The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  There she left his body, and stumbled down the bóithrín to Biddy’s house.

  Her face said it all to Biddy and the children.

  When it was time she led them up to the cart where his body lay.

  Biddy and Roberteen and Martin Tom Bawn came with them, and those of the village who had the strength to walk.

  The men lifted Michael’s body from the cart and bore it up the hill ahead of the women. At the top, before they set it on the ground, she instructed them: ‘Let him see it the once more.’ So Martin and Roberteen held him aloft on the highest point of the Crucán. First they faced him towards Finny and Lough Nafooey, and Glentrague, almost hidden in the far mountains beyond the lake. Then, reverently, they wheeled about with him towards Derrypark, and the lofty peaks of the Partrys, and the Tourmakeady townland. Finally, they faced him to the Mask, with its multitude of islands, to Glenbeg, and, below him, his own valley – Maamtrasna, where his tumbled cabin lay in ruins. Finally the two men turned their eyes upwards to the Hare’s Garden, the place where they had sweated and dug with him in the empty hope of salvation from the blight.

  Ellen followed them, wanting to share these last moments with him. Be his eyes, see for him what his own dead eyes couldn’t see.

  On the near hill, some distance from the rest of them, she recognized the bent figure of Sheela-na-Sheeoga. The old woman just watched. Made no attempt to approach them.

  Ellen then turned her eyes to the field below. The raised mounds of the lazy beds just sat there, staring remorselessly back at her. She thought of the good times they had had in that field, bending together, laughing, gathering in their harvest for the year ahead, the children playing. The time, when she was pregnant with Annie, he said that the sun danced around her – and the whitest flower dancing on every side of them. The whitest flower of Sheela-na-Sheeoga’s riddle. She looked up, but the old woman was gone again.

  Death was in the whitest flower. They were cursed by it, cursed by the vengeful God who sent it. And now it had led to this.

  ‘Ellen, it’s the time,’ Biddy whispered, taking her gently by the arm.

  The men stood waiting – still bearing Michael’s body on their shoulders.

  She walked to them, held up his face in her hands and kissed him for the last time.

  Then they buried him.

  As he walked in his gardens it seemed to David Moore that scant attention had been paid by the authorities to his warnings. There was little sign of any plan to stave off the continuing and worsening effects of the Great Hunger, as it was now being called. All Government activity was at best, reactive, interventionist.

  Nearer the Gate Lodge, the curator stopped awhile at the Jenkinstown Rose – Rosa chinensis. The flower was so named, one story went, because the composer-poet, on seeing this rose at Jenkinstown Castle, had been inspired by its beauty to pen the immortal words of ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ to an old Irish melody ‘The Groves of Blarney’. This spot, this rose, was much loved by Isabella. Moore remembered how, when first married, they had stood here and Isabella had softly hummed the words of the song to him. He had been deeply moved by her rendition.

  ’Tis The Last Rose of Summer,

  Left blooming alone,

  All her lovely companions,

  Are faded and gone …

  It worried him now to see Isabella over-reaching herself. She had taken to heart the Committee of Botany’s refusal to grant him the funds for continued research. And she complained bitterly about the insanitary conditions in which they lived – the Society having allowed the Gate Lodge to fall into a state of disrepair.

  But most of all it was the suffering of the people that affected her, driving her to take an ever-increasing role in Canon Prufrock’s fund-raising committee, working tirelessly to improve the lot of the poor.

  Moore resolved to have a quiet word with the canon. Perhaps he could persuade Isabella that she was doing too much.

  25

  Ellen remained on alone after the others had left, Biddy taking the children home with her.

  It was hard to pray. Hard because she couldn’t think of him being dead, now that he was back here, with her, in the valley.

  So she talked to him, the way she used to talk to him – before the last month or so, before she had started to lose him, before his mind was altered.

  And she cried a little and softly sang to him of her love and she whispered to him of how she would place on his grave not the whitest flower but the reddest rose. Then she kissed the petals of the flower and laid down the red rose: Rosa chinensis, the last rose, symbol of her love for him; symbol of his blood spilt for her; symbol of her defiance of him in whose garden it had grown.

