by Anne Doughty
She couldn’t go herself with the children still at home for Rose had never been a good walker, tiring easily and getting distressed and fractious – unlike Sam, who seemed to have unlimited energy. She then looked around the big kitchen where the empty porridge bowls still sat at the far end of the table and the fire was sulking because it hadn’t been raked. She needed to bake bread and think about tonight’s meal, especially as John would now be joining them and he had a good appetite.
Still she didn’t move, feeling oppressed by something. There was plenty to think about with school starting again on Monday, which would be the first day of September, but whatever was teasing at the back of her mind, it wasn’t school. Then she remembered Johnny and his drawings, and the poor bedraggled woman she had spoken to after Daniel had told her about his father taking him away from school to be a servant for ‘the gentry’.
She could hardly believe now what she had said to her about Johnny’s drawings. Fairly, she’d had no time to plan and consider what she was going to say. Now she sat, her hands folded in her lap, waves of anxiety flowing over her. She thought she’d been foolish. How could she know Johnny’s pictures were good, just because she liked them? Though, on the positive side, John had agreed with her and he did have some experience of painting, having been able to go to exhibitions of paintings while he was at school in Dublin.
She sat for a few more minutes and then, as if the sight of the unswept hearth was too much for her, she jumped to her feet and began to clear the table.
‘Wise or foolish, you’ve made your bed now,’ she said, to herself, ‘and you’ll just have to make the best of it. Otherwise there’s nothing whatever to change Johnny’s situation.’
*
It was mid-afternoon by the time she had caught up on herself and baked both soda bread and wheaten. She thought of several more things she ought to do, but as her back was already aching, she took her sewing box to the fire and collected the next napkin from the bundle.
Sometime soon, the children, who had made some new friends at the low end of the track overlooking the lough, would arrive back for their afternoon mug of tea, but meantime she’d enjoy the quiet and try not to think of the mountain of napkins she’d committed herself to do.
She had barely begun stitching and was concentrating hard when she heard a step on the door stone. She looked up and saw a large man she had never seen before.
‘You Missus McGinley, works at the school?’ he demanded shortly.
‘Do come in,’ she replied, standing up and offering him the other seat by the fire.
‘I’m not stoppin’,’ he replied, taking only a few steps into the room. ‘The wife tells me that ye think ye can sell our Johnny’s pictures, if that’s what ye call them. D’ye know what yer talkin’ about? What sort of money would that be? For we’re in a bad way an’ I’m afraid yer man will throw us out if we can’t pay the rent, an’ it’s near due.’
The tone was just as unfortunate as his original question, but the look of distress that crossed his face was a different matter. Before she had time to reply, he pulled a cardboard packet from below his jacket and started spreading a jumble of sketches, drawings, and watercolours on the well-scrubbed kitchen table.
Hannah came to the table immediately and started sorting them, laying them out in groups from the least finished to the most complete.
‘I used to do watercolour when I was a girl,’ she said slowly. ‘I had three sisters who encouraged me, but I never produced anything as good as this one,’ she said, picking up a watercolour that used the same perspective as Johnny’s first sketch, the one he had made with the crayons that had been sent from Dublin.
‘I told him to experiment with laying a wash,’ she went on, deliberately not looking at Mr Donnelly. ‘Look at this sky with the blue and patches of grey cloud,’ she said, not troubling to conceal her enthusiasm. ‘It’s beautifully done.’ She finally turned to look him full in the face.
‘I doubt there’s many in this place cou’d do the like of that,’ he admitted. ‘Were your people gentry?’ he asked cautiously.
‘No, my father and brother were evicted from Strathnaver and came south to Galloway looking for work. He always wanted to farm, so he did fifteen years in a draper’s shop in Dumfries and saved the money to buy a few acres. And he was good at it,’ she added firmly. ‘Raised cattle and sheep mostly. My husband is one of his harvesters.’
