The Girl from Galloway

by Anne Doughty

  To her great surprise he coloured slightly and looked so sheepish she began to guess what he had to tell her.

  ‘You were right,’ he said abruptly. ‘I told Sarah Hamilton how I felt about her, one glorious summer’s day when we walked together under the trees on The Mall, in Armagh. I don’t think I shall ever forget it …’

  ‘And …’ she prompted, when he stopped.

  ‘She has given me her promise.’

  ‘To marry you?’ she said, wanting to be quite sure that the news really was as good as she’d now begun to hope.

  ‘Yes, to marry me. She knows about my wife. She knows the doctors say she will not recover her mind but she may remain well in body. I’ve accepted that if she finds someone else who wants to marry her then I will have to give her my blessing and let her go. But you were right, just knowing how we both feel now is such joy. While we both live we do have hope and it so changes everything. And without your wise words, Hannah, I would not have ventured. I couldn’t have found my way if you hadn’t spoken,’ he said, shaking his head vigorously.

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Jonathan,’ she said clasping her hands together. ‘Please, may I tell Patrick? No one else, of course, but Patrick will understand and be as pleased as I am. After all, he had to wait three years before he felt he could speak for me. Though, fairly I was much younger.’

  ‘It has made such a difference to me, Hannah. Just knowing that she cares about me. I have never felt like this before. Does it show?’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she said, nodding. ‘But probably only to someone who has seen you when you were sad. I don’t think you need be afraid that you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ he said. ‘It might seem sadly out of place in such a difficult time.’

  ‘But that hope you now have will bring you encouragement for the work you do. And it will give her strength as well. If things go badly for us in Ardtur I shall think of you both and I’ll wish you well.’

  ‘I only have one problem now, Hannah,’ he said, composing his face as best he could.

  ‘And what is that?’ she asked cautiously, wondering if he could be teasing her.

  ‘How am I going to manage to keep my good spirits under control when we have to talk about matters practical … and make provision for what may be a bad winter into the bargain?’

  ‘Perhaps your good news is sent to help us both,’ she offered thoughtfully. ‘We could look on it as an unexpected donation that we can call upon when we most need it. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that is just what we need.’ He nodded. ‘I do have some good news, and indeed I have do have some bad, but our biggest problem will be if we have to cope with something unexpected. That really troubles me, but perhaps if we are both brave and speak of the worst that can happen then we will have the courage to try for the best. What do you think?’

  ‘I think we need pencils and paper,’ she replied promptly. ‘Then we can write down anything that comes to us, good or bad, so that when we write to each other we’ll have something there already, even if we don’t need it. Wouldn’t that be better than the other way around?’

  They moved across to the table and it quickly began to look as if their good spirits did speed the work. What also emerged was that they now both had a good idea of how the other’s mind worked. Hannah knew when to interrupt and ensure that Jonathan spelt out the details that he had omitted. He, in his turn, was familiar with her sudden silences. They always occurred when she’d suddenly see something he’d overlooked and for the moment didn’t know how to put it to him.

  There was a lot to think about. By the time Hannah insisted that they make a break for a bite to eat, there were sheets of paper spread all over the kitchen table.

  *

  They had lunch by the fire, went back to the table afterwards and were still sitting there, making further notes, when Dermot appeared leading Neddy by his halter, Rose and Sam walking one on each side of the empty cart.

  ‘Jonathan, I’d like you to meet Dermot before you go,’ Hannah said quietly, as they saw the small procession pass in front of the house, on the way to the barn.

  ‘He’ll come in when the children start grooming Neddy,’ she explained. ‘He’s been asking about the fishing boat and I know he’ll feel easier if he hears the news on that from you. He’s been so good with distributing the food. He’s done so much more, way beyond the call of duty, as one might say, to make sure he finds anyone in need. But I know he’s longing to be back at sea again.’

