The Girl from Galloway

by Anne Doughty

  The children simply took it for granted that they helped each other. The bigger boys and the older girls collected the pieces for mid-day and made sure every child had its full portion; they picked them up when they fell at playtime and read to them when it was time to choose a library book.

  A single thought came into Hannah’s mind: how could she bear it if she and her children were ever separated? The thought appalled her. Or how would she cope if she was forced to live without Patrick? It was one thing to endure the pain of the necessary parting to get work, but at least through that time they could write to each other as often as they wanted, could think about each other and count the weeks till they’d be together again. And they knew that come late October, Patrick and all his colleagues would be on the way to Stranraer for the Derry boat.

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, how awful. I didn’t know that. I couldn’t bear to be parted from Patrick and the children, no matter how bad things were.’

  He looked at her and smiled sadly. She saw an expression of such distress on his face that she asked the question that had suddenly come to her mind.

  ‘Jonathan, are you married?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but my wife is being cared for in The Retreat, which is outside Armagh,’ he said steadily. ‘She doesn’t know now who I am.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, I am sorry,’ she said, not at all surprised to find that he was married, but left wondering why his wife should be so far away from their home in Yorkshire.

  ‘Olivia’s family are landowners in the Richhill area,’ he said. ‘It seemed kinder to place her where her own family could visit her more easily,’ he went on. ‘But she doesn’t know any of them now either.’

  ‘And you still come to see her?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Several times a year. But I admit it helps me that I now have my work for the Yearly Meeting to do both here in Donegal, where I have cousins, and in Armagh where most of my in-laws live. One feels so helpless. You’d understand about that.’

  ‘Yes, I so hate not being able to help people when I see them in need.’

  ‘So I have observed,’ he said, smiling and relaxing visibly. ‘And I do have some good news for you,’ he went on, looking pleased.

  ‘And I have some for you too,’ she replied, grateful that his distress over his wife seemed to have been forgotten for now.

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be as pleased as I am. I contacted your brother, as you suggested in your letter, the boat builder, through the local Meeting in Stranraer and he’s sent me an estimate for the first boat, which I’ve passed on to the Committee in Dublin. There’s already a plan to have three of them made and sent here, regardless of the course or severity of the famine. Fish would definitely improve the diet and reduce the dependence on potatoes. As soon as the first one is seaworthy there’s a job for Dermot Donnelly. He will, in fact, have to come over to Scotland to bring her back to Dunfanaghy. Presumably, he is familiar with the nearest parts of the Scottish coast as well as with this stretch of the Donegal coast. Do you think he might still have any colleagues in the area who could come with him?’ he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m a complete landlubber,’ he went on, ‘but even I know it would take several men to sail a boat, especially in bad weather on this coastline.’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan, that is good news,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘You can be sure, if there are any fishermen still around, Dermot will find them. He walks miles looking for work, but as you know there’s even less work now than a few months ago. Even the landlords are cutting back, especially where they’re not getting their rents.’

  ‘Have you had any evictions?’

  ‘No, not that I’ve heard off, but Sophie tells us that it’s a different matter further south.’

  ‘Sophie?’ he asked, puzzled.

  Hannah laughed.

  ‘Sophie is my nearest neighbour. John McCreedy, my teaching colleague, is her lodger at present and he reads to her in the evenings, which she just loves. She manages to acquire newspapers and magazines collected up from a couple of hotels where her nieces work and she has a fantastic memory. She remembers everything John reads and passes it on. We even get items from the Illustrated London News, though mostly the reports are a couple of weeks old, or even more, when we do.’

  ‘So you’ll have you heard then about the £14,000 collected in Calcutta?’

  ‘Good heavens, no, I hadn’t. How did that happen?’

  ‘Well, it appears that over forty per cent of the Indian army are Irish and when someone appealed to a high-ranking soldier, Sir Hugh Gough, who was Irish-born, they were most generous. Then there were Indian princes and wealthy Hindus who gave to the collection as well. So far there’s been £14,000 sent to Dublin. The Anglican Archbishop has organised a team for distributing it. You probably know how bad things are in Connaught,’ he ended, his voice dropping.

  ‘Yes, even the local papers have been reporting that,’ she said, nodding. ‘But how wonderful about India. Isn’t it encouraging to see such generosity?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘I sometimes can’t believe the kindness of people who donate, even from what little they have. I just wish I could do more.’

  ‘But, Jonathan, you do so much. That money from your mill workers could keep this whole valley from starving if the crop fails again next year. Pray to God it doesn’t, but it has happened before.’

  ‘Well, with more people like you and what you’re doing through the school, and what Sir George and his people are doing from Castledillon, it’s a start. We must live in hope,’ he said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

  Hannah was only too aware of the change in his mood, but she didn’t know what to say. What had happened to the girl he married was just beyond her imaginings. All she could do was pretend she hadn’t seen the look on his face and try to distract him.

  She stood up and took a linen envelope from the dresser. She had made a document case from some flawed napkins the draper had said she could keep. Now, she drew out from it the little pile of Johnny’s recent drawings and watercolours and began to spread them in front of him.

