by Anne Doughty
*
Daniel’s stone bench had a pool of water lying on it and Daniel was nowhere to be seen. Hannah peered into the dim interior of the cottage and saw him in the light of the fire as he stirred it up ready to add fresh turf. He turned towards her the moment he heard her foot on the door stone.
‘Hannah, I was waiting for you. Will I light the lamp so you can see your way around the furniture?’
‘Hello, Daniel. I came as soon as I could. Yes, it has got very dark with the rain but I can see you perfectly well in the firelight. Now come and tell me right away what has happened. The message you sent was word-perfect, as you knew it would be, but I’m sure you knew it didn’t really tell me anything. Except that you needed to see me.’
‘Well, it’s been a very unusual day,’ he began, sitting down heavily in his own chair. ‘I had two visitors but no Marie. The first was her young man who came early to tell me she’d had a fall and has broken her leg. She’s away with her mother to the hospital, but he says the doctor told them when she has it set, she’ll not be able to put her foot to the ground for two or three months at best, never mind get here every morning from her mother’s place.’
He knocked out his pipe into the fire and began to refill it methodically.
‘Marie getting married was problem enough as you well know. Now this brings her going right forward from late June. Then, out of nowhere, I have this young man from Galway who appeared when we were reading. He’d come to see if I could give him a job. Apparently, he’s thinking of becoming a priest but he’s too young for the seminary, or perhaps, too immature. I’m not sure at all about him. However, it seems someone put him in touch with our local priest because he’d said to some of the brothers at the seminary that he wants to improve his Irish.’
Daniel raised his hands heavenwards, making sure he did not tip out the glowing embers in his pipe.
‘So, what does he speak if not Irish? Surely not English if he comes from Galway,’ asked Hannah, totally puzzled by this unusual situation. ‘That was where you said, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, he says he’s from Galway all right.’
‘Well, I know there are quite a few people who have some English here in Donegal,’ began Hannah, ‘but they’re nearly all harvesters going to Scotland and England to work every year. Surely they don’t do that down in Galway, do they?’ she asked, thinking how much further the sailing would be than it was from Derry.
‘Well, all I know is that the young man’s father comes from County Down. He told me his father is a coastguard and served in Donaghadee and then in different parts of England and Scotland. It seems when he was posted to Galway town he married a local girl. Sometime later he was moved out to Kilkerrin where he was in charge of the station. Apparently, most of the other coastguards there were from across the water so everyone spoke English. I gathered his mother, who was a Cullen, learnt English herself, but his father didn’t take to learning Irish at all. His father, he says, was a Protestant, so because the young man was the eldest son, he was sent to a Protestant school in Dublin.’
‘And he wants to be a priest and come and work with you in the meantime?’ she said, baffled by the details of the story.
‘That’s the general idea,’ Daniel replied flatly, ‘but there are a number of new problems, as well as the ones you know about. To begin with, he’d have to find lodgings and he’ll have to have a salary. He had saved up some money, he says, but getting here took it all. Now, he hasn’t a penny to his name.
‘I think he’s bright enough,’ he went on, ‘and now Marie has had to leave, he might be part of the solution to my wanting to teach the children English, but, as you know, Hannah, I have no money to pay him. As Marie is off work she’ll not expect me to pay her any more, but I already owe her for the last month,’ he said anxiously.
He paused and took a couple of deep pulls on his pipe.
‘Even more of the children weren’t able to bring their Friday pennies today,’ he added wearily. ‘I admit I am accumulating a fair pile of turf instead of the pennies, but if I have to close the school, I’ll have neither turf, nor pennies, and now there’s no pension either.’
He looked up at her as if he wanted to see her reaction.
Hannah thought, as she so often did, that it was not surprising people couldn’t believe he was blind.
Despite the grim picture he had painted, there was not the remotest touch of self-pity in the look he gave her. He was simply waiting patiently to see what she would say.