  ‘I can only tell him the truth, Hannah. D’you not think it might discourage him?’ he said, looking more like his sombre self. ‘As I told you, it will be November before the new Quaker Central Relief Committee is set up in Dublin and it will surely be a few more weeks before they find two suitable people to come up here and assess the overall food situation.’

  ‘But how can they do that in winter, if we’re talking about fish?’ Hannah protested.

  To her surprise, Jonathan laughed.

  ‘Hannah dear, assessors don’t have to go and count fish, they have to find someone they know they can trust to ask about fish. They will probably already have made enquiries by letter. They just need to verify what’s been said so that the funds can be allocated.’

  *

  ‘Dermot, this is Jonathan Hancock,’ Hannah said, getting up and going towards him, the moment she saw him appear at the door.

  ‘Pleased t’meet ye, sir,’ Dermot said, looking awkward as they shook hands.

  ‘And I’m glad to meet you, Dermot,’ said Jonathan, shaking his hand firmly. ‘And I do have some good news for you, but there’s some bad news as well. Let’s have the bad news first, shall we?’ he said easily, as Dermot joined them at the table.

  ‘I’m afraid the bad news is that it might be December before we get the go-ahead on the fishing boats, although the first one is just about ready. The real problem I’m afraid is that there are so few Quakers in Ireland.’

  ‘Sure from what I heerd, I thought there must be a whole lot of yers,’ Dermot replied, looking quite amazed.

  Jonathan shook his head sadly. ‘The only reason we’ve been able to help as much as we have so far, is that we are already organised to help each other. To begin with we couldn’t provide much in the way of money ourselves, but we’ve had great help from Friends in America and many other places. The money for the boats, Dermot, actually comes from Nova Scotia, from Scottish emigrants long settled there.

  ‘And, speaking of money. Here it is. I knew I’d put it somewhere safe,’ he said, as he extracted three crumpled envelopes from his back pocket.

  He handed Dermot a small envelope in which coins chinked and a larger brown one with his own name on it.

  ‘Our usual terms for one of Johnny’s pictures: a little for him, and rather more for his family,’ Jonathan began. ‘The picture that went to America helped to raise £500 in Fort Wayne, Indiana, from a group of Irish emigrants, one of whom had already made contact with the Quakers in Dublin. That’ll buy a lot of meal and flour,’ he said, passing over the plain white envelope to Hannah.

  Dermot shook his head and looked sad.

  ‘An’ to think that I tried to get him a job as a servant,’ he said, looking really dejected. ‘May God forgive me.’

  ‘Well, I think you could say that He has. Don’t you agree, Hannah?’ said Jonathan quietly. ‘You acted for the best – you were thinking of your family, not of yourself. If you hadn’t acted when you did then Johnny’s pictures might not have been recognised. The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ he added smiling.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Dermot, ‘an it was you that said, “No we’ll not sell them. We’ll give them away and then see what comes.” That was your faith, sir, and sure with that behind us, Hannah and Patrick and I can keep this valley fed, and maybe, indeed, we’ll soon be able to give them little fishes to have with their bread, whether its wheaten bread, or corn bread, or even barley loaves,’ he
added, smiling for the first time that afternoon.

  Chapter 25

  There was frost on the grass in September, on the first day back at school, and before the month was out showers of hail and wet snow flurried round the houses. They dropped particles down the chimney so that the fire hissed and spat and Hannah, reading, or preparing schoolwork at the table, knew that within minutes of that first warning sound, the light would drop and the familiar picture of the track down the mountain framed by the front windows of the cottage would be blotted out by a sweeping curtain of sleet, or snow.

  When the cold weather set in, she had put aside her work on the napkins to make a heavy pinafore for Rose to wear over her usual school dress. Then, to her surprise, the highly active Sam admitted that he too felt cold in Daniel’s cottage, despite the fire, where they took it in turns to warm themselves. She puzzled for a whole morning and then made a garment, not dissimilar in style for him. She referred to it as a tunic and all was well.