‘Wish I’d bin raised on a farm,’ he replied, looking downcast. ‘But my father was a fisherman. The old man who owned the boat sold it during the last bad time, an’ sure there’s no fishin’ left aroun’ here now. All I can get is odd jobs …’
He broke off as they both heard a step outside the door.
‘John, come in,’ said Hannah turning towards him. ‘This is Johnny’s father,’ she went on. ‘Look, he brought these pictures. Mister Donnelly, this is John McCreedy from Galway. He works full-time with Daniel McGee at the school.’
To Hannah’s great surprise, Donnelly held out his hand to John.
‘Dermot Donnelly, pleased t’ meet ye,’ he said. ‘Our Johnny talks about the both of ye,’ he said, as he saw John’s eyes immediately move to scan the pictures laid out on the table.
‘I don’t want to take him from the school fer I didn’t get any schoolin’ m’self,’ he went on quickly, ‘but things are very bad with us. I don’t know what I’m goin’ t’ do,’ he said, pressing his lips together.
‘Well, maybe if we had a mug of tea, we’d get a bit further,’ Hannah said, hooking the kettle over the fire. She tried to remember if she still had any cake. She had no idea. But nor had she any idea what could be done for the Donnelly family. What she was now sure off was that with help and some kind of outlet, Johnny’s work would sell. But it might take time and the problem was they had none.
She moved around the kitchen making tea and opening the cake tin, grateful when she found she could manage to cut three slices, even if they were small. As she came back into the kitchen from the small chilly outshot where she kept the milk and the pails of water, she was pleased to hear Dermot Donnelly talking away quite easily to John.
They were talking about fishing in Galway Bay and in the local rivers. John had been allowed to go out on the coastguard boats when they were off-duty and had permission to fish, but what he preferred was fishing with his grandfather in a small lake near their home where there were both salmon and trout.
It was when John asked Dermot what the fishing was like in North Donegal that Hannah remembered Jonathan Hancock’s latest letter. When she relayed to him all she’d learnt from Shemmie, the fish man, he’d written back immediately. He knew there were very few fishing boats left, just curraghs and coracles, which were only fair-weather craft; but he had never before heard that ‘the coast was teeming with fish’.
She poured tea and passed round the cake, her mind fully occupied trying to remember exactly what he’d said in his reply. She remembered how surprised she’d been when he said buying boats was only a question of money, which was available, but it looked as if there would be a shortage of fishermen, and worse still, no local source of either boat building, or repair. He’d also said that it looked as if fishermen from some nearby region in the north, or even west of Ireland, or from a similar coastal area in Scotland, would be needed to literally teach a new generation of young men how to fish. He’d started work on it and would let her know when he made any progress.
It wasn’t going to solve the immediate problem for the Donnellys, but if there was at least a prospect of employment for Dermot himself, it might perhaps take away some of the anxiety here and now.
She made up her mind, waited for a break in the conversation and said: ‘Dermot, if you were offered a job teaching lads to fish, would you be able to take it?’
She would never forget the way he looked at her, amazement and relief alternating as he tried to grasp what she was saying.
‘I can’t tell you when yet, or where, but there’s a plan being
made to bring back the fishing here on the north coast. Now that the blight has come, it may well speed things up. We’ll just have to see what we can do in the meantime, but it would be a proper paid job and I’m sure you’d be given a share of the fish as well.’
‘Sure, wou’dn’t that be great?’ he said, looking from one to the other. ‘We can hol’ on a bit longer if we have a bit of hope, an’ sure you wou’dn’t tell me what wasn’t right.’
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ said John firmly, ‘and in the meantime I’m going to see if I can order card through school to mount John’s pictures. Then, until we can get someone to frame them, we can at least display them in some of the hotels. I’ve no doubt at all but they’ll sell.’
For one awkward moment Hannah thought Dermot was going to cry, but instead he jumped to his feet.
