The Whitest Flower
Page 4
In fact, Ellen needn’t have worried. Father O’Brien had come to the conclusion that eye-contact might work in the cities, but the people here were generally so shy and in awe of him that it just served to embarrass them. During last month’s Sunday Mass in Finny, while preaching on the Sixth Commandment – ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ – he had happened to catch the eye of Roberteen Bawn. The boy had looked as if he would bolt from the church. And he just a harmless enough young fellow, unlikely to be up to anything much under his mother’s hawk-like eye. Yet Father O’Brien was in no doubt that his sermon had seriously unsettled young Roberteen. Today he would be more circumspect in the use of his eyes.
He spoke to them in Irish: ‘Today, my dear people, instead of the usual sermon, I have something to read to you.’
Ellen began to feel uneasy as the priest began. Then, as the sermon continued, all the feelings of warmth, life and light which had filled her that morning seemed to ebb away.
‘The Archbishop has, in his wisdom, decreed that all priests in the Archdiocese should today lay the following information before the faithful. The Archbishop cautions against panic, but because of the dependence of so many of the people upon the potato crop he considers it prudent to advise you of the information to hand.’
At these words, there was much shuffling of nervous feet in the church. Father O’Brien pressed on in the same emotionless voice, careful not to betray the unease he felt inside:
‘While there is no conclusive proof of the arrival of the potato blight in Ireland, the advice the Archbishop gives, having consulted with some experts in this area, is that it would be wise not to delay the digging of the crop until October but to lift the potatoes immediately.’
He paused to let the message sink in.
‘I would therefore suggest to you that when you return home from this Mass, you should immediately commence digging your crops. The Archbishop hereby grants you all a special dispensation so that this work can be done today.’
This was serious, thought Ellen, as frightened whisperings filled the church. To work on a Sunday was to bring seven years’ bad luck; it went against the strict code of the Catholic Church regarding the observance of the Sabbath. She drew the children closer to her. The rest of the congregation looked as fearful as she felt: wives and children turned in their seats, seeking reassurance from husbands and fathers across the church.
Father O’Brien raised his voice to make it heard above the commotion as he read from the copied extract given to him by the Archbishop: ‘The Dublin Evening Post of ninth September reports that: “There can be no question at all of the very remarkable failure in the United States, and with regard to Holland, Flanders, and France, we have already abundant evidence of the wide spread of what we cannot help calling a calamity.”’
The priest read on, translating into Irish as he went: ‘“It is in the densely packed communities of Europe that the failure would be alarming and in no country more, or so much, than our own.”’ A deathly silence descended on the church. Father O’Brien wet his lips with his tongue before continuing: ‘“But happily there is no ground for any apprehension of the kind in Ireland.”’ Ellen, along with the rest of the congregation, exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘“We believe that there was never a more abundant potato crop in Ireland than there is at present, and none which it will be more likely to secure.”
‘So you see,’ Father O’Brien concluded, ‘the picture is not yet clear. On the one hand, if you lift the lumpers now, they will not be fully grown. On the other hand, if you do not lift them for another month, they may be diseased.
‘Considering everything, the Archbishop’s advice is as follows: when Mass has ended, you should go immediately and dig your potatoes with all haste. Now, we ask the all-knowing God for His guidance and, if it be His Divine will, that the crops might be saved. May God bless the work.’
With these words Father O’Brien returned to the liturgy of the Mass.
As the people filed silently out of the church, Ellen paused to cross herself with holy water. A figure in black stood waiting within the corner of the porch. Waiting for her. With a start she realized it was Sheela-na-Sheeoga.
‘The blessings of God and His Holy Mother and the Infant Jesus, be on you, Ellen Rua. I see you are in bloom,’ she said in a half-whisper.
Ellen made to move on. She did not want Michael and the children – or the priest for that matter – to see her talking to the old cailleach. But Sheela caught her by the arm.
