Trevelyan was sitting behind his desk reading a Bible when they were shown in. He closed the book and reverently put it on the desk. “Yes, gentlemen. What is it this time?”
Kane, ignoring Trevelyan’s infuriating tone of condescension, got immediately to the point of his visit. “We have heard a rumor that you are going to close the public works. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
Addressing Trevelyan, as though he were a child stubbornly clinging to an impossible belief, a soul-weary Kane said, “Mr. Trevelyan, you cannot close the public works. This is by far the worst year of the famine. Four years of failed harvests have skinned people to the bone.”
Trevelyan slammed his hands on the tabletop. “What more do you want? Dr. Kane, may I remind you that her Majesty’s government has expended nearly seven million pounds in the last four years.”
“And may I remind you, sir,” Kane shot back, his voice quivering with emotion, “that her Majesty’s government paid over twenty million pounds in compensation to West Indian slave-owners when slavery was abolished in the islands.”
“And may I remind you, sir, that they were men of business who contributed to the economic viability of England, unlike the Irish who seem to have an insatiable appetite for the largesse of the British government.” Trevelyan took a deep breath to regain control of himself. “Mr. Kane, you must understand, the only way to prevent the Irish from becoming habitually dependent on government is to bring the operations to a close once and for all.”
After all these years, Kane and Lindley, bone-weary and soul-numbed, had had enough of Charles Trevelyan. Kane took an envelope out of his coat pocket and threw it on Trevelyan’s desk. “Our resignations, sir. And may God have mercy on your soul.”
Trevelyan glared at the envelop as though it were a dead rodent. “Accepted.”
A week after the Ranahan’s cottage was tumbled, a cluster of men stood in front of the Board of Works office under a gentle snow fall. Tarpy had told them to report here this morning instead of the worksite. By now, all the men knew what that meant. Reporting to the Board of Works always meant bad news.
At exactly nine o’clock, Mr. Browning opened the door and stepped out. “I have an announcement to read.”
He was about to put on his glasses when he noticed the look of abject fear and resignation on the men’s faces. He put his glasses away. In the four years he’d been stationed here, he’d gone from loathing these men—shiftless bog trotters all—to a fear of them—they were all brutes. But now that he’d gotten to know them, he’d learned that they weren’t shiftless. In fact, he’d never seen men more willing to work at anything just to make a few coins to feed their families. And they weren’t brutes. At least not all of them. Certainly there were some who were violent, but he soon realized that the violence was born of fear and helplessness. He didn’t loathe them anymore or fear them. He pitied them. He decided it would be heartless to read this impersonal judgment on their lives, written by some unfeeling bureaucrat in Whitehall. He stuffed the announcement in his pocket. “Men,” he said, gently. “Go to your homes. The Board of Works is closed for good. I’m so very sorry.”
As he knew they would, they turned in silence and dispersed.
On hearing the announcement, Da registered no emotion. Instead, he turned away and briskly started walking up the road. Michael chased after him.
“Da, where are you goin’?”
“To the cottage. Where else?”
Michael almost had to run to keep up with him. “We don’t have the cottage anymore. Remember? We’ve been stayin’ in the church.”
“Ah, what are ya talkin’ about, man? Let’s get out of this cold. I know your Mam will have somethin’ hot for us and you know how she gets when—”
Da clutched his chest and, before Michael could reach him, the old man fell to his knees and tumbled into a ditch. Michael jumped in and pulled his Da out, wiping the freezing water off the old man’s face with this sleeve. “Da, are you all right?”
Da winced in pain. “Michael, keep the family together now, you hear? Dermot’s a handful, but he always listens to you. Take care of your Mam. She’s a good woman.” Da stopped talking as a sharp pain squeezed his heart. When the pain subsided, he continued. “Son, I didn’t want to take that money you saved for America.”
“I know, Da. That’s all in the past.”
Da dug into his pocket and pulled out the guinea. “Here, son. Take it. You go to America. For the love of God, save yerself.”
Da let out a sharp cry of pain and then, slowly, his face, contorted with pain, relaxed. It had been many years since Michael had seen his Da look so peaceful.
He hugged the old man close to him and felt his life slip away.
Michael, Emily, and Mr. Goodbody stood by the open grave that Michael had dug earlier in the morning and watched as Father Rafferty struggled to conduct the service.
“Lord,” Father Rafferty began in a shaky voice, “take thy servant, John Ranahan…” He stopped and his eyes welled up with tears as he looked around the cemetery, pockmarked with newly dug graves, as if seeing it for the first time. “I’ve buried so many people...” His voice cracked. He looked at Michael helplessly. “God help me, I don’t know what to say anymore… I don’t know what to believe. Just yesterday I went to the village of Killreed to consecrate a quarry so they could bury all their dead in holy ground… For God’s sake…” Then the old priest, unable to go on, broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Michael stepped forward, put one arm around the broken priest and put his hand on his father’s shroud-covered body. “Goodbye, Da. Maybe in Heaven, God will give you a bit of land that will be truly yours.”
And together, Michael and Mr. Goodbody lowered the pathetically thin body into the open grave.
