Then all went home to certain death.
* * *
Some days after this, when Seamus Boyne rode up the hill to supervise the tumbling of the vacated cottage, he spied a figure who sat, his back supported by a frost-covered tree stump, smiling at the vast panorama below him. Puzzled as to who might be mad enough to be sitting outside on a freezing day like this, he went closer to investigate.
Boyne recoiled in shock at the discovery. What he had at first imagined to be the man’s smile was, in reality, a gaping wound that ran from ear to ear. Richard Feeney, the knife still in his lifeless hand, sat frozen solid. His last view, before the red mist had shrouded his sight forever, had been that of his beloved land.
Chapter Six
Liverpool docks swarmed with life of varying forms and the stench of fish greeted their nostrils as the ferry spewed forth its luckless cargo. The voyage had been a nightmare. The entire crossing had been plagued by squalls which had buffeted the steamer relentlessly, rendering even the most resilient of passengers green-faced and bilious. The pain of trying to vomit on an empty stomach had left Patrick wishing he was dead.
But now, as they stepped giddily onto the quayside, Patrick resolved to make the most of this new life. The question was – where did one start? He looked down at his fragile wife who was trying to suppress the discordant music that gurgled around her intestines. Heading the list of priorities must be food. He examined his pocket. There was little left of the money Boyne had given them but enough, perhaps, for a meal and a place to stay until he could find employment. He wished he had possessed more foresight and not bought that frugal meal in Dublin. It had been a foolish decision in more ways than one, for after relying on soup for so many weeks their stomachs had revolted at the solid food. He could have wept at the waste of it for the moment that the ferry began its rocking and swaying the food on which he had spent precious coins had refused to stay down.
Dragging Mary behind him, he elbowed a passage through the crowd, weaving his way between coils of rope and discarded fish crates; past the fishermen who sat mending their nets, deftly threading the giant shuttles in and out of the torn mesh; past the blind beggar who held out his cup as they stepped over his legs and who spat contemptuously when his ears failed to catch that welcoming chink; past the organ grinder who bellowed at a gaggle of urchins who tormented his monkey. The seething crush of sweaty, unwashed bodies made Patrick dizzy. It was claustrophobic and alien after the green fields of his homeland. He had never thought to be surprised again after encountering the busy streets of Dublin, but this colourful glimpse of Liverpool society made the capital of Ireland appear genteel in comparison. He quickly averted his face – then looked again – as gaudily-dressed females with painted faces lifted their skirts almost to the calf in advertisement of their profession. The provocative sway of their hips held his startled eyes, which he only tore away at the foul-mouthed retorts as a prospective client informed the girl her fee was too high.
‘Gerrout the bloody way!’ Patrick jumped hastily aside as a netload of crates was lowered from a hoist and deposited on the wharf.
The stevedore swung his hook into the ropes that bound the crates and moved them towards the landing stage. Patrick and Mary stood watching dumbly as he carried out his work.
‘Pat, d’ye think y’oughta ask the fella where we might find something to eat?’ whispered Mary, clinging to his arm. She was as much – if not more – in awe of her surroundings as her husband.
Patrick was uncertain – the man looked a surly character. Still, he told Mary he could but try. Anglicizing his request he said, ‘Excuse me.’
‘What is it?’ snapped the man, pushing Patrick to one side with a curse as the person who was controlling the hoist miscalculated and sent a large container hurtling to the ground. ‘Have a care, Chalky for Christ’s sake!’ He examined the contents of the smashed crate. ‘Look at that,’ he told Patrick disgustedly, pointing at the pile of broken crockery, then hollered aloft: ‘If yer gonna drop one yer could at least pick one that’s got somethin’ useful in it!’ He started to clear up the mess, then realised Patrick was still at his shoulder. ‘Are you still ’ere? What the ’ell are yer hangin’ about for like a bad smell? Can’t yer see yer in the road?’
Patrick apologised. ‘I was just wonderin’ if ye could be after telling us where we might find work or at least somewhere to lay our heads?’
