked away quickly, pretending not to notice them. Thomas crossed the stable yard and pushed open a narrow door. There was a wooden staircase beyond, and he climbed it, taking the steps two at a time, still pulling her after him. She clutched at her skirts to hold them out of the way.
Upstairs was a small room, poor but better furnished than the cottage she lived in with Mother Heaney. There was a washstand in the corner, holding a basin and ewer. A small wardrobe, a bentwood chair and a worn rug on the floor. And a narrow iron bedstead, with a pile of blankets messily thrown across it.
Kitty suddenly had a bad feeling about what was happening. She knew what went on between a man and his wife in bed – her great-aunt had educated her well. But she and Thomas were not married. Why had he brought her into this bedroom? Whose was it, anyway? She supposed it must be where one of the grooms slept. Perhaps that man below, who was brushing Thomas’s horse.
She turned back to the stairs, but Thomas grabbed her around the waist. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said. ‘Come here. Remember I said I had something for you?’
The gift he’d promised. She’d forgotten. She turned back, and he pulled her close and kissed her roughly. His stubbly chin scratched her, his hands on her waist were too tight, hurting her, and she tried to pull away.
‘What’s the matter? Am I too rough? I won’t hurt you,’ he said, but he did not let her go. He held her tighter still with one arm, and brought his other hand round to her front, squeezing her breasts. Too hard; it hurt. She tried to scream but his mouth was on hers again, and he was forcing her across the room, the backs of her knees now against the bed. He hooked a leg around hers, and she was toppled backwards, and then he was upon her, pinning her down, a hand over her mouth so she couldn’t scream, his other hand pulling up her skirt and fumbling at his trouser fastenings.
She thrashed her head from side to side trying to loosen his grip, and pummelled at his back with her fists, but he was too big, too strong for her. She knew what he was doing and she didn’t want it. Why oh why had she come to meet him? Because he was good-looking and had showed some interest in her? Oh, she was so stupid! No English landowner’s son would ever truly care for an Irish peasant girl. Why had she allowed herself to think that he might? He’d praised her looks and she’d let herself be flattered by his attention, and now look where that had brought her. She realised the best thing now was to lie quiet and still, let him do what he wanted and hope that he did not hurt her too much.
Afterwards, he rolled off her and fastened his trousers in silence, while she lay with her face turned to the wall. He threw some coins at her. ‘Get yourself a prettier dress and come back to me again.’
She sat up and stared at him defiantly. ‘I’ll never come back. Never.’
He snorted. ‘Shame. I’d make it worth your while. A feisty little thing like you is just what I want. I could do a lot for you.’
‘I would never take anything from you. You are a monster.’
He shrugged and left the room grinning like a cat who’d had the cream.
She finally left the room two minutes later, leaving the money in a pile on the washstand. The groom was still in the yard, sitting on a stool and polishing tackle, whistling while he worked. He did not raise his head to acknowledge her as she passed. She wondered how frequently Waterman brought a girl back here. She was certain she was not the first, and would not be the last.
*
A hideous memory. Kitty shook her head as if to dislodge it from her mind. She was proud, however, that she had not taken Waterman’s money on that terrible day, had never gone back to Ballymor House and had mostly managed to keep out of his way whenever he’d been in Ireland over the years. But now she was desperate.
She spent the rest of the day debating with herself whether to go to Ballymor House that evening. What would Thomas Waterman have to offer her? Surely he could not want her, not now she was old – thirty-three – and so thin and gaunt. She would not be able to fight him off if that was his intention. Did he want to claim his son? Surely not. He had no legitimate children of his own, she knew, but doubtless had numerous bastards across the county. He would not be interested in Michael, and even if he was, she would not let him have the boy. But if he was offering food or employment in return, or free rent – anything to give her and Michael a chance of survival – should she not take that chance? She’d vowed to find the money to send Michael to America, to save him, whatever the cost. So maybe the cost was this – she had to go to Waterman and see what he was offering. Give herself to him, if that was what he wanted. But could she? After eighteen years of hating the man for what he had done to her, could she willingly go to him now?
