The Girl from Galloway

by Anne Doughty

  She took a deep breath, knowing he would want all the detail.

  ‘Yes, Daniel, I have, but I’m not entirely sure what to make of John’s letters. He is very steady, very controlled. I don’t think he means to cover up, or anything like that, but I still can’t decide what to think from what he says.’

  ‘But he does write, doesn’t he?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Regularly and at length. That’s what is so confusing in some ways. He covers a lot of ground, or a lot of notepaper, you might say, but it doesn’t tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘Is his father still recovering?’

  ‘Yes. That I can tell you. It does look as if he’s made a complete recovery. He is back at sea as normal and has been up in Dublin on coastguard business. That should all be good news,’ she began. ‘But the bad news is that he’s still either avoiding John, or actually refusing to see him.’

  ‘And how is John taking that?’

  ‘I can’t entirely be sure,’ she said. ‘As I said, he tends to be very steady and calm in his letters and, of course, he’s staying with his Cullen grandparents where he’s made very welcome. What he did say quite clearly is that now his mother is unwell. He was planning to go and see her when he knew his father would be away in Dublin. But I haven’t heard yet how that worked out.’

  ‘It’s hard on him,’ said Daniel slowly. ‘He talks a lot about his sisters but he’s never said very much about his mother. What kind of a woman do you think she is?’

  ‘Rather gentle and loving, I’d say,’ Hannah replied, ‘but unfortunately, I do get the feeling that John’s father hasn’t much time for gentleness. He certainly hasn’t shown much towards John.’

  ‘I find it hard to understand a man not able to appreciate a son like John,’ Daniel said. ‘I wonder if perhaps John resembles his mother. Certainly, John has a commendable empathy with his pupils; that is usually a more female gift.’

  ‘Do you think his father might see that as a sign of weakness?’ she asked, having not thought before of that possibility.

  ‘It’s possible. From what you’ve told me McCreedy Senior hasn’t much time for those who can’t stand up to him.’

  ‘True enough …’ Hannah said. ‘And yet he jumped into the sea after that young man who went overboard. It’s clear now he saved his life.’

  ‘Yes, it was an act of great courage,’ Daniel said crisply. ‘But that doesn’t mean it was an act of compassion.’

  ‘No, that’s a fair point,’ she agreed. ‘I just wish John had more backing of any kind from his father, but then I can see the life of a coastguard would require very different personal qualities from someone who is drawn to teaching and is also a natural storyteller.’

  ‘A bit more recognition of John’s qualities and considerable achievements wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Daniel. ‘Has he told you when he’s coming back to us?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he’s thought that far ahead yet,’ Hannah began, ‘but he certainly asks for all our news and doesn’t want to miss anything that’s happened just because he’s been away.’

  Daniel sighed. ‘It was a happy day when that young man found his way here. I have great hopes for him, Hannah. We must just try and give him the encouragement he should be getting from his family.’

  He paused, glanced around the room again and then said: ‘You better have a look at those envelopes on the mantelpiece, Hannah. Just in case we owe anyone money for supplies. That’s your department, I’m glad to say.’

  She reached up and brought down three assorted shapes, two rather battered-looking white envelopes with Dublin postmarks and a much larger, cream-coloured one with colourful American stamps.

  ‘We’ve got one from America, Daniel. Did you know that?’ she asked, as she opened it carefully, so that the stamps were not damaged and could be steamed off and added to the small scrapbook some of the older boys were keeping.

  ‘Yes, I think Bridget may have told me, but I had forgot. Who is it from then?’ he asked promptly.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Hannah, startled as she took out the single sheet and studied an impressive etching of a tall ship with three layers of sails. She read the address.

  ‘It’s from Boston, New England, the East Boston Shipping Company to give its full name,’ she said, catching her breath as she scanned the short letter, written in a flowing copperplate. She then began to read it aloud.

