In the Time of Famine

by Michael Grant

  Saturday was market day in Ballyross and Mam, as she’d done every Saturday since she was a new bride, went into the village. But market days now were a pale comparison to market days of the past. Where it had once been possible to buy every necessity, this morning there were only two farmers selling their limited wares.

  In spite of the bad times, Mam, like most of the women, still came into the village on market day more out of habit than need. After all, she, like everyone else, had no money to buy. But Mam had a special reason for coming today. She knew Nora would be there and she had to talk to her. As Mam turned into the market area, she saw the old woman haggling with a farmer over a cabbage. She waited until the transaction was done before she approached.

  “Nora, I’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry.”

  “Aye. Tis terrible.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “I have a wee cottage the master deeded to me years ago.” She leaned close to Mam and whispered, “ I’ve been assured that that damned scoundrel, Kincaid, can’t touch it.”

  “Oh, that’s grand.”

  Mam acted surprised, but she knew all about the little cottage.

  “Aye, but it’s been a terrible time. First it’s losin’ the master, now the estate. But to tell you the truth, the only thing I really care about is Miss Emily. She’s goin’ away today, ya know.” Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes. “I’ve raised that child since she was just a wee one.”

  Mam shook her head sympathetically and silently prayed for the courage to do what she’s come here to do. Seeing Michael’s unhappiness, she’d lain awake the entire night trying to think of some way to help him. She knew what it had meant to him to give up the passage money. It meant giving up his dream of going to America. But the truth was, without that money, the family might have starved the first winter. She’d always felt guilty about the way she’d lavished her love on Dermot, sometimes at the expense of Michael. But Dermot needed her more than her eldest son did. Michael had always been independent and self-reliant, unlike his younger brother. While Mam instinctively knew that it was sometimes necessary to give more love to one child than another, it didn’t make her feel any better. And so, sometime in the dark of last night, she’d made up her mind. She would make this one daft attempt to make it up to her son. And now she prayed that what she was about to do would not break his heart even more.

  “Tis a shame Miss Emily has to leave,” Mam said, carefully watching the old woman.

  “Aye, tis. But what can she do? Sure there’s no place for her to stay.”

  “Well,” Mam said tentatively, “maybe there is.”

  That afternoon, Emily, carrying the few possessions she owned, climbed into the waiting carriage. As an act of kindness—or to assuage his guilt—Lord Attwood had sent his carriage to fetch her to the train station. Kincaid, the new lord and master of Somerville estates, stood in the doorway smirking as Emily and the carriage rolled down the road for the last time.

  The carriage was almost half way to town when a man stepped into the road and flagged it down. Emily was alarmed at first, thinking it might be a highwayman—just last week there was s report of a brazen robbery in the next village. But then she chuckled to herself. What self-respecting highwayman would waste his time stealing her paltry possessions? As the carriage drew nearer, she saw that it was Michael and her heart raced. She’d wanted to say goodbye to him, but she couldn’t bring herself to go to his cottage. She’d told herself that she didn’t want to embarrass him and his family, but the truth was, she didn’t think she could have done it without breaking down and embarrassing herself.

  She tapped the roof of the carriage. “Driver, please stop.”

  Michael approached the door, cap in hand.

  “So you’re goin’ then?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I just wanted to say thanks for helpin’ us and all. In the soup kitchen, I mean. I didn’t expect it of you… I mean, I did, but…” Michael stopped talking and cursed himself. Why must I always be so tongue-tied when I speak to this woman? “It’s best you leave here,” he continued. “There’s nothin’ for you here now and…” He stopped again, not believing a word of what he was saying. “Well, anyway,” he tried one more time, “goodbye and Godspeed.”

  “Thank you, Michael.” Emily was greatly disappointed. Somehow she’d expected him to say more. But what? That she should stay? Lord knows she desperately wanted to. Reluctantly, she’d made arrangements to live with a distantly-related aunt in England, but it was clear from the tone of the exchange of letters that the aunt was not happy with the arrangement. And the feeling was mutual. But she had to go. There was no place else for her.