The stevedore laughed, baring a set of stubby brown teeth. ‘I doubt if yer’ll find either work or shelter ’ere, mate. No room at the inn, sorta thing,’ he joked, pointing to Mary’s condition, then seeing Patrick was unamused, cleared his throat. ‘Please yerself – but I can tell yer that Liverpool’s teemin’ with your lot. Thousands there’s been arriving every week. There’s talk of’em not letting any more in. In fact,’ he tapped Patrick’s chest with a nicotine-stained finger, ‘I’ve heard they might be sendin’ some of ’em back, so if I were you I’d move on, sharpish-like.’
Patrick stiffened at the man’s words. Had they undergone all that discomfort just to be sent back? He muttered thanks for the information then ushered Mary away.
‘Oy!’
Patrick started at the stevedore’s afterthought.
‘There’s one o’ them soup kitchens round the corner,’ the man shouted, making signals with his thumb. ‘Yer missus looks as if she ain’t seen a square meal in months. It won’t cost yer nuthin’.’
Patrick raised a hand in acknowledgement and, following the man’s hand-jabs, soon found the soup kitchen.
He groaned as he saw the mass of people waiting for the handouts, standing in queues that stretched beyond the capabilities of his vision. There must be five – no, ten thousand paupers here, most of them children. Nevertheless the couple took their place in the line and sat down patiently to wait their turn.
Pending nourishment Patrick turned to a young man at his side. ‘Have ye managed to find any work?’
The youth nodded. ‘Maybe, but not here. I normally come over every year for the chicory-picking at York. Sure, I’m a little early for it this time but what with the situation being what it is at home, well, I thought there might be a couple o’ thousand more after the job so I’m seeing I get my name down early.’
‘Might there be work for me there?’ asked Patrick eagerly.
‘There might, but not till the summer I doubt.’
‘God, that’s no good, I need the money now.’ He told the young man of the money given to him by Boyne. ‘It didn’t last very long, I fear. So, what’re you going to do while you’re waiting on the chicory?’
‘Oh, I dare say there’ll be something I can turn me hand to.’
‘Are ye going to this York place straight away?’ Patrick made a sound of acknowledgement at the young man’s affirmation. ‘Aye, I’m thinking we should be going too, Mary.’ The stevedore’s words still worried him. He began to rise.
‘Faith, you’re not thinking to go right now, are ye?’ asked the young man. ‘D’ye not know how far it is? A hundred miles, give or take. At least have the sense to get a good meal down ye first.’
Patrick remained seated but was still on edge. ‘I’m fearing they might send us back if we clutter up their roads for long. An’ by the time we’re served I coulda walked there an’ back. I think they must be breeding down the other end o’ this queue.’
‘Look,’ said the youth. ‘I’ll be settin’ off meself tomorrow nice n’early. If ye’ll just have patience I’ll take ye there. If we get separated in this place meet me back here in the morning. There’s about thirty of us joined together; ’tis safer to travel in numbers.’
Five hours later their long wait was rewarded by a bread ticket and a bowl of gooey substance which tasted surprisingly good. His belly warmed and comforted, Patrick realised that he hadn’t thought to ask the young man where he would be staying the night. There was no hope of finding him again in this tangle of famine-flesh but perhaps one of those women attendants could give him an ad
dress.
‘Could ye be after helping us with a problem, ma’am?’ he asked politely, with careful formation of his little-used vocabulary of English.
The woman continued to scour out the giant soup container, glancing at him only briefly as if she had not understood his words. With this supposition he repeated his question more distinctly.
‘The Lord helps those that help themselves,’ replied the woman without looking up this time.
Patrick’s friendly smile vanished and after a second’s pause his fist crashed heavily onto the table, sending the clean pans crashing to the floor. ‘Help ourselves?’ he raged bitterly. ‘D’ye think we’d be here relying on your bloody charity like paupers if we were able to help ourselves? D’ye think we let our children die deliberately? Don’t you talk to me about the Lord, I’ve finished with Him. He’s been no bloody help whatsoever – an’ neither have you damned English…’
‘Welsh, actually,’ the woman interposed, not the least bit afraid of this wild-eyed man. ‘And if you hate the English as much as your tone implies why do you come here?’
