Silence ensued while the priest mulled over these bitter words. On any other occasion this reversal of roles – Patrick’s chastisement of the priest when normally it was the other way around – would have brought a swift rebuke, but today the outburst was accepted dumbly.
‘God forgive me I have no call to go on at you like that.’ The fire in Patrick, given a free rein, had burnt itself out. It took energy to be angry and he was lately lacking in this commodity. ‘I know how hard ye’ve been working to feed people. I understand your feelings … I don’t know where we’d all have been without your soup kitchen.’
The priest raised one eyebrow. ‘I’d prefer that folk need me for my spiritual guidance rather than for a free meal ticket.’
Patrick barely heard, so obsessed was he by his own private suffering.
‘’Tis just that I feel so helpless watching me wife get thinner and thinner, hearing stories of how they’re shipping boatloads o’ grain to England while our own people die. ’Tis bloody marvellous, is it not, that those of us whose land is rich enough to grow wheat an’ corn cannot even afford to eat it ourselves?’
‘There’s talk of more help from the English,’ ventured the priest.
‘I’ll believe that when I’ve got the evidence in me belly,’ said Patrick. ‘Sure, what help have the English ever given us – except to help themselves to our land.’
‘Now that’s not strictly true in your case,’ the priest reminded him, for Patrick’s landlord was Irish.
‘Aye, well I reckon there’s not a deal o’ difference when we’re owing them money. Boyne’s due again any time now. This’ll be his second visit an’ still we’ve not enough for him.’
The futility of his expression brought an all too familiar feeling of helplessness to the priest. These people looked to him, as their leader, for help – and all that he was able to give them was advice to have faith and put their trust in God. But he could see by the doubt on countless faces that this was not enough. Words, however rich in meaning, held no nourishment. Trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice he said, ‘Ye know, a lot of folk have gone to America. They say ’tis a fine country. Ye could make a fresh start there if ye could get hold o’ the fare.’
‘Haven’t I heard the tales?’ replied Patrick grimly. ‘They’re packed in their hundreds into the holds like slaves, existing for weeks in their own filth. Those left alive – which I’m doubting are very many – are cast ashore with not a penny left between them.’
‘Have ye ever considered England, then? Surely the ferry from Dublin cannot be as bad as that?’
Patrick’s reaction was swift. ‘England ye say? God Almighty, they’re the last people on earth I’d choose to live with.’
Father Brendan sighed. ‘Ah, Pat, is there no helping ye? I’ve suggested all I can think of.’
‘The only way ye can help is to magic up a few seed potatoes an’ I doubt that even you could do that. No, when God set the blight on my land He really made a fine job of it, didn’t He?’
The priest was about to tear a strip off him, then resigned himself to the fact that Patrick would believe what he wanted to and no amount of cajolery would make him think otherwise. ‘You’re a devilish stubborn man, Patrick Feeney,’ he sighed. ‘D’ye not think Our Lord has enough on his doorstep without you turning against Him an’ all?’ He moved to the door, still speaking. ‘An’ you’re wrong, ye know. This isn’t the work o’ God.’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Patrick interrupted tersely. ‘All I want is some seed, an’ I’m not likely to get that, am I?’
‘There’s hope yet. Maybe the Government might send us some.’
‘If might was bread we’d all be very fat.’ Patrick opened the door for him. In doing so he caught sight of his wife fighting her way through the snowdrifts, hugging a threadbare shawl to her meagre bosom. ‘I was beginning to worry!’ he shouted. ‘Where’ve ye been?’
‘There and back,’ evaded Mary as she reached the two men. ‘Hello, Father, sorry I was out. Will ye not stop for …’ she paused. What was there left to offer the man?
Father Brendan noted her humiliation. ‘Thank ye no, Mary. I’ll tarry no longer with this ass of a husband o’ yours. Try to talk some sense into him, will ye. God be with ye.’ He turned to Patrick. ‘Both of ye. Even though ye choose not to believe it, Pat, He is with ye.’ He marched off towards the village.