  Michael stood back. “Well, then… your train…”

  “Yes.” She tapped the roof. “You may go on now, driver.”

  As the carriage turned at a bend in the road, Emily glanced out the back window. Michael was still standing in the middle of the road, cap in hand, watching her.

  Emily, the only one at the train station, was near to tears, thinking of Michael. She was also bitterly disappointed that Nora had not come to see her off. In the distance, she heard a train whistle. In spite of all that had befallen this godforsaken country, at least the trains still ran on time. As the train grew nearer she could hear the whoosh, whoosh of the engine as it sent hot burning embers up the coal stack.

  “Miss Emily…”

  Emily turned and saw Nora approaching.

  Emily put her hands out to the old woman. “Oh, Nora, I’m so glad you’ve come to see me off.”

  “I’ve somethin’ to say to you, Miss Emily.” Nora said, looking uncharacteristically indecisive. “I hope you won’t take offense, because none is intended.”

  “Nothing you could say would offend me,” Emily said, puzzled by the old woman’s uneasiness. “You know that, Nora.”

  “Well then, here goes.” In her high state of anxiety the words that she’d so carefully rehearsed came out in a great torrent. “God forgive me. You could stay with me if you like. I know it’s a cheeky thing for me to say what with your being a lady and all and you probably have some wonderful place to go and you would never consider livin’ in such miserable accommodations as I have and besides I couldn’t offer you half of what you’re accustomed to and…”

  As Nora gushed through her rambling, non-ending sentence, the train pulled into the station with a great hiss of steam and screeching brakes. The conductor jumped down from a car and tipped his cap at Emily. “Are you boarding, Miss?”

  Nora stopped babbling and stared at Emily open-mouthed.

  “No, thank you, sir.” Emily picked up her bag. “I’m going to live with this wonderful woman.”

  Marcus Goodbody was alone in the barn cleaning a soup cauldron when Fergus Kincaid came in. With mounting apprehension, Goodbody had been expecting a visit from Kincaid now that he was the new owner of the Somerville estates. From Michael’s description of the man, he feared that one so parsimonious would not be amenable to allowing the soup kitchen to remain on his property. So he’d taken it as a good sign that he had not yet come. Hopefully, Mr. Kincaid had more important things to think about than a trifling soup kitchen operating out of his barn.

  But now, here he was dressed in a garish cream-colored silk suit. Goodbody smiled, trying to put the best face on it. “Good morning, Mr. Kincaid. I trust thee is well?”

  Kincaid, unaccustomed to Quaker speech and not trusting anything he didn’t understand, squinted at the Quaker through narrow, suspicious eyes. “I’m well enough.” He studied the piles of bowls laid out on the table to dry. “How many come here a day?”

  Goodbody wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Oh, I have never counted, but I would speculate that nearly a hundred poor souls come here every day.”

  Kincaid was silent for a moment, as though he were doing some internal calculation. Then he announced, “I think it best you pay me by the head.”

  “Head? I don’t understand.”


  “Rent, man. Rent. You don’t expect to stay on here for free.”

  “Rent…? But, sir, surely thee must know that we are a charitable institution. And as such, everything we have we put into providing soup and bread for the poor souls who are landless and homeless. Thee can take great pride, as Lord Somerville did before thee, in helping us assist those who are more unfortunate than thee or me. God will look down favorably on all those who provide succor and comfort to the poor and homeless.” Goodbody could see that he wasn’t getting through to the stone-faced gombeen man. He made one final appeal. “Surely as a good Christian gentleman thee understands the great importance and need of a soup kitchen here in your barn.”

  Michael was walking the road to Somerville Manor on his way to help Marcus set up for tomorrow’s meal. When he came over a rise he was surprised to see the Quaker coming toward him, leading his donkey and cart overburdened with cauldrons, utensils, and sacks of soup bowls.