‘Daniel, you’ll hardly believe this,’ she began, ‘but I had a visitor myself this morning. A Yorkshire man, a Quaker, with very little Irish. In fact, he had so little, he could hardly manage a polite good day, despite the fact he’s a very well-mannered man. He’d been sent by the Quaker Central Committee in Dublin to do research. He said they want to find out how men like Patrick – labourers with no land beyond their patch of potato garden – support themselves and their families. But we talked about more than that, and when I told something of the difficulties we face, he wanted to know what the real problems are, here, in this part of the country, so that they can help in the most effective way possible. They clearly have funds and from all he said, I think, in fact I’m sure, that he’s going to be able to help us.’
‘Do you think so?’ Daniel said, a small smile flickering across his face. ‘Well, didn’t I say a few days ago that you would be the one to create a miracle when all us so-called good Catholic believers were still on our knees praying for divine aid!’
‘Oh, Daniel,’ she protested, ‘I’ve done nothing yet but give him a lot of information about potatoes, and flour, and meal, and feeding a family and explaining that the school has very little in the way of books and stationery. When I told him that neither the master, nor the assistant teacher’s income was guaranteed, he made a note about it. And he gave me the address to send off an order for stationery. I said I’d send it together with a book order direct to Dublin when I’d talked it over with you.’
‘And they have money for this?’
‘Yes, they have,’ she said firmly. ‘He told me the Quakers in America are very generous, but as well as that, they get gifts from people they don’t even know, from all over the place, because these people have heard by word of mouth about some project or other the Quakers have started. He told me about one scheme where they’re trying to introduce other varieties of potato that might resist disease better than the Lumper. And they give away packets of seed, like turnips and swedes. He said it had been clear for a long time that depending on potatoes alone was too risky.’
‘They’ve done that, have they?’ he asked, surprised. ‘I know nothing at all about any other varieties of potato. They do seem to know what they’re doing.’
‘Yes, he knows that if there was another famine, like the one in ’38, having other vegetables might at least bridge the gap until supplies could be provided or shipped in from other countries.’
‘But you say he’s thinking about more than just the food on our table. If there’s funds he could provide, he’s brought back the possibility of keeping going, if I could just somehow get my pension reinstated.’
‘I did speak to him about that too and he gave me the address of a Quaker in Armagh I can write to. He’s elderly and long retired but he was a solicitor and he still works for Richhill Meeting. Jonathan Hancock says he will advise anyone for free if it is for the benefit of those in need.’
Daniel shook his head slowly as if he simply could not believe his ears. ‘I’ve heard about the Quakers, but I’ve never met one,’ he began. ‘How does he come to be in Donegal?’
‘Apparently he has family connections in both Armagh and Donegal, not Quakers themselves from what he said, but willing to help him do his work. He’s a cloth manufacturer in Yorkshire by trade. He noticed my napkins that I finish, or decorate, and he asked me too about home workers and sewing and things that women could do if they had any basic skills. He’s very sharp and busi
nesslike, but kind with it.’
Daniel sat silent for a little, turning over all she had said.
‘Hannah dear, from dark to light in one short day. As they say: The Lord works in mysterious ways, but I still have one problem after all your good news.’
‘What’s that, Daniel?’ she said gently, seeing a look of sadness cross his face.
‘This young man who came this morning. I didn’t know what to make of him. He’s educated all right. He’s been taught to think and he speaks Irish well enough. He even has Latin and a bit of Greek from what he told me, but there’s something not right about him and I’ve no hope of working it out. I’ll have to leave that to you, Hannah. Can he do the job Marie did, and can he teach English here without me having to declare myself and help him? In fact, can he teach with only me to help him? He’s not very sure of himself … I need you to size him up,’ he said, clearly coming to a conclusion. ‘Can you do that for me, Hannah, after you’ve done so much already?’