Once inside Mary revealed the prize she had been hiding under her shawl – a turnip. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I found it under a hedge-bottom sticking out of the snow. It must’ve fallen off a cart ages ago. I’m surprised no one else found it.’ She held up the frozen turnip, turning it this way and that as though it were a prize exhibit at a show.
‘’Tis a clever wife I have indeed.’ Patrick bent to pick up a stool that he had kicked over in his anger at the priest. ‘Sit ye down, Mary, there’s something I’m wanting to ask ye.’ He squatted on his heels in front of her, carefully weighing the words before asking, ‘How would ye feel if we had to leave here?’
‘What’s that you’re saying?’ His father came in from the cold, adjusting his breeches with skeletal fingers.
‘Ah, ye’ve decided to surface at last, have ye?’ scoffed Patrick. ‘Leaving me to face the priest alone. Ye must’ve been crouching out there for ages. ’Tis a wonder ye didn’t leave the skin o’ your buttocks behind.’
A frown creased Richard’s forehead. ‘A pox to the priest. What was that I heard ye say about leaving?’
‘If ye’d honoured us with your presence ye wouldn’t need to ask.’
‘Well, ’tis asking I am. An’ where is it ye’d be thinking of going?’
Patrick told him of the priest’s suggestion.
‘What!’ roared the old man, veins standing out on his temples.
‘Now don’t go giving yourself a seizure.’ Patrick tried to calm him. ‘We haven’t the fare so ’tis out of the question. But whether we go to England or no, we’ll still have to leave here one way or the other.’
‘England, huh! The man’s mad. I’d sooner take my sup from the Devil’s navel. The only way I’m leaving this cottage is in a wooden box – an’ that’s not unlikely the way things are going.’ Richard turned angrily to his daughter-in-law. ‘You’ll not be wanting to go surely, Mary?’
Mary looked at Patrick. ‘Wherever my husband goes then I go too.’
‘Saints preserve us,’ howled Richard. ‘Is it mad y’are too? An’ you in your condition. D’ye not know the English roast babies alive?’
Mary’s blue eyes widened in fear and she cradled her swollen abdomen protectively.
‘Ye daft old eejit,’ stormed Patrick. ‘Don’t be goin’ filling her head with all that nonsense. Ye’ll be having us believe they eat the blessed things next.’
‘And so they do!’ insisted Richard loudly. ‘Didn’t my own grand-daddy tell me about King Billy’s soldiers.’
‘Ah, don’t go listening to the old woman, Mary. He’d tell ye pigs lay eggs just to frighten ye.’ He went to comfort his wife but Mary pulled away from him.
‘What sorta land is this where you’re taking me, Pat?’ she whispered fearfully. ‘I’d rather stay here an’ face things than risk the baby being harmed.’
‘’Tis a load o’ nonsense I’m telling ye,’ Patrick reiterated, glaring at his father. ‘If we stay here we’ll die for certain. Have ye not seen enough over the past six months to realise that? An’ would I be taking ye anywhere ye’d be in danger? Would I, Mary?’
She searched his honest face. ‘If you’re sure ’twill be safe…’
‘I’m sure,’ he responded firmly, daring his father to say more.
Richard sat on the floor. What was the use in telling them? Nobody believed an old man.
Mary wandered to the window, casting her eyes over the dormant land. The naked trees pointed their fingers at a snow-laden sky – I’ll never see the spring again, she thought sadly. Never smell the peat bogs, never see the newly-born fern
curl its way through the brown crackling remnants of last year’s growth, never watch my child race up and down that green hillside like a mad March hare filled with the joy of being alive.
She could no longer bear to look and turned her gaze back to the room. The men bowed their heads as if sharing her unspoken thoughts.
‘If staying here means the child will never see the light of day, then I’m thinking we must go where we have a chance of survival. Though God knows where we’ll get the money for it.’ Having said this Mary closed her mind on the matter. ‘Will ye go break the ice on the rain barrel, Pat? I’ll cook this turnip.’ She was acting as if everything was normal; it was ridiculous. She wondered as she sliced the vegetable how she was going to coax the heat to cook it from that pathetic little fire.
