Maureen caught Scarlett’s eye. She put her finger to her lips for silence, then gestured with her spoon, urging Scarlett to eat.
After a long while Colum picked up his spoon. He did not look up while he ate the succulent oysters, and his thanks were perfunctory. Then he left to go to Patricia’s, where he shared a room with Stephen.
Scarlett looked at Maureen with curiosity. “Were you there in the Famine?” she asked cautiously.
Maureen nodded. “I was there. My father owned a bar, so we didn’t fare as bad as some. People will always find money for drink, and we could buy bread and milk. It was the poor farmers got the worst of it. Ah, it was terrible.” She put her arms across her breasts and shuddered. Her eyes were full of tears, and her voice broke when she tried to talk. “They only had potatoes, you see how it was. The corn they grew and the cows they raised and the milk and butter they got from them were always sold so they could pay the rent for their farms. For themselves they had a bit of butter and the skimmed milk and maybe a few chickens so that there was sometimes an egg for Sunday. But mostly they had potatoes to eat, only potatoes, and they made that enough. Then the potatoes turned to rot under the earth, and they had nothing.” She was silent, rocking back and forth holding herself. Her mouth was trembling. It became a shaking circle, and she gave a harsh, tormented cry, remembering.
Scarlett jumped up and put her arms around Maureen’s heaving shoulders.
Maureen wept against Scarlett’s breast. “You cannot imagine what it is to have no food.”
Scarlett looked at the smouldering coals on the hearth. “I know what it’s like,” she said. She held Maureen close, and she told about going home to Tara from burning Atlanta. There were no tears In Scarlett’s eyes or in her voice when she talked about the desolation and the long months of relentless gnawing hunger and near starvation. But when she spoke about finding her mother dead when she reached Tara, and her father’s pitiful broken mind, Scarlett broke down.
Then Maureen held her while she wept.
44
It seemed that the dogwood trees came into bloom overnight. Suddenly one morning, when Scarlett and Maureen were walking to the Market, there were clouds of blossoms above the grassy median in the avenue outside the house.
“Ah, isn’t it a lovely sight?” Maureen sighed gustily. “The morning light shining through the tender petals making them almost pink. By noon they’ll be white as a swan’s breast. It’s a grand thing, this city that plants flowering beauty for all to see!” She drew in a deep breath. “We’ll have a picnic in the park, Scarlett. To taste the spring green in the air. Come quickly, there’s a grand shopping to do. I’ll bake this afternoon, and after Mass tomorrow we’ll spend the day at the park.”
Was it Saturday already? Scarlett’s mind raced, calculating and remembering. Why, she’d been in Savannah almost a full month! A vise squeezed her heart. Why hadn’t Rhett come? Where was he? His business in Boston couldn’t have taken this long.
“. . . Boston,” said Maureen, and Scarlett stopped short. She grabbed Maureen’s arm and glared at her suspiciously. How could Maureen have known Rhett was in Boston? How could she know anything about him? I haven’t said a word to her.
“What’s the matter, Scarlett, darling? Have you turned your ankle?”
“What were you saying about Boston?”
“I said ’tis a shame Stephen won’t be with us for the picnic. He’s leaving today for Boston. There’ll be no trees flowering there, I’m bound. Still, he’ll have a chance to see Thomas and his family and bring back news of them. That’ll please Old James. To think of all the brothers scattering through America, it’s a wonderful thing . . .”
Scarlett walked quietly at Maureen’s side. She was ashamed of herself. How could I have been so horrid? Maureen’s my friend, the closest friend I ever had. She wouldn’t spy on me, pry into my private life. It’s just that it’s been so long, and I hadn’t even noticed. That’s why I’m so jumpy, probably, why I barked at Maureen like that. Because it’s been so long, and Rhett hasn’t come.
She murmured unthinking agreement to Maureen’s suggestions about food for the picnic while questions battered against the walls of her mind like birds trapped in a cage. Had she made a mistake not going back to Charleston with her aunts? Had she been wrong to leave in the first place?
This is driving me crazy. I can’t think about it or I’ll scream!
But her mind would not stop questioning.
Maybe she should talk to Maureen about it. Maureen was so comforting, and she was smart, really, about so many things. She’d understand. Maybe she could help.
No, I’ll talk to Colum! Tomorrow, at the picnic, there’ll be lots of time. I’ll tell him I want to talk, ask him to go for a walk. Colum will know what to do. In his own way, Colum was like Rhett. He was complete in himself, like Rhett, and everyone else looked unimportant next to him, just the way men seem somehow to become only boys, and Rhett the only man in the room. Colum got things done, too, just like Rhett, and laughed about the doing, just like Rhett.
Scarlett laughed to herself at the memory of Colum talking about Polly’s father. “Aye, he’s a grand, bold man, the mighty builder MacMahon. Arms like sledgehammers he has, fairly popping the seams of his costly coat, doubtless chosen by Mrs. MacMahon to match her parlor suite, else why would it be such a plushy object? A Godly man, too, with proper reverence for the shine it gives his soul to build God’s own house here in Savannah, America. I blessed him for it, in my own humble way. ‘Faith!’ I said. ‘It’s my belief you’re such a religious that you’re not taking a penny more than forty percent profit from the parish.’ Then didn’t his eyes flash and his muscles swell like a bull’s and his plushy sleeves make pretty little popping sounds along their silk-sewn seams? ‘Sure it is, Master Builder,’ says I, ‘that any other man would have made it fifty, seeing that the Bishop’s not an Irishman?’