After the service, they all returned to the church to prepare the soup for the afternoon’s feeding. After Emily made the tea, she sat down next to Michael.
“Michael, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. To tell you the truth, it broke my heart to see him suffering. So, in a way I’m a bit relieved. I don’t know how much more he could have taken. Is that a terrible thing to say?”
“No. It’s always harder watching our loved ones suffer than ourselves.”
While they were drinking their tea, Michael studied Goodbody. Michael had never met a man with a more even disposition, but now the Quaker looked uncharacteristically despondent. Michael knew he liked Da, but they weren’t so close that he should react this way over the old man’s death.
“Marcus, what troubles you?” Michael asked.
Goodbody looked up from his tea. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, but I did not think this the right time to tell thee.”
Emily patted Goodbody’s hand. “Marcus, I’m afraid we have all become inured to bad news. Please tell us.”
Goodbody studied his tea cup and sighed. “The Society of Friends has exhausted its funds. It believes the problems in Ireland are far beyond the reach of private exertion. Only a sovereign government can provide the help necessary to save so many starving people.” He shrugged helplessly. “I am being called home.”
Father Rafferty took Goodbody’s hands in his and there were tears in his eyes. “Mr. Goodbody, I for one will be sad to see you go. You, and the Society of Friends, have done much for the people of Ireland. And, I must confess, you have done much for me. I’m no longer the narrow-minded old fool I once was. God bless you.”
After all this time Michael still didn’t quite know what to make of this strange man with his queer clothing and queer speech. In the beginning Michael had suspected underhanded motives for his soup kitchen. It was common knowledge that some black protestants had set up soup kitchens across Ireland to lure starving and unsuspecting Catholics into renouncing their faith for a bowl of soup. “Soupers,” as these traitorous Catholics were derisively called, were denounced from the pulpits of Catholic churches all across Ireland and it was underst
ood by one and all that they would burn in Hell for all eternity for renouncing the one true faith. But Goodbody never tried to convert anyone. Indeed, even with his constant questioning, Michael had learned little about the Society of Friends. All Marcus had revealed was that the Friends were a “simple and plain people.”
From the beginning, Michael also suspected that Marcus had designs on Emily. But, as carefully as Michael watched them, he never saw them do anything that would indicate that there was anything between them. Still, even now, he was convinced that something had to be going on.
Michael shook the Quaker’s hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done for us, Marcus.”
“I am glad that I could help thee in some small way. I see great things in thy future, Michael.”
Michael saw that Emily had tears in her eyes. Tears for the Quaker no doubt. While she said her goodbyes, Michael went outside.
Minutes later, Emily came out and sat on a stone wall next to Michael.
“Michael, how will we feed the people without Marcus’s resources?”
“I don’t know,” Michael snapped.
He was weary of thinking about starving people. He was weary of wondering what Emily was thinking. What he was thinking. What Goodbody was thinking. It was all too much. His family was gone. Mam, Da, Dermot, Granda and Grandmam—all gone. He didn’t even have the energy to think about what he was going to do tomorrow. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep and never wake up again.
“I guess you’ll be goin’ with him?” he heard himself blurt out.
“With whom?”
“Marcus Goodbody.”
“And why in the world would I be going anywhere with Marcus Goodbody?”
“Because you’re in love with him, aren’t you? Admit it.”
Emily jumped up and her green eyes flashed with anger. “Michael Ranahan, you’ve lost the little sense you were born with.”
And on those words she marched back into the church leaving a perplexed Michael sitting on the stone wall.
The little voice in Michael’s head, never failing to miss an opportunity for a dig, whispered, “You’ve done it again, haven’t you, you eejit?”
Chapter Thirty Nine
The next morning Michael was at the church before dawn to help Marcus pack up his pots and pans. It would be just the two of them. Emily, who’d said her goodbyes yesterday, said she wouldn’t be coming this morning because she’d be too distraught. And that suited Michael just fine. He still wasn’t sure what he had said to make her so angry, but given how cold and distant she’d become after she’d stormed away from him, it was just as well she wasn’t coming. After all this time, he still had no idea what went on in that head of hers. She was a great puzzle and he was well rid of her.
When they had finished packing the last cauldron onto the overflowing wagon, Michael helped Goodbody up into the driver’s seat.
“Marcus, I don’t know how to thank you for all you and the Society of Friends have done for us.”
“Michael, I just wish it could have been more. It saddens me mightily that despite all we’ve done, it hasn’t been enough. I must confess to thee, I am ashamed to be leaving here when there is so much yet to be done.”
“You’ve no choice, Marcus. They’ve called you home and that’s a fact.”
The Quaker smiled down at Michael. “I have always admired the way thee deals with life. No matter the event, good or evil, thee just keeps moving forward. It is my failing that I sometimes cannot accept the way things are.”
Michael didn’t know what to say. In all the years he’d known Goodbody, the man had never expressed the slightest doubt about himself. It was a character trait that in the beginning Michael had found irritating. But now, hearing him confess his doubts, Michael had a new appreciation of the man. It suddenly occurred to him that they were very much alike. He, too, had his doubts, doubts that kept him awake more nights than he could remember. But the difference between them was that Michael could not, or would not, admit to them.