  15 August 1846

  Dear Hannah McGinley and John McCreedy,

  One of the many staff in our firm has brought to the works today a painting done by a pupil at your school. This has been much appreciated by many of the workers here, not just those many who have come from Ireland. I have been asked by the chairman’s secretary to tell you that we appreciate your gift and we will be in touch again with you when all the staff have had the chance to view the picture, now on display outside the chairman’s suite.

  I am,

  Yours faithfully,

  James Doherty

  ‘What do you make of that, Daniel?’

  ‘Well, well, well. What a coincidence if they got one of our Johnny Donnelly’s pictures. We can guess, can’t we, where a Bostonian James Doherty might have come from?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Yes, I think we can,’ said Hannah happily. ‘But there’s another gentleman’s name on the letterhead as well, Daniel. It’s under the engraving of the ship. It says: “Chairman: Donald McKay”. Or perhaps it’s pronounced Mackay.’

  ‘A Scotsman, do you think?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Wasn’t your maiden name Mackay?’

  ‘Yes, it was. But there are different ways of spelling it,’ she added. ‘My father always said it was the same clan, but people just wrote what they heard and different people pronounced it differently.’

  ‘So we’ve found one of your countrymen on the other side of the Atlantic,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how he came to be chairman, and to have a suite of his own and a large staff of Irishmen working for him, by the sound of it.’ He smiled and was silent for a moment.

  ‘The letter did say they’d be in touch again, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. When everyone has had a chance to see the picture.’

  ‘Well, I shall be looking forward to that,’ said Daniel, nodding to himself. ‘Possibly another Donegal man and a Scots chairman … select company for Casheltown School, don’t you think?’ Daniel paused and then said abruptly, ‘Hannah dear, much as I want you to stay, I’ve a feeling it’s time you were going to collect the children?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ she agreed. ‘They’re reading to Sophie and she does get tired quickly these days. But I may get up again later in the week,’ she added, seeing the downcast look on his face. ‘Meantime, I’ve brought you some prize-giving biscuits.’ She took the small packet from her skirt pocket. ‘Don’t eat them all at once!’ she said lightly, putting them into his hand.

  ‘And don’t you be long till you’re back, as the saying is. It was so good to see you, Hannah.’

  ‘And good to see you too, Daniel. I miss you and John as much as I miss Patrick,’ she said, grasping his hand. ‘But we’ll not tell him that. Will we?’

  Still smiling, she stepped out into the dim afternoon and hardly noticed the thin drizzle as she walked quickly back to Ardtur.

  *

  Hannah did not knock at the open door until she had looked inside. Sophie had leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes as Rose read one of their storybooks. Sam sat gently rocking back and forward. He knew it was rude to fidget when someone was reading, or telling a story, but he and Hannah had agreed that as long as he made no noise, a little gentle movement wouldn’t disturb anyone.

  He looked up immediately, clearly relieved to see her. Moments later, Sophie opened her eyes and immediately offered tea. Hannah declined gently and kept their thanks and goodbyes to a minimum.

  ‘Ma, what’s a Relief Committee?’ Sam asked, as soon as they stepped across their own doorway.

  ‘Was Sophie telli
ng you about them?’ Hannah asked, as she moved to make up the fire and refill the kettle.

  ‘She did explain what they were, Ma,’ Rose began, ‘but when she gets tired she talks with her mouth half shut and I thought it was best just to nod and agree.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘Sometimes one just has to pretend, if it’s the kinder thing to do.’

  ‘Like telling a white lie?’ asked Sam promptly.

  ‘Yes, it’s very like a white lie. As long as it doesn’t do any harm,’ she added, as she fetched milk from the cold stone shelf outside the back door.

  ‘But you’ll tell us what they are, won’t you?’ said Sam, as he watched her take mugs from the dresser.

  ‘Yes, of course, I will, but some of these things keep changing. What I tell you today may change next week, or next month.’