Oh, you’re so ungrateful, she charged herself. There were those who fared much, much worse. She had seen them travelling in droves to the coast, their matchstick legs barely able to support their emaciated, sore-covered bodies. Children with heads too large for their shrunken shoulders to carry who collapsed at the roadside to die. Occasionally a cart would arrive to collect the corpses, pack them into coffins and trundle them to a communal grave. The coffins had false bottoms so that the bodies were slipped discreetly into the ground, leaving the boxes to be used again. Now, they had even dispensed with the coffins altogether.
She shuddered as the bone-chilling air followed Patrick and the man now with him back into the cottage. Seamus Boyne removed his hat and loosened his scarf, blowing on his hands to restore the circulation although he was wearing gloves. His well-clothed, well-fed frame seemed out of place here. He was a peacock amongst broiling fowl, a pig among skeletons. Boyne was the agent for the Irish lord’s estate and as such, was responsible for collecting the rents. Although his lordship was anxious to rid himself of his non-paying tenants, he did not hold with the methods employed by other landlords and being unsure of the best direction to take, had prudently left it to Boyne to sort out the matter, thereby divesting himself of blame should there be repercussions.
The man came straight to the point. ‘I have some news which may not please you, Feeney.’
Patrick had no need to ask the nature of this news, was only surprised to be given prior warning of the inevitable. He had heard of the evictions in other parts of the county, how the people had been compelled to watch the soldiers stack their pitiful belongings in the dead gardens and demolish the flimsy mud dwellings that had been their homes, leaving them no place to turn but the small dank caves amid the bracken. To be fair, some of the soldiers took no pleasure in their orders, sometimes dipping into their own pockets to compensate the cottiers for the harsh manner in which they were treated. But this did not detract in any way from the landlords’ callousness.
‘You’re a brave man to come without the lobsters, Boyne,’ he spat bitterly. ‘Are ye thinkin’ to evict us all on your own? ’Cause ’tis a fight ye’ll have on your hands an’ no mistake.’
‘Don’t be classin’ me with them English,’ replied Boyne, affronted. ‘Oh, I’ll be turning y’out sure enough,’ he nodded to Patrick’s scornful smile. ‘His lordship needs the land to turn to more profitable use. He’s been having a thin time of it lately.’ Here Patrick laughed, a loud, derisive echo off the mud walls. ‘Ah, ye can laugh,’ said Boyne. ‘But ’tis true. How d’ye expect him to maintain his standard of living when you idlebacks aren’t paying your quarter?’
‘Idlebacks!’ roared Patrick, stepping towards Boyne. ‘Why ye miserable poltroon, I’ll push your teeth to the other side o’ your head.’
Mary struggled to restrain her husband while a terrified Boyne fumbled inside his jacket. Finally reaching the object of his search he pulled out a purse and waved it as a means of defence. ‘Here, Feeney, take this,’ he stammered. ‘I meant no harm, truly.’
‘What is it?’ asked the other suspiciously.
‘Call it what ye will,’ said Boyne, relieved that the purse had had the desired effect. ‘Compensation if ye like. There’s enough in this purse to pay your way to England.’
‘An’ what makes ye think I’d want to go there?’ But Patrick still eyed the purse.
‘Ye’d be a fool not to, there’s nothing left for ye here.’ As he spoke Richard made sounds of derision. Boyne ignored him. ‘Come on, man! Is it not better than having your home pulled down around your ears?’
Patrick was silent for a moment. He looked at his wife, who evaded his unspoken question; it must be his decision. Slowly, and to the sound of condemnation from his father, he reached out and clutched the purse. ‘Maybe I misjudged ye, Boyne. I took ye to be just like the rest. We’re grateful.’