  They were still unframed, but John had mounted the artwork on firm card he’d made by sticking sheets of drawing paper together and flattening them overnight under a pile of books.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, as he focused on the gaiety of the crayon drawings and the increasing delicacy of the watercolours in front of him. ‘And this is the fisherman’s son?’ he asked, amazed and delighted as he noted the neat signature, Johnny Donnelly, in black ink in each bottom right-hand corner.

  ‘The problem is how we sell them and how much we should ask,’ she said anxiously. ‘The family do need money for food though we’ve been keeping them going with the meal and flour we bought from the money you sent.’

  To her great surprise, he looked up and beamed at her, his sadness disappearing.

  ‘Oh no, we’ll not sell them,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If I “give” them to the right people and then ask for a donation for school and your flour and meal supply, I think you’ll be surprised at how much we raise. Johnny, of course, must have a small fee from each one. Enough to feed them properly till there’s a boat ready to sail. But that will be only a token, if I’m right. Make no mistake, Hannah, these pictures will raise a great deal of money when I put them in front of the right people.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘Ma, Ma, he’s coming! He’s coming!’

  Sam burst into the kitchen well ahead of his sister and came to a sudden halt by the kitchen table. ‘They’ve just stopped at the foot of the slope saying cheerio to some friends.’

  Hannah, who was sewing and totally absorbed in thinking about the play her pupils had been performing in English that morning, jumped to her feet and hurried to the door, just as Rose arrived, red in the face and breathless.

  There had, of course, been a letter telling her that the harvesters were leaving Mackay’s farm on the thirt
y-first, the last Friday in October, but which boat they came on depended on whether or not they got any lifts with carriers going in the direction of Stranraer. It might take two days; often enough it had taken three.

  There were still a couple of men shaking hands at the foot of the slope, neighbours from Casheltown and Staghall, but the moment they went their ways, Hannah saw Patrick turn and move slowly towards home, speeding up and waving when he caught sight of them standing at the door.

  Instantly, Sam was on his way down again and Hannah saw Patrick smile as he stopped where he was and watched the flying figure approaching him at breakneck speed over the rough track.

  Despite his sudden warm smile, Hannah could see from the droop of his shoulders and his pale face that he was exhausted. He hugged Sam and kissed him and waved again, as Rose made her way down to him more slowly, much less indifferent to the roughness of the track.

  For a moment, Hannah felt tears well up in her eyes, but she wiped them surreptitiously with the back of her hand, knowing he was still watching her, as she stood smiling, leaning against the doorpost.

  ‘You look tired, love,’ she said, when he had kissed her and held her briefly. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked as lightly as she could manage, knowing how much he hated what he always thought of as ‘a fuss’.

  ‘As right as rain,’ he said, as she drew him in front of the fire and he dropped down gratefully in his usual seat. ‘We had a bit of a storm the first night and all of us were sick. The boat had to run for shelter, a wee place called Donaghadee, in County Down, way south of where we were goin’ and we had to lie up till the north-westerly blew itself out. Even then we were desperate slow roun’ by Ballycastle, though when we did get to Derry we were lucky with a lift to Creeslough. If we hadn’t had that we wou’dn’t have got here till the morra.’

  To her surprise, even Sam was silent as they held his hands, one on each side of him, leaning over the robust arms of the elderly wooden armchairs, as close as they could get to him. They soon recovered themselves and began to ply him with questions.

  ‘Now, Rose and Sam, I have a question I must ask Da first,’ Hannah said, holding up her hand. ‘Could you eat a bowl of champ?’

  ‘Ach now, sure wasn’t I thinkin’ about your bowl of champ all the way up from Churchill. That’s what kep’ me goin’ on the last bit, for none of us cou’d eat a bite after thon’ storm. An’ all we’ve had the day was a bowl o’ porridge.’

  *

  An hour later, by which time Patrick had inspected the potato garden and Sam and Rose had finally run out of questions, they came back into the house to find John McCreedy laying the table while Hannah chopped scallions with fine scissors and added lumps of butter to a large baking bowl full of steaming potatoes.

  ‘Patrick, this is John,’ she said lightly, as she began to pound the potatoes with a wooden beatle.

  ‘Pleased t’ meet you, John. I’ve heerd a lot about you,’ said Patrick warmly. ‘It’s great you and Hannah are able to keep the school goin’. Sure Donegal is desperate backward in schooling, so Hannah tells me.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ John replied, coming round the table and shaking hands with the older man. ‘Did I tell you, Hannah,’ he asked, turning towards her, ‘that Sophie found a report from Dublin that said Donegal had only nineteen per cent literacy?’

  ‘What’s literacy, Ma?’ demanded Sam, who was still clutching one of his father’s hands.

  ‘I’ll tell you that when you and Rose have washed your hands,’ Hannah replied, laughing.

  ‘It’s what I didn’t have,’ Patrick said, looking directly at John, ‘until Hannah met me a few years ago in another place.’ He looked round the big kitchen, as if he wanted to check that every detail was exactly as he had left it back in April.

