by Anne Doughty
It came as a surprise to her to see Daniel, the most articulate of men, sit silent, even for a few minutes. She felt quite unsure what to do.
‘I’m afraid I’m but poor company this afternoon, Hannah,’ he said slowly, while she was still looking at him. ‘I’ve had some bad news about Johnny Donnelly.’
‘Oh dear, I am sorry. What’s wrong? Is the poor boy ill?’
‘No. Thank God, he’s well enough. It’s his father is the problem. It’s only a smallholding and they have five children,’ he began matter-of-factly. ‘He says he has no money for Johnny to be painting pictures and learning a foreign language, now he’s big enough to go to work! And very bitter he was too, despite the fact the school’s had no money from him in months and I’ve not pressed him.’
‘But where would he find work for Johnny?’ Hannah protested. ‘Yes, he’s a strong lad, but if the work isn’t there, why take him from school?’
‘I did actually say something of the sort myself, but Dermot Donnelly was in no mood to listen. All he said was that there were plenty of gentry about the place and they all needed servants. He was on the lookout, but, in the meantime, Johnny wouldn’t be back at school come September.’
‘Oh, Daniel, no wonder you’re annoyed,’ Hannah burst out. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I haven’t any idea,’ he said sadly. ‘But what I would guess is that there’ll be others like Dermot, anxious about what may happen and striking out where they can, regardless of the real situation. So, after all the hard work, mostly yours, Hannah, the school that you saved will once again be at risk.’
‘Daniel, we can’t let it go now after how well it’s been doing. I could write to Jonathan Hancock again. And what about John McCreedy? He’ll be heartbroken if the school goes, never mind his job going with it. He’s worked so hard.’
‘Aye, and so have you. And you’ve not had a penny piece.’
‘Well, we thought I’d just be temporary, but it does look as if you do need someone to at least some of Marie’s tasks. Should I go and see Johnny’s mother? She might be able to do something.’
‘She might be able to stop her husband suggesting to all and sundry that the school ought to close if we’re going to have blight again,’ he replied sharply.
‘Oh, Daniel, and what help would that be to take away possibility for the future?’
‘Hannah dear, it is not in your nature to see the worst side of people. Johnny’s father is just thinking of himself and no one else. He’ll strike out at anyone he thinks is in his way, right or wrong. But maybe the mother has some say. She might have, and she might not, like John McCreedy’s mother.’
At the thought of John’s mother, Hannah sighed. A woman could only do her best if she had someone to help her. Someone like Patrick, who would always listen, even if he didn’t agree. They had never fallen out over the children, or over money, or even over not having enough money. They had always done their best and given thanks for having each other and enough to eat and having the strength to do their daily work.
‘Daniel dear, I can only try. I’ll go now and come up again tomorrow for I don’t want to leave the children too long with Sophie. She’s very good to them, but she gets tired. Now don’t worry, we’ll manage somehow,’ she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.
‘Well, good luck to you. I’ll say a prayer for you, though I used not to be a praying man,’ he said, as she stood up.
*
Johnny’s home was in Staghall, not far away, but up an even steeper slope than the one to either Ardtur or Casheltown. The low, thatched house was at the highest point of the scattered settlement and by the time she got there Hannah was tiring and out of breath.
‘Missus Donnelly,’ she said smiling, as she knocked the open door.
‘Aye.’
‘My name is Hannah McGinley. I help at the school.’
The younger woman’s face dropped something of its hostility, but she was immediately distracted by a crying child. She turned away without a word, leaving Hannah leaning wearily against the doorpost.
‘Are ye not comin’ in?’ she asked crossly, when she returned some minutes later.
‘Thank you,’ said Hannah, taking in at a glance the untidy kitchen where three younger children stared at her and the baby still whimpered uneasily.
‘Daniel McGee told me your husband was hoping to find a job for Johnny. Do you not think maybe he would do better if he had another while at school?’
The wooden chair was hard and squeaked on the uneven floor if she moved as much as a muscle and her back already ached. She was beginning to feel she’d made a dreadful mistake thinking she could do something to help Johnny, whose work had improved by leaps and bounds as he started using his watercolours.
Barely able to write his name before the crayons arrived from Dublin, he could now write stories and accounts of happenings at home or at school, which were a part of every day’s work. He was quick at figures, and to everyone’s surprise had only to be told a word, or phrase in English once, for him to repeat it accurately.
She wasn’t sure whether the woman sitting watching her across a smoking fire was hostile, or just very awkward. She had no idea what to say to her. She was very thin, her lank hair falling round her pale face, her heavy skirt stained with spilt milk.
‘Has Johnny been painting any more pictures in the holidays?’ Hannah asked, as the silence grew more awkward.
‘No,’ she replied abruptly. ‘His da thinks it’s a waste of time. Sure, when did playing with crayons put food on the table!’
‘Well, it might, if he had a bit more practice and some encouragement,’ Hannah said, shocked at her own sudden response.
‘Sure, who’d want pictures of this place? Would you give money for his scribbles?’