  The next day Roberteen scrambled up to the scailpeen.

  ‘Ellen! Ellen! – Pakenham’s sister has sent word for you to go to her at Tourmakeady. She says it’s important for you and the children!’ he panted, all a-fluster.

  So word had gotten around already about Michael, and her taking his body all the way back to the mountains. She had known the rose would do it, that its meaning would not be lost on them.

  ‘Where’s Pakenham?’ she asked, angered by the message the boy had brought.

  ‘They say he went to London after … That the sister will stay at the Lodge while he’s gone,’ he answered, adding, ‘Don’t go, Ellen! ’Tis a trick, I’ll warrant – though she said no harm would come to you, that it would be to all ye’re advantage. But I wouldn’t trust her. Isn’t she the one breed with Pakenham?’

  She thought about it. She had nothing to be afraid of from either Pakenham or his sister. What more could they do to her, that they hadn’t already done? There was nothing left to take away from her. Her home was gone. Her husband was gone. All she had left were the children.

  She would go, she decided. See what the woman wanted. Anything that might help the children.

  Edith Pakenham was plain but well-preserved, showing none of the signs of dissolution so physically apparent on her brother. Her hair, neat and brown with the glimpse of grey, was braided and pulled back into a bun, giving her the look of a middle-aged schoolmistress.

  She hid her disdain at the tattered state of the peasant woman shown in to her by Bridget.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs O’Malley … at such a time. Bridget, fetch something from the kitchen. Mrs O’Malley must be thirsty after her journey.’

  Ellen studied her. She had never heard tell of Pakenham having a sister. But then, she wouldn’t have if the woman lived beyond in London.

  As if reading Ellen’s thoughts, the woman said, ‘I have come to Tourmakeady to see to things while Sir Richard is on business in London. I shall probably remain here in Ireland for some time to assist him in straightening out the affairs of the estate.’

  Ellen wondered as to where all this was leading.

  ‘Now then, Mrs O’Malley,’ she went on in the same matter-of-fact way, ‘far be it from me to criticize my brother’s actions, but certain … practices seemed to have crept into the running of Tourmakeady Lodge. These practices were prompted in part by other persons, and the pressures under which Sir Richard has laboured of late …’ She paused, studying Ellen, picturing how the tall red-haired woman might look if she were properly nourished and suitably outfitted. Striking, Edith Pakenham thought.

  Ellen waited for her to continue.

  ‘The times are indeed severe for all of us, landlord and tenant alike,’ the landlord’s sister said. ‘The London press lays the blame for the “calamity” in Ireland squarely, but unjustly, at our feet. Our Government in Westminster decrees that “Irish property must pay for Irish poverty”, when Irish poverty is, in fact, impoverishing Irish property. However, be that as it may … I have asked you here, Mrs O’Malley, because I propose making reparation to you for the wrongs visited on you and your family by my brother.

  ‘What I propose is as follows: that you leave Ireland forthwith for Australia – your passage to be paid for by the estate.’
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  Ellen was stunned at Edith Pakenham’s proposal. It was the last thing she had expected to hear.

  Could it be, could it possibly be, that at last she would see freedom for herself and her family? Freedom from the tyranny of living on the edge of poverty? Freedom from the almost certain death facing them?

  ‘Once in Australia you will be taken into employment by a Mr Coombes – an old friend of the Pakenham family, and the proprietor of Crockford’s, a large holding in the Barossa region of South Australia.’

  Edith Pakenham paused to let it all sink in.

  ‘What say you to this, Mrs O’Malley?’

  Ellen steadied herself before replying.

  ‘Why, thank you, Miss Pakenham. Thank you kindly indeed,’ she said, trying not to show too much delight; still cautious, given the most unexpected nature of this development.

  A smile creased the edges of Edith Pakenham’s schoolmistress’s mouth.