‘Well, I can certainly try,’ she said. ‘He must be serious about teaching to have come all this way. Where’s he staying? With the priest?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know which one, or whereabouts. I did ask him to come and see me again tomorrow. Could I send him over to you then? I need to know what you see. You don’t see just with your eyes, Hannah, you always see with your heart.’
*
Hannah had no idea when the young man would appear. Apart from insisting on punctuality at school, Daniel troubled himself little about what he called ‘clock time’. As far as he was concerned, the day divided into morning, afternoon and evening. He was always at home, so beyond school hours, where punctuality was part of his discipline, there was no need to be more specific.
Nevertheless, as the morning passed, Hannah found herself wondering if perhaps the young man had changed his mind about working in this remote place, among complete strangers. As always, she collected herself, set aside her thoughts and concentrated on what had to be done. She was behind with some of her routine jobs and her allocation of napkins was barely started. Then, with it being Saturday the children wanted attention and the first letter from Patrick was newly arrived and just asking for a reply.
She was reading a story to Rose and Sam after their mid-day meal when they all heard the familiar scrape of boots on the track outside. Before the young man had even knocked at the door, both children had jumped up and said: ‘Hello.’
Given she knew who it must be, Hannah admitted later that she was completely taken aback. The slightly built young man who smiled down at the children could have been Sam’s elder brother. Red-haired with creamy skin and freckles, he waited politely at the door until Hannah stood up and invited him in.
‘Mrs McGinley,’ he said, speaking softly in Irish, ‘I’m John McCreedy and your friend, Mr McGee, said I should come and talk to you. I’m sorry if I’m interrupting a good story.’
‘Don’t worry, John, we can finish the story later,’ she said, replacing the bookmark Rose had made in school and closing the book.
‘Now, Rose and Sam, John and I need to talk about school. Would you like to see if there’s anyone out to play, or visit Sophie, or go back to the jigsaw in the bedroom?’
Both children were eyeing the visitor with great interest, but Rose at least knew the rules.
‘Ma, we told Sophie yesterday we’d come over sometime today.’
‘Good. Then take that little bowl of eggs I’ve left on the dresser. Tell her they’re for her and that mine have started to lay again.’
They went off promptly with Sam still looking over his shoulder, totally intrigued by this unfamiliar person who spoke Irish indoors when they always spoke English indoors, unless their father was present.
‘Do sit down, John,’ she said, waving him to the other armchair and stirring the fire to produce a cheering glow. ‘I’m sure you’d like some tea and cake, but if you don’t mind, I think we should talk “school” for a bit and see if we can help each other,’ she said easily. ‘Now, if you were to become Daniel’s assistant you’d need to be able to do all the things Marie did. Did Daniel explain how they worked together? You can imagine the limitations of Daniel being blind. Do you think you could manage to work with that?’
‘Yes, I think I could. The little I saw of him with the children, I thought how very fortunate they were.’
Hannah was taken aback once again. There was no trace of lack of confidence whatever in his reply.
‘Why was that, John?’ she asked, genuinely interested in what he might say.
‘Mr McGee is a native speaker and a storyteller. Clearly, he has a wealth of story and poetry at his fingertips. He can educate those twelve children in the things that are really important, the history and traditions of their own culture.’
‘But, John, some might say that educating them thus would not prepare them for the harsh realities of the world out there. What happens if they have to leave Ireland as so many do? To emigrate, or travel to do seasonal work like my husband?’
‘You’re thinking about Mr McGee’s wish to have them taught English, aren’t you? He did ask me some questions about that. He seems to think that teaching his pupils English would help them in the future.’
‘And don’t you think it would help them?’ asked gently.
She watched him closely. He was speaking Irish, clearly and without difficulty, but she detected a flatness in his tone she could not account for.
‘English is the language of our oppressors,’ he said bitterly.