‘I wasn’t planning to stop and the wife’ll be worried that I’m not back to dig the spuds for the supper,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I don’t know how to thank yez,’ he added, as he gathered himself. ‘Ye’ll see Johnny at school on Monday with a few more of them watercolours that ye liked.’ He nodded to the little pile of work that now sat on the dresser.
‘Do you still have potatoes?’ asked Hannah.
‘We do. No sign of the rot, thank God, but some o’ the neighbours down below us has lost some.’
‘Let us know if they run out and we’ll see if the Quaker man who came here can help us,’ Hannah said firmly, making up her mind to write to Jonathan right away.
She stood up herself, then eyed the two cakes of bread she’d set to cool in the back window.
‘Here,’ she said, picking the bigger one. ‘That might help out till you get your potatoes dug. I’m sorry I have no paper to wrap it in.’
Chapter 14
The first weeks of September 1845 were very busy indeed for Hannah. As well as teaching three mornings a week and keeping John and the children properly fed, she had to make time to work on her consignment of napkins, look after the cottage, write letters to both Patrick and her father, and, yet more urgently, since the visit from Dermot Donnelly, write to Jonathan Hancock who was now planning to come again later in the autumn.
The more she thought about the news coming from neighbours along the length of Lough Gartan, the less hopeful she was that there would be enough sound potatoes to put in the clamps that would carry them through the winter until the new crop in May, or June, of next year, depending on the weather, of course.
Prices of flour and meal had already gone up. There were certainly potatoes to be had in the markets but their price also rose from week to week. Meantime, Sophie provided not only news of the rising admission figures for the new Dunfanaghy workhouse, but also from the rest of Ireland. She even brought a copy of the Illustrated London News with a drawing of a woman and two ragged children ‘hoking’ in an empty field, for any potatoes that might have survived and not been found by the ‘tattie hokers’ when they harvested the crop early, to try to save it.
It was an image Hannah could not get out of her mind.
Meantime, to her great relief and surprise, the school flourished. Thanks to John and Daniel and a woman called Bridget Delaney living nearby, they used a small grant from Dublin to provide a piece for every child at mid-day. With the arrival of the grant, nothing need now be said when only turf was brought on a Friday and no pennies were forthcoming.
‘I can’t believe how well they’ve done with their English,’ said John, lingering by Hannah’s fireside one evening after Rose and Sam had gone to bed.
‘Daniel is so delighted I’m afraid he’s going to get enthusiastic enough to break his vow and end up replying to someone in English,’ replied Hannah, smiling as she took out her sewing.
‘No, I don’t think he will,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘He has his place as a storyteller in this valley and it means so much to him. But I sometimes do wonder why he is so against speaking English himself.’
Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘I used to know someone else like that,’ she said cautiously, looking up from her work.
She was pleased when he laughed. She had not forgotten how bitter he was when he first arrived, incensed by his father’s refusal to learn Irish, apart from the bare minimum he needed for doing his job as a coastguard.
‘I’m afraid that was between me and my father,’ he said honestly. ‘He hasn’t changed any, but I have. If we want to keep up the Irish language and our culture and traditions, we also need to move with the times. English is indeed the language of those who oppress us, but it is also the language of good people who are trying to help us, like your friend Jonathan Hancock and all those Americans who are sending money home to Donegal.’
‘Are you still not in touch with your father?’ Hannah asked gently.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I write to my mother every week, but she says he never mentions me and if she should mention my name he just ignores her. I don’t know what I can do. What would you do?’
‘It is hard for me to imagine what it must be like,’ she admitted. ‘I was close to my father when I was a child. Indeed, I still am. But I do remember when I was leaving home to marry Patrick, my father said he’d give me some advice. And I can still remember exactly what he said. He said that grief and heartache come to us all, but the greatest danger of all is bitterness. He told me when I was sad, or grieved, always to ask for comfort from God, or from my friends, because if you give in to bitterness you’ll never live life fully even if you go beyond your three score years and ten.’