  But the chill of the worst days was not the hardest thing to bear. Much more chilling was the news that came day by day through newspapers, or by word of mouth. That was indeed far more dispiriting. Many of the worst cases that Hannah and Jonathan had talked about at the kitchen table were rapidly proving to be the case indeed. It was now official. ‘There are only enough potatoes to feed the Irish population for one month.’

  In fact, there were no potatoes left at all in their valley by the beginning of October 1846. The sound potatoes, used for planting, by those who had them, had proved to be unsound after all. They had simply developed disease as they matured. Given the supplies of meal and flour, still being provided by the school and delivered by Dermot Donnelly, this was not the disaster it might have been, in the length of the valley, but elsewhere in Donegal starvation had indeed struck. Things were particularly bad in areas to the west of them, especially on the coast where there were no roads and the scattered mountain settlements were remote and difficult to access.

  While the news was bad in Donegal, the news coming from much further afield was even more distressing. At the end of October the price of wheat, flour and oatmeal in Cork rose by fifty per cent in one week and at the same time Skibbereen became internationally famous for its death rate.

  The workhouses were rapidly filling and the landlords, deprived of their rents for yet another year, were beginning to evict their tenants for non-payment of rent, leaving families not only without food, but also without shelter of any kind in the worst of weather.

  *

  ‘Well, my colleagues and friends, what should we do?’ asked Daniel soberly, as they gathered by the fire, in the schoolroom, at the end of the second week in October.

  Hannah had left Rose and Sam with Deirdre Friel and had come back to school to join John and Bridget in the empty classroom, the tables folded up against the walls, the benches left ready for evening visitors. Daniel had said only that he wanted to share his thoughts with them, but given all that had happened since the beginning of the school year, they were each, in their different ways, apprehensive about what he might have to say.

  ‘There are those who might say, and indeed I think are already saying,’ he began quietly, ‘that we are fiddling while Rome burns. We are spending money on books and writing materials when there are people dying of hunger, though not, thank God, in this valley. Not yet, at any rate,’ he added, his voice dropping, as he spoke the last words.

  ‘We still have our pupils, we still have funds to keep the school going,’ he went on more vigorously. ‘We can still distribute meal and flour with money we’ve been given, but the question is, do we carry on with our educational work, or do we accept that the chances of survival are so slim that it is probably not worth the effort? Could it now be argued that what effort we may be capable of as individuals, would be better directed in other ways?’

  Hannah exchanged glances with Bridget, who now not only looked after school lunches, but also prepared food to take to elderly people and to those who were sick. It was Bridget who found out when problems in the home affected their pupils. Her own family long gone, her husband working away like Patrick, she’d taken on the responsibility for knowing how things were with their pupils and doing whatever she could to help both them and their families.

  John dropped his eyes and pressed his lips together. Then he looked at them both, saw neither of them about to reply, took a deep breath and began to speak.

  ‘I think we should go on,’ he said, baldly. ‘We may not survive, or perhaps not all of us may survive, but what is the point of giving up when there is still hope? We’re not just trying to educate a group of children and young people, we’re also trying to help each other, trying to keep up life and spirits at a bad time. What’s to be gained by giving that up? Nothing that I can see. I think we should keep going.’

  ‘And what do the ladies think?’ Daniel asked, his voice neutral.

  Bridget looked down into the embers of the fire. She seemed anxious and uneasy.

  ‘I agree with John,’ said Hannah quietly. ‘So much of the normal pattern of life in this valley has been torn away, but school is something that still goes on. It’s not just for the pupils, it’s a focus for everybody who has a child, or even an interest in a neighbour’s child, coming and going every day. It’s a known, continuing thing, at a time when most normal, everyday things are just not there any more.’

  ‘Hannah’s right,’ Bridget said. ‘Sure, hearin’ those children out there at playtime laughin’ and shoutin’ wou’d put heart in you. An’ look at all them letters that come back when they sent the wee pictures away after the holiday school last July. Sure, aren’t there people out there, half the world away, wishin’ us luck and hopin’ we’ll pull through. We can’t give up an’ let them down as well, can we?’