For a moment, Hannah was surprised by the vehemence of his reply. She paused, and decided the only thing to do was try to find out why he was so very hostile. Like with every other group of people, she knew speakers of English among the landed gentry who were hostile and others who were not. She thought of Jonathan Hancock and the trader in Dunfanaghy who had provided the initial funds for setting up the school in the first place.
‘But English is also the language of Irish emigrants all over the world,’ Hannah replied, ‘and of travellers, and visitors, many of whom are sympathetic to our economic difficulties. Have you heard of the Quakers?’
‘Yes, there are a lot of them in Dublin where I was at school,’ he said, softening a little. ‘I had a friend who attended Meetings, but he is an exception. The English are no friends to the Irish.’
Hannah paused and looked into the fire, wondering where this bitterness had come from. Clearly, although he had used all his money getting to Donegal, his family was not poor. How else could they have sent him to school in Dublin?
‘Would it be against your principles to teach English?’ she asked.
‘Not if it meant I could stay here and improve my Irish,’ he replied promptly.
‘But it’s such a long way from your parents and family,’ she said. ‘Will you not miss them? Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘I have sisters,’ he said, ‘and grandparents and lots of cousins. All Irish,’ he added quickly. ‘But my father doesn’t like me being with them. That’s why he sent me away to school. He didn’t want me to be like them.’
‘And what about your mother?’ she asked softly.
So that’s it, she thought to herself, as she saw the look of utter sadness that crossed his face.
‘She does what my father wants. Always has done.’
Hannah was grateful that Rose and Sam arrived back at just that moment.
‘Mrs O’Donnell came to see Sophie, Ma, and she had a pile of newspapers. I thought we ought to come home,’ she said, looking from her mother to John and back again, clearly uneasy.
‘Good girl yourself,’ said Hannah quickly. ‘You were quite right to come away for they don’t see each other very often. Now you and Sam go and see if you can you finish that jigsaw while John and I talk a bit more. And then I’ll make us all tea. Can you eat a piece of cake, Sam?’
Sam rolled his eyes and John McCreedy laughed, his face transformed.
Hannah saw a differe
nt person from the embittered young man who viewed ‘the English’ as his enemies. Then she noticed Sam was watching him, as he put down the empty egg bowl on the dresser. ‘Sophie said thank you, Ma, and she said she hoped you’d come in tomorrow now she’d got a paper full of news.’ He paused, as if considering something.
Suddenly he made up his mind. He turned towards their visitor. ‘You’ve got red hair just like mine,’ he said bluntly. ‘Did your grandfather have red hair too? Mine did.’
‘Yes, Sam, he did,’ John replied easily. ‘He was from County Down, but his father had come from Scotland. He had a red beard as well.’
It was only at that moment Hannah realised that since the children appeared, she had been speaking English. Now, for the first time, John had replied to Sam in English.
There was much she had yet to find out about this troubled young man, but of two things she was sure. There was no hesitation in either his Irish, or his English and he responded well to children. Perhaps over tea and cake she would let the children ask their questions. She might learn a lot from his responses, but she’d already found out what Daniel needed to know. Whatever John’s personal pain, he would not let it get in the way of his teaching.
Chapter 8
The weekend when young John McCreedy visited Hannah in Ardtur turned out to be to be a busy one for both of them. With Marie out of action, Easter now passed and two months of the school year still to go, it certainly wasn’t the right time for Daniel to declare a holiday to give Hannah and himself time to work out what to do next.
Obviously, Daniel couldn’t manage the school by himself. Hannah was well aware of how concerned he must be about that, so later, on the Saturday morning, she left the children in the charge of their new friend, John, and went to see the schoolmaster. She wondered how he was coping when it seemed as if one problem was coming after another.
It had rained heavily in the night but the wind had dried the rocky path and the hawthorn bushes were no longer threshing in the breeze as Hannah set off. As she walked briskly over to Casheltown the sun appeared for the first time that day. When she arrived, she found Daniel sitting on the stone bench deep in thought.