To break the uncomfortable tension, Michael teased, “Be careful goin’ down the road, Marcus. With all these things on your wagon, you look like a gombeen man. And there’s no one likes a gombeen man.”
There was one more hearty handshake and Marcus Goodbody was off.
Michael stood in the road in front of the church watching the wagon, with its overburdened cargo swaying from side to side on the uneven road, until it disappeared around a bend. Then he went into the empty church to pack what little he owned. It was time for him to go as well. His family was gone. So, too, were his friends. All those men he’d stood around the fire with at Moira and Bobby’s wedding so many years ago had either died or emigrated to America. He was the last young man in Ballyross.
Goodbody had been gone only minutes, but already Michael realized how much he would miss him. He truly liked and admired Marcus. He knew now that his judgment had been clouded because he’d always viewed the Quaker as a rival. But now that he was gone, Michael was astonished at the depth of sadness he felt. He realized now that Marcus was more a brother to him than Dermot ever was. He would never again stand with Marcus in front of steaming cauldrons, doling out soup. He would never again watch with amusement Goodbody reading the London Times and railing in his gentle way about the treachery of the British Parliament toward the Irish famine. And he would never again observe the gentle way in which Goodbody spoke to the frightened people and the tender way he administered to the sick.
Without the hectic activity surrounding the preparation and serving of the soup, the little village church seemed utterly abandoned—a place that, like its pastor, had lost all meaning and purpose. Earlier in the year, Father Rafferty, distraught that he’d had to remove the implements that signaled that this was a Catholic church, decided to put the tabernacle and the candlesticks back on the altar. The next morning to his chagrin and great anger, the brass candlesticks were gone. “Apparently,” Father Rafferty bellowed from his pulpit the following Sunday, “the thieving sinners, who will surely spend all eternity burning in hell, at least had enough decency not to steal the tabernacle, God’s own home on this earth.”
The bare, unadorned little church reminded Michael of the mysterious, ancient beehive huts he’d explored as a child in airy mountain glens. He’d been told by Father Rafferty that medieval monks had used these huts to pray, meditate, and painstakingly copy manuscripts that would one day be the wonder of the world. But when he’d visited them, the dank, low-ceiling chambers no longer held such lofty purpose. They’d become home to the occasional fox or badger and the destination of adventurous children. Still, even as a child, he could sense that there was something hallowed about these places.
Michael stuffed his spare shirt and an extra pair of brogues into a bag and took one last look around the church that he’d attended since he’d been five. It was here that he’d made his first communion, and now he could recall with a smile the almost paralyzing fear that the host would stick to the roof of his mouth. Father Rafferty, sounding like the very voice of doom, had warned them that if that happened they were not to try and dislodge the sacred host. Better that they choke and die right there in the church, he’d told them, than to defile the sweet body of Christ with their grubby, dirty fingers.
This little church had been the center of his and everyone else’s life in the village. Michael couldn’t remember the number of christenings, weddings, and funerals he’d attended here. He didn’t think he believed in God any more, but, still, the church did offer a modicum of solace and peace in these desperate times. And he would miss it.
As he started up the aisle, the door at the back of the church opened and suddenly, Emily was framed in the doorway. Michael’s heart thumped and his poor brain was once again thrown into utter turmoil. Yesterday, he’d thought he’d seen the last of her and he’d convinced himself that it was good riddance. But now, watching her come down the aisle, he never wanted to let her out of his sight again.
She glanced at his bag. “Going I see. And where will you go?”
Michael’s throat was suddenly constricted. “America,” he finally managed to croak.
“Ah, your dream. So it isn’t dead. Have you the fare?”
“I have a guinea.” He realized that was not nearly enough to pay his passage and added, half-heartedly, “Tis a start.”
“Yes, it is.”
She stopped in front of him, so close that if he put his hand out, he could touch her. They stood that way, staring at each other for a long time. Finally, Michael broke the silence. “Well, I’d best be off.”
“Yes, you’d best be off.”
“Right. Well, then. You take care of yourself, Emily Somerville.”
“And you take care of yourself, Michael Ranahan.”
A smile played around her lips and he had to turn away from those beautiful, questioning green eyes. “Aye.”
He started up the aisle, painfully aware that what he was doing was irrevocable. In years to come, he knew he would always regret not telling Emily that he loved her. But how could he? Da had once said that she was not for the likes of him. He’d bristled at that notion then, but now, after all that had happened, he had to admit his Da was right. She had lost her fortune, but she was still his better, a member of the aristocracy and all that that entailed—educated, cultured, worldly. Some day she would find a man of her station and marry. It was only fitting…
“Take me with you.”
Michael stopped, not trusting his own ears. Did she say that or was it just that damnable voice in my head?
He turned. “Did you say something?”
“Yes. I said, take me with you.”
“Well… I don’t know…” he stammered.
She started up the aisle. “I love you, Michael Ranahan.”
In the Time of Famine Page 31