  Supper was lively and much enjoyed, though Hannah was aware how slowly Patrick was eating. The lines in his face had deepened and when John lit the lamp he looked quite haggard. John exchanged glances with her and immediately straightened up, ready to go.

  To Hannah’s great surprise, Patrick protested. ‘Sit yer ground, man. Sure, the evenin’ is only young an’ I’ve a feelin’ this pair is not ready for bed yet.’

  There were vigorous shakings of heads.

  Hannah looked across at the children, her own tiredness catching up with her at the end of the long day as she made mugs of tea and poured glasses of milk for Rose and Sam.

  ‘Perhaps, Hannah and Patrick, I could read a bedtime story before I go,’ John suggested tentatively.

  Patrick nodded easily and Hannah sat down gratefully, her fingers wound round her mug, her eyes moving from Patrick to the children and back again. She settled back in her chair and relaxed as John brought a kitchen chair over to the fire and moved stools for Rose and Sam so they could sit, one on either side of their father.

  ‘I wondered if you would like to hear the last part of the story of The Two Bottles,’ he added, looking round at them all.

  He was not surprised at the instant response from Sam and Rose, but when Patrick also nodded and smiled, he immediately took the neatly written sheets from his pocket.

  ‘Well now, we must go back to … what was his name?’ began John.

  ‘Mick. An’ he was a right sort of man,’ shouted Sam.

  ‘The man down to his last cow with nothing for his family to eat,’ added Rose.

  Patrick sat back in his chair, drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, as John proceeded to get the two children to reconstruct the story. Patrick himself remembered reading the first two parts in one of Hannah’s letters and sharing it with his fellow workers one evening when they were sitting in the last of the sunshine outside what they all called their ‘summer residence’ in Mackay’s barn.

  ‘And why did Mick go and sell the two bottles when the magic waiters had been feeding the family?’ John asked.

  ‘Because his wife said the enchantment might wear off and what would they do then,’ said Rose promptly.

  Then John asked: ‘And when Mick took home the new bottles what happened then?’

  ‘They put the children round the table and Mick put the bottles down and said: “Come on, bottles, do your duty”… and two black devils jumped out and hit them all over their heads with mallets till they were black and blue,’ gabbled Sam, tripping over himself in his enthusiasm.

  ‘And calling for mercy,’ added Rose.

  Finally satisfied, John found his place in the neatly written sheets, glanced at Patrick and Hannah, and made a pretence of checking that Rose and Sam were listening.

  Then he began.

  Afterwards, when they had 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.

  A couple of days later Mick met the landlord.

  ‘Good morning, Mick, how are you?’

  ‘Poorly,’ says Mick.

  ‘Did you sell the cow?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And what did you get?’

  ‘I got two more bottles.’

  The landlord was very interested then, and Mick told him that the bottles were different and only to be used on special occasions.

  ‘Oh,’ says the landlord. ‘Well, I’m expecting English visitors in a day or two and I was going to show them the bottles I got off you before, but if you’ve got something better, well, I’ll buy them off you.’

  Mick said no at first, and then the landlord offered him ten cows and £200 and then he made the bargain.

  So Mick gave him the bottles and told him to be sure and not to put them to work till they were needed.

  Well, the landlord waited, and the day came that the friends arrived, so the landlord took out the first bottles and told them to do their duty, and they did, and all the guests were amazed at the great service.

  ‘Then,’ says the landlord, ‘but wait till you see what I have here.’ So he set the second two bottles out and told them to do their duty
and out popped the two black devils with their mallets and beat them all until they were black and blue. And the guests were in great consternation.

  So, afterwards the landlord’s wife was at him to get rid of the bottles, so he went to meet Mick.

  ‘Mick, that was a dirty trick you played on me,’ says he.

  ‘That was the way I got them, yer honour,’ says Mick.

  ‘Well, will you take them away now?’ says the landlord.

  ‘I will not,’ says Mick, ‘unless you give me the other bottles as well.’

  So the landlord agreed, and Mick took the second bottles and broke them and took the others home, and they laid the table and the bottles did their duty as before, so they had the ten cows, the £200 and the bottles and all was ended happily.

  Hannah and Patrick clapped and Rose and Sam beamed in satisfaction as John rose and wished them all goodnight, and disappeared without further ado.

  ‘I think perhaps now it really is bedtime,’ said Hannah firmly.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Patrick agreed, just as firmly. ‘It has been a long day.’ He kissed them both. ‘Yer ma and I won’t be far behind you,’ he said, looking across at Hannah, with a gentle smile that told her exactly what he was thinking.

  *

  Hannah insisted that Patrick did not go off first thing next morning to look for work. In the event, she need not have been concerned about him overtaxing himself. He quickly found that there was no work available in the length of the valley, and none whatever on the farm where he had helped with the new roof at the beginning of the year.

  Hannah tried to reassure him that she had enough money saved from the summer to carry them through the winter, especially if he could help with some of her jobs, so that she could catch up with her sewing on the days when she wasn’t doing her three mornings at school.

  But she knew Patrick was uneasy and although he began looking for jobs in the house and in the potato garden she could see that he was not happy with the situation.