‘I would indeed, if I were a visitor from England, or home from America and had money. There are people who would treasure Johnny’s pictures if they could see them.’
‘Are ye jokin’?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘An’ can ye get us money from what he’s done?’
‘No, he needs more practice, and the pictures need to be mounted, or framed. Then they’d need to go to a gallery, or a hotel, where people could see them. It would take time and he’d need more time at school.’
‘Sure, we haven’t got two pence to spare every week,’ she came back at her sharply.
‘Do you have any turf?’
‘Aye, a bit.’
‘Well perhaps a bit extra turf would make up for the two pennies.’
‘I’ll have to tell his father.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Hannah said quickly, now somewhat anxious that the creaky wooden chair was about to collapse. ‘I’m afraid I must go. My children are with a neighbour.’
‘How many have you?
‘Just two, Rose and Sam.’
‘You’re lucky. I have five and one on the way …’
*
Hannah was so exhausted by the time she’d walked back to Ardtur that she just about managed to make up the fire before it went out. She sat, waiting for the kettle to boil, hoping that Sophie had not seen her arrive and would therefore keep the children just a little longer.
She had her wish. It was only after she had drained a second mug of tea and begun to reflect in amazement at what she had said to Johnny’s mother, when she heard their excited chatter.
‘Look, Ma. John’s come back early. Isn’t that great?’ Sam shouted, despite the fact he was now standing beside her.
‘And he’s brought the other two parts of that story you read to us. The Two Bottles. D’you remember?’ added Rose, full of excitement.
Above their heads, John beamed at her and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Oh yes, I remember,’ Hannah said, her spirits lifting, as she kissed the children and gave John a hug.
Suddenly, the day looked brighter.
*
By the time Hannah had made supper and they had all
had second helpings, it was obvious that both children were tired out. John exchanged glances with her and asked: ‘What about a bedtime story?’
‘Oh yes, please. Pleeease will you tell us what happens next,’ they chorused.
Hannah smiled as she saw John take his manuscript from the satchel he had brought with him. To her surprise, he did not begin to read. He started asking them questions, clearly testing to see if they remembered what had happened so far.
She listened, fascinated, as John used exactly the same technique she had heard Daniel deploy night after night when people gathered in his home to listen to his stories.
The children certainly passed muster, she thought, as they described how the man, ‘a right sort of man’ called Mick, had set off for market in the middle of the night to sell his last cow because his wife and children were hungry and there was no food in the house.
Satisfied at last, after they had described the magic feast provided by ‘the two waiters’, John took up his closely written sheets, paused for seconds only, till he had their total attention, and began:
Anyway, all went well and Mick and his family were well fed, although there wasn’t a cow about the place … One day Mick met the landlord who lived near. Now the landlord used to see a couple of Mick’s young lads hanging about the place, and he had given orders for someone to give them a meal. But he hadn’t seen the young lads lately and he was curious.
‘Good morning, Mick,’ says the landlord.
‘Good morning, yer honour,’ says Mick.
‘Tell me, Mick,’ says he, ‘where are the young lads? I gave orders for them to be fed if they came up and I haven’t seen them about. Where are they?’
‘That was very good of yer honour,’ says Mick, ‘but they don’t need meals any more.’ And he tells him the story of the bottles.
The landlord can hardly believe it, but Mick brings out the bottles and gives him a great surprise.
‘Mick,’ says the landlord, ‘that’s great altogether. I’ll buy them off you.’
‘Indeed,’ says Mick, ‘I wouldn’t part with them for any money. Sure, they’re all we have.’
‘Well, Mick,’ says the landlord. ‘You used to have a right farm of land here, before your luck went. What if I were to restock the land for you with five or six cows and gave you £100 as well?’
Anyway, Mick said he’d think about it, and he went and asked his wife what he would do. So she said that he should take the cows and the money, for what would they do if the enchantment wore off?
So Mick sold the bottles and got the cows and the £100, but he never had good luck with them. One by one they went and so did the money until eventually one night he was sitting with his wife and they were down to the last cow.
The children were fascinated. Sam was sitting so still Hannah could hardly believe her eyes. Normally, some part of Sam was in motion whether he was sitting or standing, and for both of them to refrain from interruption, when they seldom ever stopped talking, was a new experience indeed.
She couldn’t help but admire John’s technique, his significant pauses, his warning eye movements that told them something was about to happen.
So Mick says to her: ‘We’ve no food and there’s a fair in the town tomorrow. I think I’ll go and sell the cow.’
‘Well, if you do there’ll be no milk for the children.’
‘Ah,’ says Mick, ‘sure, you know what happened the last time, and you never know, the same might happen again.’
So, off Mike went … and he came to the same spot, and he was casting his eye up to the spot where he had seen the man and sure enough the man appeared.
‘Good morning, Mick,’ says he. ‘Are you going to the fair again?’
‘I am,’ says Mick.
‘I thought I told you not to part with the bottles …’
Well, finally Mick tells him he would settle for the same again, so the man produces the two bottles.