Boyne lost some of his bluster and looked embarrassed. He had omitted to mention the confrontation he had had with the priest on his way up here. Father Brendan had really laid into him as he straddled his well-nourished pony. He had never seen the man so angry, raving on about helping one’s fellow man, rebuking him for the food he had so obviously stuffed down his pony’s throat instead of into the mouths of crying babes, breathing hellfire and damnation down his collar until he had thought the man might attack him physically, too. Boyne would have promised anything to get away. As it was he had escaped rather lightly. With the offer of this small sum the land would be retrieved peaceably. Yes, his lordship should be well pleased with his solution.
After Boyne had left Patrick waved the purse in the air and said, ‘Now isn’t that a real turn of events?’
‘Charity,’ spat his father. ‘An’ ye needn’t think I’m going.’
‘’Tis not charity! Damn me if I’d take that, ’tis compensation like Boyne said – an’ what d’ye mean you’re not going?’
‘Is it soft in the head y’are? Ye don’t seem to understand: I was born here – not just in this county or this village but on this very land.’ The old man stabbed a finger at the floor to strengthen his point. ‘So, don’t be telling me that rubbish about ending up in the poorhouse – I know that’s where I’ll be!’
‘’Tis lucky ye’ll be, then,’ said Patrick sarcastically. ‘The poorhouse is burstin’ its walls already.’
‘Then I’ll die,’ came Richard’s zealous retort. ‘’Tis as simple as that. Anything is preferable to moving in with me enemies.’
Mary listened to his words with alarm. ‘But we cannot go without you.’
‘Ah, ye know ye’ll be a lot happier without a cantankerous old devil like me,’ joked Richard. ‘Many’s the time ye’d’ve liked to throw me out, I’ll be bound.’ Mary strenuously denied it and was upset that he should even think so. ‘’Tis true all the same,’ replied Richard. ‘Ye’ll be a lot better off without me round your necks. Ye must go, ’tis the only chance my grandchild will have – even if it will mean he’ll be born a foreigner.’
Her large eyes shone with tears. ‘No, never that. We’ll make sure he knows where his heart lies.’
‘I’m sure you’ll keep Ireland alive inside o’ ye, Mary,’ sighed Richard. ‘But who can say what the little fella will feel, brought up amongst heathens?’
Rising creakily he moved to where the harp still reclined in the corner of the almost empty room. His refusal to part with it had brought many violent outpourings from his son, who could not understand his reasoning that he would rather starve than surrender his heritage. It had been handed down for generations, and to sell it would be like severing a limb. Braving the icy blast he limped outside and, sitting with the harp between his legs, began to lure a haunting melody from the instrument. The sound of its lament filled the air and wafted over the valley, pervading each cottage as it flowed, and filling each heart with a heaviness that was unbearable in its pain.
Chapter Five
And so, with Boyne’s help, they had found a means of escape from the blight. The pity of it was that the same compassion had not been extended to the McCarthys. With the months of famine, Mary had seen the size of her family drastically reduced; not so much from the hunger, for Father Br
endan’s soup kitchen had blunted the effects of starvation, but from the deadly famine fever which raged through the country. Boyne had been shrewd enough to see that here was one place where he would not have to dig into his pocket. The McCarthy cottage would soon be vacated by natural processes.
Surprisingly, Sean had been the first to fall victim to the fever; healthy, robust Sean with his ready laugh and good nature. His death was closely followed by Liam’s, then Siobhan’s husband – it was odd how the menfolk perished first – and finally Siobhan’s baby, since when she had left her lonely cot and joined the remaining members of her family. There had been no deaths since little Rory’s three days ago, but as Mary entered now she knew that the rest of her kin would soon follow. Carmel’s head lolled against her chest. The lack of sleep and the strain of constant nursing had finally caught up with her. She and Siobhan had, up until now, escaped the fever, but were just as likely to drop dead from the fatigue of the last few weeks.
Bernadette and Kathleen lay on the rush-covered floor, both near to death. Mary had experienced increasing guilt that she would soon be on her way to a new life while they were left to rot. That was why today, as every day, she had come to tend her dying siblings in the hope that it might cleanse her conscience. Trying not to wake her mother she stepped over the prostrate form and knelt beside Siobhan, balking at the harsh, racking cough that exploded from Kathleen’s lips.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 4