  ‘Sophie said they were stopping all relief,’ Rose began. ‘She said there was a man called Trevelyan in Dublin Castle who had no time for the Irish. He’d get rid of them, every one if he could. So he was going to close the grain depots and let people starve. Will we starve, Ma?’

  ‘No, love, we won’t. There is a shortage of food because we lost our potatoes, but we have flour and meal instead, and so do our neighbours. But there are some people haven’t got meal or flour and we have to find ways of helping them. Relief means giving them food, or money, so they can buy food. There are different ways of doing it.’

  ‘Sophie said they were forever chopping and changing,’ added Sam, ‘but then she just started muttering so Rose asked her would she like to hear another story.’

  ‘And what did you read her then?’ asked Hannah, glad that the kettle was beginning to sing.

  Sophie was a dear soul, but not perhaps the best person to explain the complexities of famine relief to children. Perhaps she might just mention to her, next time she had a chance, that they were both very sharp, that they missed nothing and it might be better not to mention anything from the newspapers that would make them anxious.

  ‘So, would you like a prize biscuit with your tea?’ she asked, hoping to distract them.

  ‘Like the ones we had at the end of holiday school?’ demanded Sam.

  ‘The very ones,’ she replied, opening the cake tin. ‘You can choose two each of the smaller ones. We must save the bigger ones in case we have a visitor, for I’ve no cake at the moment. That’s a job for tomorrow morning. Now sit over to the table and I’ll make the tea.’

  ‘Ma, these smell lovely,’ said Sam. ‘I can hardly wait for my tea.’

  ‘Well, you won’t have long to wait, Sam. Ladies first, and pass your sister the milk, then it’s your turn,’ she said, wondering just what new developments there had been in the plans for public works and outdoor relief now the workhouses were filling so rapidly.

  She would hear soon enough. Once John came back from Galway there would no doubt be a new selection of newspapers to read in the evenings and he would pass on all that was relevant, good or bad.

  Chapter 24

  Hannah didn’t get to baking the cake she had planned next morning. She finished making up the fire, swept the hearth and brought out her baking board, but just as she was about to put it on the kitchen table and start work, she heard voices outside. She listened for a moment and then heard Dermot thanking the children for giving Neddy such a good grooming before they went off to play with their friends.

  Through the window, Hannah saw the children run off down the hill leaving Dermot standing looking at a scrap of paper he’d taken from his pocket. He was patting Neddy and looking thoughtful.

  Probably the names of a couple more people who had nothing much to eat, she thought to herself, as she went and put the baking board back in its place at the side of the dresser.

  Once Neddy was harnessed, Dermot would not want to pause for long, so she went to meet him at the door, already sure that he’d been using his very sharp eye for growing hardship. He was always quick to note the disappearance of any clothing with a bit of weight in it. When he saw that particular change in a woman’s dress, he’d then look for the telltale sharpness of the nose and the dark smudges below the eyes. That was how he knew that either the family hadn’t enough to eat, or that the woman in particular was not taking her full share of what food they had, but was giving some of it to the children, or even to an old person living with them.

  Hannah knew that often enough he managed a casual question to a neighbour to confirm his observations, but as time went on he’d grown more confident. Now, he would simply come and tell her what he’d seen and what he thought.

  Moments later, on this late August morning, the air already sharp with frost, she stood looking up at him before he began his day’s work.

  ‘Maybe they sold their turf to pay the rent,’ he said, after he’d told her about passing the open door of a family that didn’t have a fire. ‘And come to think of it now, there wasn’t even the smell of a fire about that house. There was a kind of dampness around it when I walked over as close as I could, without looking nosy.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Dermot. Just add them to the list straight away. We’ve still got enough in the kitty to cover a few more and I’m expecting Jonathan, the man from the Quakers, sometime soon,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He’ll already know about the state of the potatoes and if I know him, he’ll have worked out something to keep us going.’