‘There’s no use testing them,’ says the man, ‘for they’re the same as I gave you before, but don’t abuse them and only use them when you need them.’
So Mick puts the bottles in his pocket and goes off home.
Anyway, the wife is waiting up for him for she is expecting him. ‘Did you see him?’ says she.
‘I did,’ says he.
‘And did he give you two more bottles?’
‘He did,’ says Mick.
So they get the children out of bed and sit down round the table and Mick says: ‘Now, bottles, do your duty.’ And out pop two black devils and hit them all over the head with mallets till they are all black and blue and calling for mercy.
Afterwards, when they have finished, the wife says to Mick: ‘What’ll we do now?’
‘Ah, wait a while,’ says Mick, ‘an I’ll be meeting the landlord,’ says he.
John looked from one child to the other and folded the small sheets neatly to fit into his breast pocket. It was a moment or two before it dawned on them that he had stopped reading for the night. Before they could protest, John raised a finger.
‘Now I want you to go away and think what’s going to happen next and you can tell me tomorrow.’
They opened their mouths to object, but John was quietly relaxing and Hannah, taking her opportunity, said that it was time they were in bed.
She had just tucked them in and kissed them goodnight when she heard John speak to someone. She couldn’t hear the other voice, so she wasn’t prepared for the sight of young Martin Brady, a tall lad who stood awkwardly in the open doorway, though John had clearly invited him to come in.
‘Missus McGinley, me ma sent me up to tell ye an’ all the neighbours at this end o’ the track … Look!’
The daylight still lingered but the kitchen had grown shadowy and the lamp was not yet lit. It was as he held his hand out towards her that she caught the hint of an unpleasant smell.
It was John who spoke first.
‘Where did you get that?’ he asked calmly.
‘In our piece,’ Martin replied, ‘down at the low end where the spuds are usually the best. Can ye smell it?’
They both nodded.
‘An’ the stalks are all black,’ he went on, wrinkling his nose. ‘They were as right as rain yesterday when I dug them for the dinner but they’re just a mess the day. It’s the blight, isn’t it?’
Chapter 13
Ardtur,
Gartan, Co. Donegal
Thursday, 28 August, 1845
My dearest Patrick,
I do apologise, my love, for the delay. The last few days have been so busy that even when I had a moment to myself I hadn’t the energy to pick up my pen and write your daily bulletin. So I am sitting here with all the morning chores still to do, pen in hand, to make up for lost time! The only thing I’ve done towards the day’s work is put the last of yesterday’s turf on the fire to keep it in while I write.
Thank you for your letter and all your news. I’m so glad everything is going well and that young Paddy from Tullygobegley has settled in so well. He certainly seems to have lost his shyness from what you tell me of the tricks he’s been playing. Not often you get my father laughing out loud, though he does always appreciate a joke.
There hasn’t been much to laugh about here, though the children and I are perfectly all right and in good spirits, so you mustn’t worry about us. It is good of Seamus’s wife to send the Derry paper so Seamus can share it with all of you. Probably you heard the news of the blight before we did. Not all of our potatoes have gone. Apparently, they say, the poorer the soil, the better for the spuds … certainly the ones at the top end of the garden where the soil is so very poor are still perfectly all right.
You mustn’t worry about the blight. As well as your postal order I have had two months’ napkin money and there’s no need at all for me to ‘go under the bed’ if I have to buy meal and flour instead.
Hannah smiled to herself and blotted what she had just written. She was pleased that she could reassure h
im and make him smile at their private joke. For the moment, no one in Ardtur seemed to be short of food. It would be another matter when the surviving potatoes ran out.
She took up her pen again.
Young John McCreedy returned yesterday, though school doesn’t reopen till next week. We were all delighted to see him and he brought the rest of that story of The Two Bottles I told you about. But I was shocked by his news when we got some time alone while the children went down to play at the Friels’.
Apparently, his father had spoken to someone high up in the Coastguard Service who offered a place for John to be trained up. He just assumed John would be pleased and take it. But when John said no, he had found a job as a teacher, his father lost his temper and told him to ‘away back to it then and don’t come here again.’ So the poor young man has no home to go to, though happily now his salary has been agreed and backdated, just like Daniel’s pension.
I feel so sorry for John’s mother. She doesn’t seem to have any say in the matter. She writes to him often, but she accepts that he is totally committed to the school. He says that he will not go ‘home’ but adds that he knows he is sure of a welcome with his mother’s people, the Cullens. Meantime, he seems to have been writing a lot and I haven’t had a chance yet to ask him what he’s up to.
As you know, he has his evening meal here because Sophie doesn’t cook much any more, but he makes his own ‘thank you’, by helping with the jobs. It’s John who digs the potatoes and carries round the turf. He’s a great hand, as they say, at finding the eggs of that hen who always lays away.
I am sending this to the post today, my love, but I shall start another letter in instalments tomorrow. Take care of your dear self and tell my father I said he’s not to work too hard!
With all my love,
Hannah
Hannah closed up the letter and left it ready on the table waiting for any neighbour, or visitor, who might be going ‘down the mountain’ today.