‘Be not hastening away from me now, Ellen Rua. Wasn’t it yourself who was quick to hasten to me over the mountain, not a woman’s time ago?’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Remember the words I spoke to you then: “When the whitest flower blooms, so too will you bloom.” Go now with your husband, and lift the fruit of the whitest flower.’
Of course, thought Ellen, how could she not have seen it? The whitest flower was the flower that blossomed on the lazy beds. It was so obvious, she had missed it.
‘But the whitest flower will be the blackest flower,’ Sheela-na-Sheeoga continued. ‘And you, red-haired Ellen, must crush its petals in your hand.’ She paused, gauging the effect of her words. ‘Remember and heed it well, Ellen Rua.’
Ellen instinctively drew her hands about her body where her unborn child was. She could read nothing from Sheela-na-Sheeoga’s face; the old woman’s eyes stared back at her, ashen and grey, like a dead fire. Ellen was about to ask what the riddle meant, and if it had something to do with the news they had just heard, when she heard footsteps approaching. She turned her head for a moment and when she looked back again Sheela-na-Sheeoga had vanished. In her place stood Father O’Brien.
‘Was it waiting to speak with me you were, Mrs O’Malley?’
‘No, Father, thank you. Just wondering what’s to become of us all.’
‘I don’t know …’ Father O’Brien said. ‘We must pray and put our faith in the hands of the Lord, He will provide.’ Then, echoing the words of the old cailleach, he advised her: ‘Best go home now, Ellen, and take up the potatoes with your husband.’
Michael was waiting outside. He knew by the way she pulled the shawl closer about herself that something troubled her, but he waited for her to break the silence.
‘Do you think that the priest is right about the potatoes – that they’ll be bad, that the bad times are surely coming?’
‘Well if they are itself, I still don’t think it’s a right thing the priest said, to lift them today, on a Sunday.’
Ellen looked at him, understanding his reservations about ‘Sunday work’ – a taboo that went back generations.
‘Well, if it troubles you, Michael, then we’ll wait. The children and myself will gather for you in the morning,’ she said.
They were approaching the crest of the hill. It was there, with their valley opening out before them, that Ellen had planned to tell Michael about the child. But now the time seemed all wrong. The bad news from the priest, the meeting with Sheela-na-Sheeoga, had created a sense of foreboding that was somehow bound up with her being pregnant. To talk about her pregnancy under these circumstances would, she felt, be harmful to the baby in some way. By her silence, therefore, she was protecting her child.
Suddenly, as if coming face to face with a force beyond which they could not pass, they both stopped walking, stunned at the sight below them in the valley.
There in the fields were the men, women and children who had left the church before them. All furiously digging for the lumpers, pulling them up by the stalks, shaking them free of the earth, twisting and turning them – until as one they joined in a great mad shout that rose up to greet Ellen and Michael where they stood:
‘They’re safe! They’re safe! Praise be to God, the potatoes are safe!’
3
Next morning Ellen was up early, as usual, only to find that Michael was ahead of her. Quickly she tended to the children. The Lessons would have to wait. There was more important work to be done.
> It was a bright September morn, with just the hint of autumn chill in it – a good day for the fields. Together they set out for the dig. Michael carried his slane – a kind of half-spade used for digging out potatoes. If you were skilful enough in its use you could lift the tubers without damaging the next cluster along the lazy bed. Ellen and the three children each carried a sciathóg – a basket made of interlaced sally rods. The lumpers would be placed in this rough sieve and shaken to remove any excess clay.
They weren’t the only ones out in the fields. Obviously, despite the Archbishop’s dispensation, some in the village had decided to respect the old ways and not work on the day of rest. But they were in the minority: in the fields adjacent to their own, Ellen and Michael could see where the lazy beds had been dug the previous day.