‘So I must try not to be bitter.’
‘I’m sure it is easier said than done,’ she replied.
He nodded and looked thoughtful, staring into the glowing embers of the fire. It was a couple of minutes before he spoke again.
‘Perhaps, like Johnny’s father,’ he began, ‘something had hurt him and he just didn’t know what to do when I said no to being a coastguard. D’you think I was wrong?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re a very good teacher. It would have been such a pity if you hadn’t followed what prompted you.’
‘Thanks, Hannah. I’m so grateful I have you to talk to. I should go now and read to Sophie. She’ll be waiting for me and wondering what’s keeping me. I’ll see you in the morning,’ he added, standing up. ‘Are you sure you have all you need? Turf? Water? Just say the word.’
She smiled and took up her napkin again. ‘It’s amazing the way the bucket and the creel just fill up by themselves, these days,’ she said lightly. ‘They never seem to run empty.’
To her surprise, he bent down as he passed her chair and kissed her cheek.
*
Although there was little good news from neighbours either in Ardtur or beyond in the length of the valley, Hannah could hardly believe how much good fortune seemed to focus on the school. Attendance was better than it had ever been and a gift of dollars from another niece of Daniel’s in America meant they were able to buy another sack of oats to share out. Any child who said, when asked in the morning, that they’d had no breakfast, was given a piece of bread and jam to keep them going. Then, at the end of the school day, they collected a large bowlful of oats to take home to provide an evening meal for their family.
The first sack didn’t last long. Just as it was about to run out, a postal order arrived from Jonathan Hancock who said his mill workers were going to collect a penny a week for them. In the hasty note that came with it, he also wanted to know if Hannah could use serviceable, but flawed fabric for clothing.
It was only when Jonathan arrived in person that she found out just how many people were employed in the family mills. Even before she had done the calculation, she breathed a sigh of relief. No family who had a child at school, or who lived nearby, would go hungry this side of Christmas.
*
Jonathan appeared at the kitchen door one Friday morning at the end of October when she was already watching out for the letter that would tell her exactly when Patr
ick and the harvesters would be leaving Dundrennan and heading home. To her surprise, he immediately began to tell her enthusiastically about his work in Armagh and how he had met and been welcomed by Sir George Molyneux at Castledillon.
It was perfectly clear from what he said that Sir George was one of those landlords who was fully committed to helping his tenants in bad times. He was Chairman of the Armagh Workhouse Committee and he had shared with him a good deal about how the system worked, who could go for help, and what conditions in the workhouse were like.
‘I’m afraid I now understand why people would rather starve than go there,’ Jonathan said sadly, as he sat down at the kitchen table and accepted a large mug of tea.
‘And why is that?’ she asked, as she offered him a very modest slice of cake.
‘All the new Irish workhouses are built to the same pattern,’ he began. ‘When a family is allowed in, the men and women are separated from each other immediately. So are the children. There’s a men’s yard and a women’s yard, a girls’ yard and a boys’ yard. The woman who works as a secretary for Sir George and sends me copies of the workhouse minutes told me when I last spoke to her that children are punished for trying to climb the walls to see their parents. When they go in, however weak they may be from lack of food, the men are set to work breaking stones and the women to do all the washing and cleaning for the whole workhouse. There are teachers for the children but they have classrooms at opposite sides of the building. The girls and boys never see each other. The secretary Sarah Hamilton says that Sir George has protested, but the rules are literally set in stone. The workhouse, apparently, was built to be discouraging. And it certainly is, the absolute last resort except for those already starving.’
For a moment Hannah could not speak. She thought of the twelve children in Daniel’s cottage and the way they so often sat on the floor, squashed up together, so as to leave a space at one end of Daniel’s kitchen for putting on a play they had written. Even when they gathered for the story with which Daniel always ended the school day, they sat down together, the only division between them being the tallest at the back and the smallest at the front.