Even on Days when it Rains

by Julia O'Donnell

  Our firstborn child was duly christened John Bosco, and we resolved that if we were blessed with more wee ones, they would be called Bosco as well. It’s a nice name. It saved my life. I thank God, and I thank all who prayed for me that night.

  When we took John Bosco home, he was the tiniest wee thing you ever did see, being a seven-month baby. You wouldn’t find him in a basket or a cot, so we put him in a shoe box. To this day, if you ask him, John will delight in telling all and sundry that he was reared in a shoe box. He was so small we were told not to bath him as he had just a film of skin; he didn’t even have fingernails. We rubbed olive oil on him until he was three months old, and he didn’t need a pram until he was six months. Now John Bosco is a fine man who is married with two sons – and he’s a grandad. So miracles do happen.

  Francie and I set up home in Kincasslagh on the mainland in a house that had been owned by one of my uncles who had passed on to his eternal reward. His daughter, being very kind and thoughtful, said to me, ‘Why don’t you move into the house and look after it because we don’t want to leave it lying empty.’ She already had a home of her own. We took her up on the offer, and I would go on to spend the next 20 years there. My mother, who was from the area, had actually helped with the building of the house. It’s a stone house, and the stone was carried by hand during the construction. They used to mix the ashes from the fireplace with lime and sand to cement the stones. It was a very solid, waterproof house. As good as anything you’ll find in modern times.

  Our daughter Margaret was born one year and nine months after John Bosco without any drama. Kathleen was the next one to come along. Francie always came home when one of the children was due to be born.

  When I was giving birth to Kathleen, I had Nurse Bridie Doherty with me in the house. Francie was outside with John Bosco, Margaret and relations of mine called Biddy and Neilie McGonagle. They were marching up and down the road outside our home, with Francie playing the flute and the other four drumming on tin cans while they were waiting for the new arrival.

  James was born four years after Kathleen. When he was born, the nurse called them in to see the child. John Bosco crept slowly up to the bed and had a peek at his tiny brother. By the look of him, he wasn’t too happy with the latest addition to our little clan. He turned to Francie and asked, ‘Daddy, are you sure he’s ours?’ Francie and myself had such a laugh.

  And last, but not least, came the boy himself, Daniel, who was born on 12 December 1961. He ended the show – the last of the Boscos. If I have one regret about my married life, it’s the fact that I spent most of it being separated from my lovely husband while the children were growing up. Unless you were a fisherman, husbands had no choice but to go away in search of work. It was either that or emigrate to America in search of a new life. We wanted to keep our roots in Ireland and rear the children there, even though we accepted that it would mean me living the life of a single parent while Francie was away.

  Like so many other husbands, Francie spent all of our married life working his way around Scotland year in and year out. It was a never-ending cycle of heartbreak, not just for couples but for their children as well. The truly sad thing is that Francie didn’t get to see much of his children, and he missed out on the wonderful experience of watching them grow and develop their own little personalities. They loved him dearly, though, and pined for him when he went away. I don’t think they ever heard him raise his voice to them, and, despite being a big, strong man, he was gentle and kind. Francie loved those children, and he’d sit them on his knee and tell them stories, or play them a tune on the flute. He was like the Pied Piper when he was in the house. They followed him around wherever he went.

  Their excitement would grow and grow in the weeks before Francie was due home on holiday. We’d be lying in bed and Margaret would ask, ‘When will Daddy be home?’ Then Kathleen would ask the same question. It might be four weeks, and I’d hold up four fingers to them and they’d count: ‘One, two, three, four. Will that be long, Mammy?’

  ‘Not too long now,’ I’d reply. Every day it would be the same.

  ‘How long more will it be before Daddy is home?’ James would ask. And they’d all look at me. As the fingers began to disappear, you could see the excitement mounting and their eyes twinkling with delight.

  The night before Francie was due, I’d announce, ‘Your daddy will be here in the morning.’ And sure they wouldn’t sleep a wink with the excitement. Santa Claus never got such a reaction. From sunrise, their little heads would be in the window, patiently waiting for their daddy. When he arrived at the door, they’d be out of the house like greyhounds after a hare. No man ever got a warmer, more loving welcome.

  Often he’d only be home for a week in July, and again at Christmas for another week or two. In the spring he’d come home to cut the turf, and we’d all go to the bog with him to help with that job. When we’d arrive at the bog Francie would ask us to go down on our knees and say a decade of the rosary that the weather would stay good until we got the turf home. And when we got the turf home, we had to go down on our knees again and do another decade of the rosary in thanksgiving.

  Children being children, the little ones weren’t big fans of prayer.

  Brief and all as it was, those were happy days when Francie was around the house. Sometimes he’d get a couple of months’ work doing fish-processing on the pier in Kincasslagh, just down the road from our house. He’d be able to come home for his dinner in the middle of the day, and that was a real luxury. I lived for that time, but inevitably it would end in sadness and heartbreak when Francie had to leave. I always packed his case when he went away, and it would be full of tears as well as clothes as I cried my eyes out.