  ‘It is indeed a great opportunity, Mrs O’Malley,’ she said. ‘A few small conditions attach, of course.’

  Ellen knew it. There had to be a catch, a price to pay. Her body stiffened, her mind alert, waiting for the ‘few small conditions’.

  ‘Firstly, you must leave without undue delay,’ Edith Pakenham began.

  That was all right, Ellen thought. Easy comes first.

  ‘Secondly you must not induce the people – these Young Irelander persons – to any more riotous behaviour, or incite them to further outrages against my brother or the Pakenham estate. I will be clear with you: it is said the people would rally behind you if you were to align yourself with the rebels.’ The landlord’s sister hurried on, not wanting to give Ellen a chance to interrupt until she had finished. ‘Thirdly: that you do not return to Ireland within a period less than three years. That is what I seek in return, Mrs O’Malley.’

  Ellen couldn’t believe it – Pakenham was afraid of her, wanted her out of the way. It had never occurred to her to lead an insurrection, or rally the tenantry to her cause – but clearly the Pakenhams had convinced themselves that this was a real possibility. And they were worried. So worried that the landlord had taken refuge in London, leaving his sister to attend to the security of the estate.

  She was relieved too. They would escape! She knew little about Australia, except that it was far away, much further than America. But did it matter? It would give them a new start, fresh hope.

  ‘I agree to your conditions,’ she said.

  ‘Good. But I am afraid, O’Malley, I require somewhat more than your mere agreement. I require that our position is protected. You could, prior to leaving, instigate an attack on my brother’s life – as your late husband did – whenever Sir Richard returns. And even if you personally did not initiate reprisals, there are those known to you – the Young Irelanders, I believe – who would seek revenge on your behalf. Indeed, you might orchestrate vengeance even from Australia.’

  ‘But what can I—’

  ‘You must speak with them. Exact an undertaking from them.’

  ‘They would take no heed of me.’

  ‘But they will, Mrs O’Malley,’ Edith Pakenham interrupted, ‘if I have a bond of good faith from you.’

  ‘I’ve given my word I’ll do what I can. But I cannot speak for others.’

  ‘I require a bond greater than your word.’

  Ellen looked at the woman.

  ‘I require a bond of good faith from you which cannot be broken – your children.’

  The words jarred Ellen to the core. She could scarce comprehend what Edith Pakenham had said. But her body knew – every fibre and tissue knew. She was unable to speak.

  ‘The three older ones must remain behind,’ the woman continued, as if she were giving instruction to a classroom of children. ‘The infant you can take with you. They will be looked after well, given enough to eat, schooled – and you have the word of a Pakenham that they will not be proselytized to the Established Church. When you return in three years, with some means at your disposal, you can reclaim them. They will be kept safe for you.’

  Ellen could not believe what she was hearing. Leave her three darlings behind and go to Australia for three years? Desert them! Betray them!

  Her voice at last found the words her body was screaming to get out. ‘No! No! No! – I won’t do it! I won’t leave them!’ she railed at the woman, fire and tears at once in her eyes. ‘How could you – a woman – ask such a thing? How could I agree to this? Never! I’d die first!’

  ‘Well, you may get your wish, Mrs O’Malley. The choice is yours,’ Edith Pakenham said, unperturbed by Ellen’s outburst. ‘How will your children survive on the side of a mountain with no food to eat? You are, regrettably, widowed, with no husband to earn you substance. How will you yourself survive to provide for them now that you are destitute? There is always the workhouse …’ she added, without emotion, merely laying out the logical option.

  Ellen was frantic. She wanted to get out of there, run from Edith Pakenham and her scheme, so full of guile and wickedness. Run back to her children. Not listen as this woman reminded her of the grim realities of their lives now. A life without Michael, a life without hope.

  She made for the door, her thoughts tormenting her.

  But then what? She herself was weakened by lack of food. The long journey to Westport and the physical and mental agony of the journey back to bury Michael’s body had taken its toll on her. As well as this journey to Tourmakeady today.