‘I’m beginning to ask meself that question,’ yelled Patrick, interspersing his angry speech with Irish words which tripped more easily from a raging tongue, but fell on uncomprehending ears. He took hold of himself, forming the protest into English. ‘I was led to believe I’d find help here but so far I’ve received none – an’ ’tis not just the English who’re an uncharitable lot.’
‘Now look, you! Don’t you be accusing me of uncharitableness. I’ve been here for seven days solid with hardly a moment’s rest. You seem to think the world owes you a living and here I am flogging myself to death, for what? To have some big oaf of an Irishman undoing all my work.’ She clashed the pans together. ‘I’m sick of the ingratitude of you people.’
‘Who said anything about being ungrateful?’
‘Why, you did, you clown.’
‘Only ’cause I was pushed to it by a sharp-tongued old biddy like yourself. If ye’d have had the courtesy to listen to my original request ye’d have found all I wanted was directions to a lodging house.’
The woman opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again as a great-eyed spectre appeared at the Irishman’s elbow. The girl could be no more than sixteen but looked thirty, the responsibility for the unborn child resting heavily upon her. Yet despite the filth and lice the woman could tell that the girl had once been beautiful – Oh, you’re getting hard, Bronwen Evans, she told herself. In the beginning the sight of so much suffering had overwhelmed her, so that she had had to turn off her mind to avoid becoming emotionally involved with these people. But this child was the same age as her own daughter…
She flopped down onto a bench, squeezing her nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sorry. I must have sounded callous and indifferent to your plight…’
‘So ye did.’ Patrick was still annoyed. ‘An’ now I’ll bid ye good-day.’ He turned on his heel and made for the exit. Mary gave the woman one last imploring look then hurried after him.
‘Wait!’ cried Bronwen, anxious to redeem herself. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Sure, ye said to help ourselves, didn’t ye?’ shouted Patrick. ‘Well, that’s what I intend to do. Perhaps we’ll be treated with more sympathy in York.’
Bronwen, marched down the hall, hands on hips, and demanded into his face, ‘Don’t you know it can make you bow-legged?’ He frowned. ‘Riding high-horses,’ she enlightened. ‘For Heaven’s sake vent your spleen on me if you must – I dare say I deserve it – but don’t go taking it out on that poor girl. Dragging her across the countryside just to spite me…’
Mary asked what the woman was saying and Patrick translated for her.
‘Tell her not to worry about me,’ she told her husband then. ‘I’m well enough to make this journey.’
Patrick interpreted. ‘Well, of course she’d say that!’ Bronwen almost screamed at his insensitivity. ‘She’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked her. Can’t you see she worships the ground you walk on? No, of course you can’t, with all those clouds of self-importance round your head… God, what is it about you that gets people’s backs up? I’ve no desire to start another argument. Let me tell you where there’s a lodging house then get you out of my sight.’ She gave directions. Patrick asked how much this would cost him. ‘Fourpence per night,’ she replied and, satisfied, he made to depart once more. ‘Don’t you go letting that oaf drag you all over the place neither!’ she warned Mary who did not understand but inclined her head as her husband had seemed to have been accommodated.
‘Silly old crow,’ muttered Patrick when they were outside. ‘Making out I don’t know how to look after me own wife.’
‘I’m sure she was only tryin’ to be kind, Pat,’ soothed Mary.
‘Ah, y’always think the best of everybody, don’t ye, Mary?’ He put his arm around her and pondered over the crowd of unfortunate fellows still waiting to be fed. ‘Ah well, let’s be finding this lodging place of ours.’
When they did find the accommodation, however, the conditions were such as to make the sleep they so desperately craved virtually impossible. They were packed into a room with forty or fifty strangers, lying side by side like matches in a box. Whenever one person turned over the rest were disturbed – often to ignition point – and by next morning poor Mary did not feel as if she had had a wink of sleep at all.