  “Marcus, what’s happened?”

  The Quaker threw up his hands, befuddled. “Michael," he blurted out, "I’m kitchenless.”

  “In my church?” Father Rafferty’s thundering voice echoed throughout the little church.

  “Sure he has no place else to go.”

  Michael’s reasonable tone only made the old priest’s face a darker shade of purple. “But… but…” he sputtered. “He’s a… Quaker.”

  Michael started for the door.

  “And where are you goin’, Michael Ranahan?”

  “To bring Marcus in. It’s time you two met.”

  Father Rafferty, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest, stood defiantly guarding the altar as though at any moment he expected Beelzebub, himself, and his legions of demons to storm his little church. Instead of the devil, a tall, blond haired man came in. He swept his black hat off and, giving a tentative look around the church, came down the aisle. Father Rafferty squinted in the gloom to get a better look at him. He doesn’t look like a Quaker, he muttered to himself. Then he realized that he didn’t know what a Quaker looked like. The man was young, with a broad brow and fine yellow hair and his eyes were the color of a summer sky. All in all, Father Rafferty conceded, he could be taken for a Catholic if you didn’t know better.

  Marcus offered his hand. “I thank thee for permitting me to use your church for my soup kitchen.”

  Thee? Sure the man talks like he’s just stepped off the pages of the scriptures. Father Rafferty took Marcus’ hand and shook it firmly. “Let me warn you now, Mr. Goodbody, they’ll be no proselytizing under the roof of this church. I’ll have no triflin’ with the souls in my parish. Is that clear?”

  “I just want to feed the hungry, Father Rafferty.”

  Before Father Rafferty could add any more admonitions, the door opened and Emily came in.

  Michael blinked, hardly believing his eyes.

  When he’d watched Lord Attwood’s carriage disappear around the bend on the way to the train station, he thought his heart would break. It had been his last chance to speak to her and he, as usual, babbled nonsense. He’d actually run after the carriage for a while, determined to talk to her one last time. But then he stopped. What would he say to her? That he loved her? That he wanted her to stay? Such foolishness. He had nothing to offer her and that was a fact.

  “A change of plans. I’ll be staying with Nora,” she announced. “I heard Kincaid turned you out. Is there still work for me?”

  Goodbody rushed to her and took her hands in his. “Emily, I am most pleased thou art staying. Yes, there is work. Father Rafferty has consented to allow the soup kitchen to be set up here.”

  Michael stood motionless, staring at her, certain that she must hear his heart pounding in the stillness of the church. He said nothing, because emotions that he didn’t understand and had never experienced before threatened to overwhelm him and he couldn’t trust what might come out of his mouth.

  “And will you be working with us, Michael?” Emily asked.

  “Aye,” Michael said, a little too quickly.

  “You’ll be doin’ no such thing,” Father Rafferty said. “Have you forgotten? The Works are openin’ tomorrow mornin’.”

  In his excitement at seeing Emily again, Michael had indeed forgotten all about the Works opening. For a brief second, he considered telling the priest that he would not be going to the Works, that he would stay here and work in the kitchen. But, he knew that wasn’t possible. The family needed the money, as trifling as it was. He couldn’t count on Da, who in recent weeks had turned into a wizened, frail old man before his very eyes. The terrible times were finally taking their toll on him and Michael doubted that his father would be able to do the grueling work much longer. He couldn’t count on Dermot, who was behaving more queer with every passing day. Lately, he’d been disappearing for days on end and when he came home he would not say where he had gone or with whom he was with. Michael suspected that his brother was running with Jerry Fowler, but he couldn’t get his brother to admit it. So, with one member of the family unable to work and the other unwilling, it fell to him to earn money for the family.

  “I forgot,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll be goin’ to the Works tomorrow.”