They were fortunate, she thought, having the two acres. Most of their neighbours had only the ‘bare acre’. An acre, even with a good crop of potatoes, could not keep a family of five for a year. May, June and July – the ‘meal months’ – would be especially hard. The previous year’s crop would have been eaten, and it was too soon for the new harvest. Families who had no savings and couldn’t find alternative work to see them through were forced to get credit to buy meal or potatoes. She would have hated that. The credit came from ‘strong farmers’ who had saved money, and who then charged a pretty penny in interest to borrowers. These scullogues would not lend money to those who were most in need of it, for the very poor would never have the means by which loans could be made good. The destitute had to rely instead on the support of their neighbours, or go begging.
Michael was already at the first lazy bed and had sunk the slane down into the earth under the potatoes. He carefully levered up a slaneful of potatoes and clay. Nervously Ellen watched him bend and tug the plant from the loosened earth. He shook it vigorously and then wiped away the remaining clods of clay from the tubers, examining them intently. Then he turned the plant in his hand, studying the three or four potatoes which dangled from it. He turned to her as she approached.
‘Buíochas le Dia – they’re sound.’ He held the plant out to her. ‘Here, look for yourself.’
Ellen examined it carefully. There was no sign of disease anywhere to be seen. She looked at him, the smile creasing her face. He caught her by the shoulders, the laughter of relief wild in him, and brought her to her knees with him. Together, there on the earth amongst the lazy beds, their food for the year to come now safe, they thanked God for His bounty.
Michael dug while Ellen, Patrick, Katie and Mary gathered and inspected. The lumpers were smaller than usual because of being lifted earlier. This was not unexpected, and therefore no cause for alarm. At one point, Katie raised a scare when she yelled out, ‘a Mhamaí, this one has black on it!’ But it turned out to be just an exceptionally large ‘eye’ on the potato.
What an ugly plant the lumper was, Ellen thought to herself. Squat and uneven in shape with what looked like smaller versions of itself stuck on here and there like little misshapen heads. The lumper wasn’t sweet like the cup and the apple variety of potatoes the Máistir had once brought back from Castlebar. But it was floury when boiled well, and, most important of all, it was hardy and grew in abundance.
While she waited for the children to return from emptying their baskets, Ellen plucked one of the tiny flowers from an upturned potato stalk. She had never before taken much notice of the ‘whitest flower’. Like the grass in the field, it was just there from year to year. Now, however, it had assumed a new significance in her life. She twirled the stem slowly between her thumb and forefinger. It was quite beautiful. Fresh and frail, its tiny petals, white as snow, formed a perfect ring around the yellow centre. Strange, she thought, the stark contrast between the beauty of the flower and its ugly fruit.
What secret did this blossom hold for her and her unborn baby? What harm could lie in this tiny flower? In keeping with the old woman’s riddle, she crushed one of the petals between her fingers and brought it to her nose. Ugh – its smell was not at all sweet; nothing like the smell of a flower. It had no perfume, but smelt dank and unclean, like an uncooked potato. She dropped it to the ground and rubbed her fingers in the earth to cleanse them of its stickiness.
‘The whitest flower will be the blackest flower,’ Ellen said to herself, wondering.
All day they toiled in the field until twilight fell over the valley, hushing the sounds of the day. Michael did most of the digging, with Patrick being given an occasional turn at ‘man’s work’. Gathering, inspecting and ferrying the baskets full of potatoes to the cabin was woman’s work, in Patrick’s eyes. But he understood the urgency of what they were at and pitched in willingly, doing whatever was required.
On one of the trips to the cabin, cradling the heavy sciathóg between her hip and the crook of her arm, Ellen caught sight of the fair head of their neighbour’s son coming towards her. A mischievousness took hold of her. She set her basket on the ground and waited for Roberteen Bawn to draw near.
‘Dia dhuit,’ she bade him, friendly-like.
‘Dia’s Muire dhuit,’ he returned, happy to see her.
He was about to continue walking past her, abashed at finding himself so close to the object of his desires, when she said, ‘Wait a minute, Roberteen.’
He turned towards her, his fair skin pinking at the cheekbones. Was the woman going to shame him here in front of the whole village?