But the cheery good morning offered by their young travelling companion when they met at the arranged place helped to make her troubles seem less. When the rest of their fellows arrived it was with renewed spirit that the party set off on the long road to York.
Chapter Seven
Over the next few days they came to know and like their companion, Denny O’Halloran. He hailed, he informed them, from County Clare. His mother and sisters had perished in the famine. With his father already dead some years before, that left Denny and his brother to seek their fortunes in England. At Dublin, however, his brother had met with a young lady and having a liking for the city life had decided to risk things in his mother country. A personable chap, Denny was always finding ways to cheer the Feeneys when they had begun to doubt that their suffering would ever end, entertaining them with tales of Irish folklore to wind away the cold nights spent shivering under the hedgerows.
Whenever they came across a farm it was always Denny who would knock at the door and beg for a crust of bread, always Denny who ran the risk of being savaged by the farmers’ dogs. Being a regular visitor to these shores he had picked up the language. When Patrick argued that he too spoke English and that he should take his turn at the farm door, Denny replied that it would not do for his friend to take an unnecessary gamble when he had Mary to think about. No, if there was any courting with death to be done Denny would be the one to do it – for who would miss him if the worst happened? The other travellers, even though some of them were familiar with the language, supported his claim – much to Patrick’s disgust.
Mary grew very fond of Denny. He reminded her of her brother, Sean – he had the same easy-going outlook on life. She liked the way he protected her, on brief occasions feeling that she had more in common with this young boy than with her husband… a thought for which she immediately felt guilty.
On they tramped, mile after mile. Although greatly fatigued their hearts grew lighter as each sign they came upon spoke a lower mileage. Between the grimy cities and inhospitable towns – in which they stopped only long enough to seek food and rest – the stretches of countryside were pretty much like their own land. The sun sparked grand proposals: maybe, once they’d found work a scrap of this countryside would be theirs some day. If so, it would not be dissimilar to the life they had been forced to leave. All at once the future took on a rosy hue.
‘Ye know, Denny,’ said Patrick as they ambled along the track, ‘I’ll miss your company when we get there. Ye’ve a mouth on ye for the tales.’
‘Oh, that’s nice. I escort yese all the
way to York an’ the minute I’m no longer of any use to ye I’m ditched.’ It was said jokingly.
‘Sorry, I’d be pleased enough to keep in touch but I thought ye’d maybe want to make a life for yourself.’
‘Now don’t be giving me that, you’re sick o’ the sight o’ me I can tell. Ah, no,’ Denny smiled. ‘I just got to thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if the three of us stuck together? I could be of use to ye, Pat. I know me way round the town, all the dodges. I wouldn’t be a nuisance, honest.’ It had begun to sound as if he was pleading. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t really get on with any of the others – not like I do with you an’ Mary – you’re the only friends I have.’
‘Well, thank ye for the compliment, Denny an’ I agree, it’d be nice to have kinfolk in this land full o’ foreigners. I’ll be glad of any help ye can give me, an’ who knows?’ he smiled widely. ‘With our wages pooled we may just be able to afford a piece o’ land by next year, once we get our bearings. I’ll tell Mary, she’ll be pleased.’ He looked back. His wife had fallen some way behind due to having to relieve herself behind a bush.
Denny stopped. ‘Your lady wife looks as if she could do with a rest.’
Patrick shook his head despairingly. ‘I know… sure why does she never say anything? I go marching off an’ forget all about her she’s so quiet.’ He took the harp from his shoulder, laid it on the grass and retraced his steps. ‘God, I wish ye wouldn’t keep playing the martyr, ye make me feel a right louse.’
‘I don’t want to hold you up,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Sure, ’tis me who’ll be doing the holding up when I grasp ye by the hair and clout some sense into ye. Away an’ sit down. Look, they’re all taking a rest.’ He brought her to where Denny was seated at the roadside amid a pathetic pile of belongings, telling her what he and the young man had decided between them.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 6