The Girl from Galloway
Page 26
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As Hannah taught Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, Friday was a home day for her. A day to catch up on baking and cooking, and to make preparations for the weekend. There was always the danger of trying to do too much on a Friday when time was short and she admitted to having overdone it once or twice recently. She’d had cause to regret it. So, on Friday eleventh of June she made a point of doing some sewing both in the morning and in the afternoon. That was why she was able to watch John and the children coming home from school, before they even noticed her sitting just outside the cottage door.
Rose and Sam were alternately walking and skipping in their usual after-school way, but unusually, John was paying them little or no attention. His face was pale and immobile and he was walking as if he were half asleep. She’d never seen him look like this before. Immediately anxious in case he was ill, she got to her feet and stood waiting for them.
‘Hello, Rose. Hello, Sam. Are you feeling all right, John?’
‘Oh yes, yes, I’m fine,’ he reassured her, noticing now that both children were looking at him as well. ‘I just need my tea,’ he said, dropping a bag of books on the ground by the cottage door, but continuing to hold on to a large brown, foolscap envelope.
Hannah knew something was terribly wrong, but she also knew she couldn’t do anything about it until the children had gone out to play. She asked John to fetch another pail of water, made tea for them all as quickly as she could and questioned Rose and Sam about school while they ate their bread and jam.
The moment they left to go down to the Friels she turned to John.
‘John dear, what’s the matter? You look dreadful. Are you sure you’re not ill?’
‘I do feel sick, yes, but I’m not ill,’ he said, his shoulders drooping as he gave up all pretence of coping.
‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked, pointing to the unopened packet he’d dropped on the dresser.
‘No, John. I don’t. What is it?’
‘It’s from my father. And you know how hard I’ve tried to go on without him since he didn’t answer any of my letters. It was over. I tried. I really tried. I can’t go through all that again. I have no father,’ he said, breaking down and weeping.
She stood up and went to put her arms round him, only too aware of her protruding stomach. She pulled her chair as close as she could and tried again. She felt his tears wet on her bare arms.
‘And are you assuming the worst, John? What is the worst? What do you think he’s sent you?’
‘I’ve no idea, but it can’t be good after all this time,’ he said, wiping his eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘He’s probably only wanting to have a go at me, telling me never to come near the place again not even to see my mother and sisters,’ he went on, taking a great gasping breath. ‘It can’t be anything good after all these months. I’ve tried to forget about him and I thought I’d managed it and now it’s all started up again. I can’t bear it, Hannah. I can’t bear it,’ he said, dropping his head in his arms.
‘John dear, whatever’s in that packet, we need to know. When did you get it?’
‘Just before we left school. Bridget remembered she’d put it up on the mantelpiece late yesterday, but Daniel had forgotten to tell me.’
‘Well, it will have to be opened,’ she said softly. ‘May I open it for you, John? It has got to be done.’
He stared at her wide-eyed, his eyes still watering, his normally mobile face both pale and stiff. He nodded and looked away.
Hannah was aware of how slowly she was moving, as she went to the dresser and took her sewing scissors from their box. Awkwardly, she made access to the heavy envelope and then ripped it open. There was a letter written on small blue sheets of paper and a flat package in its own similar large envelope, which had been doubled over and stuck down. She set the package aside and took up the blue sheets, handwritten in black ink.
There was no address. It simply said Dublin, June 1847 on the first sheet. She began to read, pausing to try to breathe normally.
My dear John,
You wrote to me some time ago and I did not reply to you. I am truly sorry for that and I apologise to you. I should have been able to do better than that. I do not want to make excuses for what I did, but perhaps that is now the only way I can explain. I do not have your gift with a pen.
I know you will be sad when I tell you that the woman you are so fond of and call Ma is not your mother. Your mother was a girl from County Down whom I met on my first posting. She was lovely in every way and we married at the first possible moment. You were born within the year, but she died a few days later. I have never got over her loss. She was the whole world to me and I would have done anything for her. All I had left was her son. Everything I did after that was done with what I thought she would have wished for you, our only child.
When I got my first senior posting to Galway I decided to remarry and thereby provide a mother for you. And this I did. I have recently confessed my bad faith to your stepmother. Good woman that she is, she says she understands and she has forgiven me. I do not deserve such kindness as she has shown, but I give thanks for it.
You may wonder why after all these years and after my bad behaviour towards yourself I am now telling you this.
Some time ago one of my trainees went overboard. A splendid young man who reminded me so often of you. We were lucky to survive as rescue did not come quickly. A little longer and we would both have drowned. I was ill for some time and on recovery was asked to visit Dublin on behalf of the Coastguard Service. There I met with a number of Quaker enquirers. They were aware that the famine situation on the west coast was becoming ever more serious. Even where relief was available it could not be transported to those in need. They asked for my advice.
I have been working since then with these good people who listen to what I can tell them and value my detailed knowledge. I gave up all faith in God when I lost the love of my life. These people have made me question what I have done.
My work on the west coast is now much more dangerous than before. We are using our boats, cutters and even the gunboat to deliver supplies to villages that have no roads leading to them. Regardless of wind and storm, we are the only source of food. In some of the villages there are unburied dead and dying.
As I intend to go on doing this work, I have made provision for your stepmother and have now been forgiven by her. I would now ask you to forgive me also. Perhaps we may yet meet again in happier times.
I must congratulate you on your great achievement, your book, which I know about from your very good letters to your stepmother and sisters. The enclosed packet is doubtless your copy as it has a Dublin postmark and address. I shall buy my own copy when next in Dublin to meet my colleagues from the Quakers. I hope that you will sign my copy for me at some future date.
I am,
As ever,
Your loving father,
James McCreedy
Postscript
The Irish Famine did not end in the summer of 1847 though Hannah and Patrick, the new baby and many of the other characters survive. The story continues in 1861, when Hannah and Patrick’s growing family are evicted and their cottage is demolished at the beginning of The Woman from Kerry.
Historians are still arguing bitterly over the numbers who died during the Great Famine, from starvation or the many diseases that were widespread in a population weakened by hunger. We have no record of the large numbers buried at sea or on arrival at a new destination.
All we can be sure of, is that five million people did survive and that many of them owed their lives to people all over the world who identified with their need and sent help, pennies from orphans in New York, ships full of grain from the Sultan of Turkey, huge donations from the Indian Army and the people of Massachusetts.
A long, long list of people of all kinds and conditions who ‘did what they could, did it in love and saw that it was often even more than they could have hoped.’
We sti
ll have need of such generosity in October 2017.
Anne Doughty
Belfast
The next book from Anne Doughty is coming in May 2019
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