‘Roberteen, I wouldn’t be stopping you from your work,’ she continued, an air of earnestness about her, ‘but it’s long the day has been, and the cradle of lumpers here getting heavier with each passing hour. Would you go by Michael and tell him I need his help – these lumpers are the weight of rocks?’
Roberteen looked at Ellen warily. The basket wasn’t that heavy, especially for a fine strong woman like her. Sure, weren’t the children carrying them up all the time. What was it she was up to? She must have told her husband about him watching her and now she was after sending him to Michael for a thrashing. She had that smile on her – full of divilment, she was. He looked at the creel of potatoes on the ground. It dawned on him then – a way out.
‘Sure, Ellen, isn’t Michael busy lifting the lumpers from that fine field you have? What would he be thinking of a man to be running messages to him, bothering him, if I didn’t lift a hand to help you – me being a neighbour? I’ll bear them up to the cabin meself for you, Ellen, with a heart and a half,’ he said, delighted with himself. The red-haired woman wouldn’t catch him out like that! Emboldened, he didn’t wait for her assent but picked up the basket and set off for the O’Malleys’ cabin. He had got out of that one well. Now he could walk with Ellen Rua, and no one to say a word to him, only thinking what a fine good-natured fellow he was. Why, with all her schooling the Máistir’s daughter still couldn’t outwit Roberteen Bawn.
Had he glanced back over his shoulder, he would have seen the mischief sparkling in those eyes.
As they walked she chatted amicably with him, showing interest in his prattle and being grateful to him for his kindness. He found it hard to look straight at her, but was conscious of her nearness and the power she seemed to have over him. He couldn’t wait to tell her about all the work he was doing with the turf, and how he would soon live up to his father’s reputation for doing the work of a man and a half. But somehow the words all came out in a tumble and he wondered if he was making any sense at all to her. However, she didn’t seem to notice and, the times he did look at her, she smiled at him, which set him off talking ten to the dozen again.
When they reached her cabin she asked him to put the creel over in the corner next to the hearth. He did as she asked, but when he turned to leave he found that she was leaning against the cabin door, having closed it behind her.
‘Now, Roberteen Bawn, my fair-haired boy, I’m very grateful to you, very grateful indeed, for sparing me the task of carrying that heavy load. Will you not wait a while and take something with me?’ she coaxed seductively.
‘Sure, it’s in no hurry you are, Roberteen, and himself won’t be home yet a while to thank you for your kindness to me.’
The thought of Michael arriving to find the door of his cabin closed against him, and he, Roberteen, alone in the house with Ellen, sent the fear of God through the youth.
‘I have to go now … the work … my father.’
‘Faith, Roberteen, I’ll be thinking you have no regard for me,’ she teased with mock hurt in her voice.
Dar Dia, he thought, if anyone hears her, I’ll be ruined. Then involuntarily he heard himself say, ‘No, no, Ellen. It’s not that, it’s not that at all.’
‘Well?’ Ellen drew the word out slowly. ‘Sure, that would be a terrible thing for a woman to hear, and she walking to the lake every morning, and throwing her head to the sun for a man to be looking at her, and he not having any regard at all for her. Wouldn’t it now, Roberteen?’
Why was she doing this? She was trouble, all right. He’d never bother with her likes again, as long as he lived. A red-haired woman was nothing but trouble to a man, nothing but trouble, and this one was the very divil.
‘I have to go now … I have to …’ he spluttered in panic, thinking that not only Michael but the whole village would soon know he was in here, alone with her.
‘Well, I’ll not be the woman to stand in the way of a man and his work,’ said Ellen, feeling some sympathy for the state he was in – and he, after all, only a simple gasúr, for all his nineteen summers. ‘But it’s a queer thing, all the same, you running off that way, and me offering you the hand of friendship only to have it dashed back at me again.’
She stood away from the door and he bolted for it. But she was quicker, and again he found his way out blocked by her.
‘Now, one piece of advice to you, me fine buachaill …’ she said, her face now close to his.
The smell of her womanliness, her talking to him this way – she was confusing him. Doing it on purpose. His plan had gone all wrong.