  It was a terrible life. Before he went away, Francie would ask us all to go down on our knees and then we’d say a decade of the rosary that God would save him and us and that he would come back again. When he returned we’d do the same again to thank God that Daddy was safe and that we were all there to meet him.

  Francie, as I said, was a very religious man. He was an exceptionally devout Catholic, and his faith was always a great comfort to him. Father Keegan, a priest we knew in Scotland, tells the story of how Francie braved Arctic weather to attend Sunday Mass when he was away at work in the wintertime, digging ditches and doing drainage. When Father Keegan woke up one Sunday morning, there was a foot of snow on the ground and the blizzard was still blowing. In the far-off distance he could see a couple of black dots at the end of a field.

  Who has cattle out on a day like this? he thought.

  A short time later, as he was going into the local church, he realized that the dots were the two familiar figures of Francie and his brother James. They’d walked miles and miles in awful conditions to attend church.

  ‘There was no need for you to come out on a day like this,’ Father Keegan told them.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss Mass,’ Francie replied.

  ‘Father Keegan, on the day I die, and on the day of my funeral, I hope it’s snowing,’ James remarked. The strange thing about that is, years later when James died and Father Keegan was standing over the grave as the coffin was being lowered into the ground, it was snowing.

  Francie also had the cure for what was known at the time as ‘the Evil’. This was a lump the size of an egg that came out on the side of a person’s face. Francie became a faith-healer when he was given a special prayer by an old man who lived near him. He passed it on to Francie before he died. A seventh son is said to have special healing powers, and even though Francie was an eighth son, there was a set of male twins in his family and that was counted as one.

  The special prayer he’d been given went on to perform miracle cures through Francie for many, many people. It was well known that he had this gift, and people would flock to him from near and far with their ailments. No matter how hard his life was at the time, Francie never refused anyone. He had to see the afflicted person over three days. Part of the cure was that he h
ad to attend to the person after midnight and before the sun came up, so he would have to go to them in the middle of the night. And there were times when Francie came home from Scotland to attend to people and he’d stay for the three days. Nothing was too much for Francie. He was very, very good. He would go out in the middle of the night to help anyone. The special prayer was to be known only to Francie himself. He wasn’t allowed to tell me or anyone else what it was, and I never did ask him. If he so wished, it was within his gift to pass it on to someone else when the time came.

  When he was home, Francie used to enjoy the laughs he got from the children, particularly when they were very young and innocent. As Daniel was the baby in the family, I used to take him with me wherever I went. The only place he never wanted to go with me was to the local church when I’d be going to confession. So, whenever I was visiting someone or somewhere and I didn’t want Daniel to come with me, I’d put him off by telling him, ‘I’m going to confession, Daniel.’ And Daniel would stay behind without a whimper.

  At the time we had a dog called Rover, and one day when Daniel was crossing over to a neighbour’s house, the dog began to follow him. Daniel was about three at the time, and Francie was out front watching to see that he crossed safely. Daniel turned to Francie and said, ‘Daddy, call Rover back. Tell him he can’t come because I’m going to confession.’

  Francie laughed, and when he told me the story I realized that Daniel saw through my little trick but always played along with it. Even at the age of three he was that smart.

  Daniel always slept in my bed as a child when Francie was away working. He could never understand why he was evicted every time Daddy came home. ‘Can’t Daddy sleep somewhere else?’ he’d ask. You could see by the expression of thunder on Daniel’s little face that he was none too pleased about the change in his regular sleeping arrangement.

  The children were great company, especially during the months when Francie was working abroad. The house was always full of life and chatter. I hadn’t a minute to myself keeping up with their antics, particularly the boys’. Well, especially young James, who was tall for his age and who spent most his time dreaming up ways to be the centre of attention. I don’t know where I got him; he always seemed to be up to some kind of mischief.

  Wash day at that time was a major operation. There was no electric washing machine to ease the burden of work. Water was boiled in saucepans on the range and then carried outside to fill up a tub where I would scrub the dirty laundry by hand. It was time-consuming work and tedious too.

  One morning I had spent the best part of an hour heating the water and filling a bathtub outside. Then I mixed in the washing soda and slushed it around to create suds. No sooner had I turned my back to fetch the dirty laundry from the house than the bold James was up to his trickery. He just couldn’t resist the temptation to tip up the bathtub and empty out all my lovely hot, soapy water. I came around the corner just in time to see him scurrying away from the scene of the crime with a big, cheeky grin on his face.

  I grabbed a sally rod and chased after him. Eventually I cornered James and gave him a lash of the sally stick. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least. But no matter what mischief he got up to, I couldn’t stay mad at James for long. I knew in my heart that there was no real badness in him. He just saw the humour in everything. To him, his antics were just harmless fun, but I didn’t always see the funny side of them. And he was forever playing tricks on the rest of the children, silly stuff like hiding their things. That would always cause a row. There was no malice in James, he was just a trickster. But I was forever shouting at him, ‘James, if you don’t leave them alone I’ll give you a lash of the sally rod!’ I might as well have been talking to the wall for all the notice that he took of me.