At the end of the day she had not reached a decision. She had not told Michael of Waterman’s command, only that he had asked her name and how long she had been working on the road. She planned only to go home with Michael as usual, make broth with the carcass of the duck, try to find a few potatoes that were still edible, cook and eat and sleep. And wake up sobbing when she realised that little Gracie was not sleeping in her arms and never would again.
*
They reached home, cooked and ate their meagre meal. Michael lay down beside the fire and almost instantly fell asleep, and Kitty lay down upon the straw mattress that she had shared with Gracie. Without her daughter to cuddle it was cold and she wrapped her blanket tightly around herself. There was one fewer blanket now, as Gracie had been buried in one as a funeral shroud. Kitty curled herself up and tried to sleep, her hand tucked into a tear in the fabric of the mattress. There was something there. She pushed her hand deeper in and felt around in the straw. Something hard, with a sharp point that pricked her . . . She grasped it with her fingers and tugged it out.
It was Mother Heaney’s brooch – the one the old lady had always used to fasten her shawl, that Kitty had admired when she was young, and which she’d thought was lost or perhaps buried with Mother Heaney. Gracie must have found it somewhere and kept it.
Kitty sat up and inspected the brooch by the light of the dying embers of the fire. It was tarnished, so she rubbed it on her skirts until it began to shine. Mother Heaney had always said it was very valuable. A Celtic knot, in a reddish metal – Mother Heaney said that gold was not always yellow; it could be white, or rose, and this was rose gold.
Kitty’s mind worked quickly. If it was valuable then she could sell it. If it was very valuable, as Mother Heaney had always insisted, then it might fetch enough to buy Michael’s ticket to America. She clutched it tightly, ignoring the stab of pain as the end of the pin dug into her palm. This brooch could be the saving of her last child. If only Gracie had told her she had it, Kitty could have sold it long ago and then could have bought enough food to keep them all alive – even young Pat and the little ones. None of her children need have died. She stared at the brooch, half loving it for being Michael’s salvation and half hating it for keeping itself hidden until now, when it was too late for all of Patrick’s children. But it could still save Michael.
Thank goodness she had not gone to Thomas Waterman! She did not need to now. She would go into Ballymor the next day, and find a buyer for the brooch. And then she would buy food – good food. Meat, flour, tea, butt
er, corn – anything and everything she could find to buy. They would not go hungry again! She pinned the brooch to the bodice of her dress and fell asleep with her hand over it and dreams of plentiful, glorious food running through her head.
CHAPTER 13
Maria
After spending the evening in the bar with Declan and making arrangements to meet him to go through church records and then on to the hurling I felt guilty. Had he intended the day as a date? Despite tossing and turning for half the night trying to work out his intentions and my feelings I still didn’t know. I eventually fell asleep, only to dream of Dan pulling me one way, towards a pit filled with squalling babies, while Declan pulled me the other way towards a glorious orange sunset. You didn’t need to be Sigmund Freud to work that one out.
But I awoke with the sun streaming in through the window and Dan on my mind. I checked my watch – it was 8 a.m. and although it was Saturday he was usually up early. I wondered whether he had seen my email. I grabbed my laptop and quickly logged on.
Maria
Yes, I remember that night in Rhodes. Ring me when you get this. I love you too.
Dan
Oh, thank goodness! I grabbed my phone and rang him. At last it did not go straight to voicemail.
‘Hey, babe,’ he said, sounding sleepy. ‘Wassup?’
‘I got your email. Are we OK then? You believe me?’
‘Aw, sweetheart, of course I do. God, I am so sorry for what I said that night. I’d had a few drinks. Was not thinking straight.’
‘I’ve been trying to ring you ever since. Sent that email in desperation.’
‘Ahem.’ He sounded sheepish. ‘I knocked over a glass of water that night, all over my phone. Didn’t notice – as I said, I was pissed – and the phone sat in a puddle all night. Had to take it apart and put it on top of the boiler to dry out. Darned thing has only just started working again.’
Relief flooded through me and I found my eyes brimming with tears. ‘I thought you were so upset you were ignoring me. I thought – maybe – we were over.’
The Girl from Ballymor Page 12