  ‘Aye well, sure there’s not much hope for anythin’ from the main crop, not after what happened to the early. If the main goes the same way and the winter is any way hard it’ll be desperate bad news for everyone,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘There’s some I hear has been gettin’ a bit of help from these public works, as they call them, but sure now they say the Government is goin’ to close them. They don’t pay much, but sure there’s thousands and thousands of people has nothin’ else to look to.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that too, Dermot. We may have to see if we can get more help for ourselves. Maybe we’ll have to write again to the people we sent the pictures to after the holiday school. We might have to admit things are no better and then ask them if they can help us a little.’

  ‘Aye well. You’ll always think of somethin’ if I know you,’ he said nodding abruptly. ‘Now I must away on, for I’ll have to pick up an extra bit of flour, or meal, or whatever I can lay hands on, wherever I can find it. Will I tell whichever man it is, to send you the bill?’

  ‘No, you won’t need to do that,’ she reassured him. ‘You can call on your way with my Scottish friend. I saw her last week so she’ll have cash ready for you. Do you remember her? Catriona Ross at Ramelton?’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember that lady all right. Indeed I do,’ he said, nodding and beaming.

  Catriona went to the bank regularly to draw money from Hannah’s School Fund so she could provide Dermot with cash for the relevant merchant. What had made him smile, was remembering the way she always counted out the coins at least twice, if not three times, to make sure she’d made no mistake.

  *

  Hannah waved Dermot goodbye and came back gratefully to the fire, preoccupied by the sudden remembrance of all she’d heard about the prospect of a very bad winter.

  She felt sure that some of the people she’d heard speak about it were just repeating what they’d already heard, but there were others who referred to the very bad year of 1838. They had drawn some parallels with the unusual weather conditions that marked that year.

  Distracted as she was by her talk with Dermot, she picked up her sewing and sat down by the fire, her baking board forgotten. Within minutes, she found herself doing sums in her head, something she’d always been good at in her school days. Thinking of Catriona reminded her of the sizable sum in the School Account. Most of it had come from that extraordinary affair of the drunken harvesters, but there had also been regular deposits from those good folk in the Yorkshire mills. They had been most regular in giving their penny a week. But, for how long might that continue?

&nb
sp; There were other small donations too, a few dollars here and few more there, but these were not regular and might well disappear if things went on as they were going.

  In most of what she had read or heard from John, it had been assumed that the potato crop would not fail a second time. But all the signs so far were that it had. It was true that other crops were perfectly normal, but having food available that one couldn’t buy, because one had no money, was hardly going to solve the problem.

  She was so preoccupied with her calculations that the fire began to sink low. Suddenly she felt the chill from the open door.

  ‘Now then, Hannah, don’t neglect the fire,’ she said to herself, as she shivered in the cold air.

  As she stood up, she caught sight of a tall figure striding up the rocky path, the tails of his coat flapping with the speed of his progress.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said to herself. ‘You come most carefully upon your hour,’ she whispered. ‘Jonathan Hancock, I presume,’ she added, smiling, as she made up the fire quickly before he arrived.

  *

  She went to the door to greet him and was surprised to find him looking distinctly cheerful. She’d always thought he had a handsome, yet very sombre face, but today that certainly didn’t apply. As she held out her hand in greeting, she wondered if today it was perhaps her own face that was looking rather sombre.

  Having walked so fast, Jonathan was not at all cold, but he admitted easily that he was thirsty and would indeed be grateful for the mug of tea she offered.

  ‘Good,’ she replied, ‘that means I can have one myself, and we can finish off the prize-giving biscuits,’ she said, grateful she had suddenly remembered them.

  He settled himself by the fire and watched her move around, making the tea. She put the last of the biscuits on a plate, placed it on a stool and set it between the two armchairs by the fire.

  ‘Do I detect a story behind these biscuits?’ he asked, looking directly at her.

  ‘You do indeed,’ she said, returning his gaze. ‘Perhaps if I tell you the story of the prize biscuits you will tell me why you are looking so much happier than usual, despite the bad news we probably both have to share.