  How long could they last? How long could she last? Without her, all of them would be doomed. Biddy would try to mind the children for a while. But how much longer would the Tom Bawns survive if they had to share their limited supplies with four other mouths? She couldn’t expect that of them, to take the bit out of their own mouths for her children.

  She and the children would hardly see the spring out and the way things looked, would hardly see it in. She had the balance of Michael’s last two weeks’ pay, but after that …? Her mind revolted at the very notion of the workhouse. If she hadn’t known, hadn’t gone in there, maybe she would have considered it. But she had gone in and she did know. Knew that before too long they would all end up in the lime-pit, or stacked up naked, the clothes ripped from their bodies before they were dropped into eternity through the false bottom of a hinged coffin. The thought made her skin crawl.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone for a moment to ponder it,’ Edith Pakenham said.

  As the landlord’s sister left the room, Bridget entered it carrying a tray and tea. When she saw how distraught Ellen was, she immediately put the tray down and went to her, taking Ellen’s hands in her own.

  ‘It’s sorry I am, Ellen Rua, to hear of your bad news,’ she said gently.

  Ellen looked at her. Was the girl in on it too?

  Bridget interpreted the quizzical look to mean that the woman was too upset to know what it was she was talking about. ‘Your husband …’ she said.

  ‘Oh!’ Ellen was relieved that the girl didn’t know, wasn’t part of it. ‘Thank you, Bridget. It’s another thing entirely that troubles me. Another terrible thing,’ she blurted out. She hesitated for a moment, but then, instinctively trusting the girl, unburdened herself of the impossible choice she faced.

  Bridget was shocked and for a while said nothing. Then, her pretty face furrowed, she said, ‘’Tis a terrible thing you have before you, but if the children of Ellen Rua O’Malley cross the doorstep of this house then Bridget Lynch will see to it that not a hair of their heads will ever be harmed. You can count on that, if it gives you any small comfort …’

  Ellen looked at the girl. She was good-hearted and spirited. She would set out to do as she had said. But what could she, a servant, do to protect them if harm was at hand?

  ‘Thank you, Bridget. I know you’d do your best for them, but how could I leave them? Leave three and take one?’

  ‘I know it’s a cruel thing, but what else is open to you, Ellen Rua? If you stay, you’ll all perish – like half the
countryside already has.’

  Ellen tried to think calmly, logically, but the questions kept crowding in on her. What if anything happened to her on the voyage, or in Australia? Then Pakenham would have no reason to continue keeping the children. Where would they end up then? And what if anything happened to any of them – or all of them – while she was gone? They could be dead and buried unbeknownst to her! Oh God, she should stay. Then she could pull in the scailpeen over themselves. At least they’d all die together then, close to each other.

  ‘What can I do, what can I do?’ she cried out. ‘Holy Mother of God, spare me! Sweet Crucified Jesus on the Cross, take away this moment from me!’

  How could she tell them, with their father not cold in his grave, that she was now deserting them? Leaving them with the man who had caused them so much hardship and suffering? Leaving them with their enemy – he who had murdered their father. How could she ever look at them and tell them?

  ‘I can’t do it, Bridget – I just can’t!’ Ellen shook her head violently, moving to break away from the girl and go.

  ‘Don’t be afeared of Sir – of Pakenham,’ the girl tightened her grip on Ellen’s wrist. ‘I’ll see to him!’ she said, looking Ellen straight in the eyes. She was so pretty, thought Ellen – her hair, her face, her eyes, her lips like a bright red rosebud. So full of life and youth.

  Ellen knew the girl was saying something to her, something which she didn’t fully understand.

  ‘It’s the only choice you have, Ellen,’ Bridget said, a little more quietly. ‘Sometimes we all have to make hard choices for the sake of others.’

  Ellen knew the girl was right. There was only one choice for her – a choice she never thought she’d have to make. One between living and dying.

  A terrible choice – to desert her children in order to save them. How would they ever understand – or forgive her?