  They were agreed. As they talked together in what proved to be a memorable, quiet hour, they acknowledged that Daniel had put into words the uneasy thoughts they’d all entertained in different ways. Now, suddenly, it seemed more possible to share one’s feelings, to shape words, or to ask a question, rather than puzzle away inside one’s own head.

  ‘I’m grateful to you, colleagues,’ said Daniel. ‘I confess I often feel I cannot do my fair share of the work, but perhaps in the hours I spend in my chair “doing nothing”, I can gather up for us the possibilities. It is you who have to make these possibilities into reality, but at least my thinking is some kind of a start.’

  ‘It’s much more than just a start, Daniel,’ John said vigorously. ‘You’re just like that man in the story of the two bottles, we all now know so well. You sit us down and say: “Now do your duty” and lo and behold, a feast is served up.’

  Hannah and Bridget laughed and Daniel nodded, as he always did when he was pleased. How often had the children performed the play John had written for them, based on the story he’d heard in Galway. Both in Irish, and in English, they’d taken it in turns to play the main parts. Suddenly, it seemed they’d been given something to help them.

  They talked and laughed together as they hadn’t done for a long time.

  ‘Maybe, we’ve a wee bit of magic bottle ourselves, Daniel,’ said Bridget, suddenly looking easy again. ‘Sure look at the way money keeps turnin’ up when we think we’re runnin’ low. If we keep goin’ it’ll encourage other people. Maybe, even if we were doin’ nothin’ else but that, it wou’d be worth doin’, but you’re doin’ somethin else as well. Can’t even the wee ones here at school write a bit and read the storybooks? That’ll stan’ to them, whether they stay or go.’

  *

  In the following weeks much of the news shared in the valley, and in the towns and villages nearby, was of people going. Thousands of families all over Ireland could see no possible future for themselves or their families. Some of them sold their remaining possessions to find the ticket money, some were tempted by the rock-bottom fares offered by individual vessels and some were helped to buy tickets by landlords who wanted to clear their la
nd in the hope they could recoup the losses of the last years by moving their land to grazing and cattle-rearing.

  Many of those individuals never reached their destination. Setting aside the losses from the wrecking of overcrowded ships, and the effects of the starvation diet on the cheap passages, survival was still doubtful on board ship where disease spread with the greatest of ease in the crowded and confined spaces.

  Stories were brought back from Derry that told of queues miles long, of ships lined up at Gross Isle awaiting clearance to proceed to immigration, when no progress was possible with most of the passengers on board the ships either ill or dying.

  *

  A few days after Daniel’s staff meeting, one of the harvesters who had travelled with Patrick to Mackay’s farm arrived home, his right arm bound and splinted. He was well enough in himself, he said, he had been well looked after, but the weather in Scotland had been bad.

  He’d been on the top of a haystack, he said, winding straw rope into a thatch that would prevent the stack being ripped apart in the winter storms. The hay was slippery, he had lost his footing, fell headlong and landed on a wooden rake.

  It was not just the hay that was suffering. All the late crops were in a bad way, he said, many of them rotting in sodden fields. All the harvesters would be home several weeks early.

  For Hannah, the news that Patrick would be back so soon was a wonderful surprise. She’d already been counting the weeks till he was due. Now she could count the days. But her joy was much modified when she began to think of the loss of income for farmers in Scotland, including her own father, and the loss of wages to so many harvesters from other parts of Ireland who would, like Patrick, now come home with significantly less money to tide them over the winter months.

  ‘John dear, have you had any news from home?’ Hannah asked one lunchtime a few days later as they sat eating their piece and keeping an eye on their pupils. ‘I’m trying my best to keep cheerful as we all said we would, but I’m flagging. Is your mother still doing well? And have you found out yet about why your father’s going to Dublin so regularly? Please, think of something?’ she said desperately, hoping to make him smile.