  John Bosco was a different young fellow altogether. Although he was older, Bosco was smaller and quiet in himself. You wouldn’t know he was around the house if James wasn’t taunting him. Then he’d be well able to stand up for himself. Kathleen was a second mother to them all. She was very like myself when I was that age, as she loved helping round the home. As the years went on, her siblings would always turn to Kathleen for advice. She’s a great listener, and she’d always be totally honest with them.

  Margaret was a great worker too, and she loved to sing. She really had something special for a child so young, and I taught her some lovely old ballads. ‘Sing a song for us,’ I’d say in the evening. And Margaret would stand in the middle of the floor, close her eyes and sing like she understood all the emotions that were in those songs. But on the occasions when I had to scold Margaret for misbehaving when she was a youngster, she’d get all huffy and march off to her room. Then she’d appear out of it with her little case all packed and announce that she was leaving home. She’d march off down to the strand in Kincasslagh and sit behind a rock. I’d discreetly keep an eye on her from a distance. When she’d eventually realize that no one was coming to get her, you’d see little Margaret slinking back up the road again with the little case. She’d come into the house, ignore everybody and go to her room.

  Even without children, our house was always busy. There was an endless stream of visitors coming through the door. No one ever had to knock; they just lifted the latch and walked right in. The kettle would be on, and tea was always on offer. A cup of tea and a chat with the neighbours, there was nothing like it. I was surrounded by lovely people in my neighbourhood, and that compensated in some ways for the loneliness I felt when Francie was away.

  As I was an island woman and the only one in the vicinity, people coming over from the local islands would occasionally call too. I was always ready to welcome anyone who was storm-bound. One afternoon a group of fishermen from Tory Island arrived into Kincasslagh pier with a cargo of herring. I took them in for tea as it was a particularly stormy evening. As the time went on, there was no sign of the storm blowing over. In fact, it got considerably worse, posing a real danger to anyone out on the open sea. The men from Tory were very concerned about it, so I told them not to risk the crossing. ‘You can stay in our house. I won’t have enough beds, but I have a big fire and plenty of food,’ I told them.

  They took me up on the offer, and it turned out to be a great night. The fishermen had some drink with them to fortify themselves against the elements, and they had a sup of that. Before long a sing song had started. I made plenty of tea and gave them lots of bread that I had baked. The singing continued into the early hours of the morning, and it was an unexpected night of merriment.

  My mother, who was staying with us then, was in a bed off the kitchen. The next morning she said, ‘That was the finest night of singing I ever heard.’

  It broke my heart on those occasions when I’d dwell on how much Francie was missing out in our lives. I longed for the day that he wouldn’t have to emigrate to find work. Little did I know that ahead of us lay a terrible tragedy that would tear us apart.

  chapter seven

  * * *

  My Darkest Day

  IT WASN’T UNTIL 1967 that our family finally moved into the modern age when the local council agreed to provide us with a cottage. For the first time in our lives we were going to have all the mod cons of the times.

  Up till then, we were still living with the remnants of a dying era in the house my cousin had kindly loaned to us after her father had died. It still had an old-fashioned open fire, with the cooking being done in pots hanging over the burning coals. There were no electricity and no running water. The house had neither a bathroom nor even a flush toilet – the latter was a tin hut at the end of the garden. The new cottage was going to have all of those modern conveniences. If Donegal County Council had provided us with a castle, the family wouldn’t have been more excited.

  All we could think of for weeks and weeks as it neared completion was our big move into this bright, spacious, modern cottage. The new dwelling was just across the road from the house we were living in, so we weren’t being uprooted from our normal surro
undings. It couldn’t have been more perfect. The building of the new house provided great entertainment, and some frustration, as we watched it going up, block by block, month after month.

  ‘Mother, they’re starting the roof,’ Kathleen said one morning.

  ‘Do you think it will be ready next week?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘It’ll be a wee while yet,’ I replied, and their heads hung. The construction work probably seemed like an eternity to the children. And, to be honest, I wasn’t very patient myself.

  When the shell was completed, we clapped and cheered.

  ‘It won’t be long now till we’re in our snug new house,’ I assured the children. Little did I know that the interior work was a much slower process and that the plumbing, electrical and carpentry jobs would take many more months.

  In November, the house was ready for us to occupy. I’d been given a key by one of the workers, but the cottage hadn’t been officially handed over to me by the council. The weather had turned bitter, and we were freezing in the old house. I’d look over at the newly built cottage, which seemed so warm and inviting, and I’d wish that we could move in there and then. The weeks went by, the weather got colder and colder, and there was no sign of the notice from Donegal County Council. The postman occasionally called with a letter. I’d be delighted when I’d see one arriving from Francie, but there would be disappointment as well when the council’s notice wasn’t in the postman’s bag.