  Was that an expression of disappointment in her eyes? he wondered. Then his inner voice set him straight. No, ya eejit. It’s your own foolish mind playin’ tricks on you.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  For the next three weeks, Michael, along with more than a dozen men, worked on an abandoned road two miles outside the village. As before, they had been assigned yet another useless task—widening a little-used back road that, unlike the busy road leading to the village, saw little traffic. But the men were glad for the work and didn’t complain.

  At the beginning of the second week, Tarpy, the road work supervisor, pulled Da aside to talk to him. Michael didn’t trust the supervisor and joined them.

  “This doesn’t concern you, Ranahan. Go back to work.”

  “If it concerns my Da, it concerns me. What is it?”

  “All right then, I’ll tell you as well. I’m lettin’ your brother go.”

  “Oh, Jasus, no,” Da cried out. “Sure we need the money, Mr. Tarpy.”

  “And he should be paid for what? Sure the man doesn’t show up for work half the time. If he’s too good for the work, there’s many a man who will gladly do it.”

  Michael had seen this coming, but he’d been powerless to stop it. When the Works had reopened, Dermot had gone to work the first three days. Then he disappeared for two. For the next two weeks he was gone more days than he worked. In turn, Michael and Da tried talking to him, but Dermot wouldn’t listen. Even the heartless Tarpy didn’t want to see Dermot lose his job in these desperate times. He’d warned him repeatedly that he’d be sacked if he missed another day.

  And now that day had come. Michael studied his father, pale and shaken. He wondered how much more the old man could take. On top of everything else that had befallen him, he had a defiant son who refused to obey him and now there was one less Ranahan to earn money.

  “I warned him,” Tarpy growled. “You know I did.”

  “Aye, you did,” Michael said. “It’s not your fault.”

  The following day, Michael and Da went to the worksite together. Dermot had still not come home. The weather was cold, and a light misting rain had begun to fall. Around midmorning, Michael began to feel lightheaded and decided it must be because he had not eaten anything yet. At breakfast, over the objections of Mam, he’d insisted on giving his meager portion of cornmeal to his Da, who looked as though he barely had the strength to walk out to the worksite. It was a measure of the old man’s weakness that he took the food without argument.

  Michael bent down to pick up a large stone and everything began to blur. His field of vision narrowed to a tiny circle and all he could see was the stone. The clank and thump of the men attacking the road with picks and shovels was blotted out by a loud whooshing in his ears. He grabbed the stone
with his two hands and tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. He stared at it, puzzled. He’d lifted hundreds of stones like this—even bigger—but this one seemed to hold the weight of the world. He tried again, but he was as weak as a child. He gave one last great heave.

  Then everything went black.

  “Man down,” someone shouted.

  Da turned, saw Michael sprawled in the middle of the road, and ran to him. Michael’s face was white and when Da touched his son’s forehead, it was clammy with sweat.

  “Give a hand here,” he cried out.

  As the men rushed to help, Tarpy took a close look at Michael and backed away. “Jasus, he’s got the fever…”

  When Da, Pat Doyle and Matt Flanagan carried the unconscious Michael into the cottage, Mam crossed herself and knew her worst fears were realized. Since the start of the troubles, she had prayed every night without fail, asking God to protect her family from disease and death. So far, her prayers had been answered—at least for her husband and two sons—and for that she was most grateful. But when the men brought Michael in, she took one look at her son and knew that her time of grace was over.

  Mam stayed at his side day and night. There was nothing to do but bathe his feverish head with rags soaked in water and change the soiled straw bedding almost hourly. Semi-conscious most of the time, he writhed on the straw, muttering and crying out. She couldn’t understand most of what he was saying, but she did understand one word, which he repeated over and over again. Emily...

  She tried to get a bit of food into him, but it was no use. He was vomiting constantly and could hold nothing down. After four days, she was exhausted from lack of sleep, but she had no one to spell her. Dermot still hadn’t come home and Da had to go to the worksite. But no matter. She shook off the fatigue, grimly determined that death would not take her first born son. She would die first.