“And then the good man showed his merit. ‘Gross!’ he roared, till I feared the windows would fly out into the street. ‘What manner of name is that for a Catholic?’ Then he told me stories about the iniquities of the Bishop that my collar forbids me to credit. I shared his sorrows and a glass or two with him, then I told him about the suffering of my poor little cousin. Righteous wrath he showed, the good man. It was all I could do to stop him tearing down the steeple with his own strong hands. It’s my belief he won’t call all the men out on strike, but I cannot be altogether certain. He will, he tells me, express to the Bishop his concern for Scarlett’s easiness of mind in terms the nervous little man cannot fail to understand, and as often as may be necessary to convince him of the gravity of the problem.”
Maureen said, “And why are you smiling at the cabbages, I’d like to know?”
Scarlett turned the smile onto her friend. “Because I’m happy that it’s spring and we’re going to have a picnic,” she said. And because she was going to have Tara, she was sure.
Scarlett had never seen Forsyth Park. Hodgson Hall was just across the street from it, but it had been dark when she went to the dedication ceremony. It caught her unaware, and it took her breath away. A pair of stone sphinxes flanked the entrance. The children looked longingly at the beasts they were forbidden to climb, then ran at full speed along the central path. They had to run around Scarlett. She was stopped in the middle of the path, staring ahead.
The fountain was two blocks from the entrance, but it was so enormous that it looked very close. Arcs and jets of water lifted and fell like showering diamonds from every direction. Scarlett was spellbound; she’d never seen anything so spectacular.
“Come along now,” said Jamie, “it gets better as you get closer.”
And it did. There was a bright sun that made rainbows in the dancing waters; they flashed, vanished, reappeared with every step Scarlett took. The whitewashed trunks of the trees that lined the path glimmered in the dappled shade from their leaves, leading to the sparkling dazzle of the fountain. When she reached the iron
fence that circled the fountain’s basin, she had to tilt her head back to near dizziness to look at the nymph atop its third tier, a statue bigger than she was, the arm held high, grasping a staff that threw a plume of water high, high toward the brilliant blue sky.
“I like the serpent-men myself,” Maureen commented. “They always look to me like they’re enjoying themselves.” Scarlett looked where Maureen was pointing. The bronze mermen knelt in the huge basin on their elegantly coiled scaly tails with one hand on hip, the other holding a horn to the lips.
The men spread rugs under the oak tree Maureen selected, and the women put down their baskets. Mary Kate and Kathleen deposited Patricia’s little girl and Katie’s smallest boy on the grass to crawl. The older children were running and jumping in some game of their own design.
“I’ll rest my feet,” Patricia said. Billy helped her to sit with her back against the tree trunk. “Go on,” she said crossly, “no need for you to spend all day at my elbow.” He kissed her cheek, slid the straps of the concertina off his shoulder, and put it down beside her.
“I’ll play you a fine tune later,” he promised. Then he strolled toward a group of men in the distance who were playing baseball.
“Go get in trouble with him, Matt,” Katie suggested to her husband.
“Yes, go on, the lot of you,” Maureen said. She made shooing motions with her hands. Jamie and his tall sons set off at a run. Colum and Gerald walked behind them with Matt and Billy.
“They’ll be starving when they get back,” Maureen said. Her voice was rich with pleasure. “It’s a good thing we packed food for an army.”
What a mountain of food, Scarlett thought at first. Then she realized that it would probably all be gone inside an hour. Big families were like that. She looked with real affection at the women of her family, would feel equally fond of the men when they came back carrying their coats and hats, their collars open and their sleeves rolled up. She had put aside her class pretensions without noticing their departure. She no longer remembered her uneasiness when she learned that her cousins had been servants on the great estate near where they lived in Ireland. Matt was a carpenter there, Gerald a worker under him doing repairs on the dozens of buildings and miles of fence. Katie was a milkmaid, Patricia a parlormaid. And it made no difference. Scarlett was happy to be one of the O’Haras.
She knelt beside Maureen and began to help her. “I hope the men don’t dawdle,” she said. “This fresh air is making me right peckish.”
When there were only two pieces of cake and an apple left, Maureen began to boil water for tea over a spirit lamp. Billy Carmody picked up his concertina and winked at Patricia. “What’ll it be, Patsy? I promised you a tune.”
“Shhh, not yet, Billy,” said Katie. “The little ones are almost asleep.” Five small bodies were on one of the rugs in the densest shade of the tree. Billy began to whistle softly, then took up the tune with the concertina, almost muted. Patricia smiled at him. She smoothed the hair from Timothy’s forehead then started to sing the lullaby Billy was playing.
On wings of a wind o’er the dark rolling sea
Angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep;
Angels are coming to watch over thee,
So list to the wind coming over the sea.
Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow,
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
The currachs are sailing way out on the blue,
Chasing the herring of silvery hue.
Silver the herring and silver the sea
Soon they’ll be silver for my love and me.
Hear the wind blow love, hear the wind blow,
Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.
There was a moment of silence, then Timothy opened his eyes. “Again, please,” he said drowsily.
“Oh, yes, please, miss, sing it again.”
Everyone looked up, startled, at the strange young man who was standing nearby. He was holding a ragged cap in rough, dirty hands in front of his patched jacket. He looked about twelve years old, except that he had a stubble of dark whiskers on his chin.
“Begging your pardon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said earnestly. “I know I’m being too bold, crashing in on your party and all that. But my mam used to sing that song to me and me sisters, and when I heard it, it called my heart over.”
“Sit down, lad,” said Maureen. “There’s cake here with no one to eat it, and some grand cheese and bread in the basket. What’s your name, and where are you from?”
The boy knelt by her. “Danny Murray, milady.” He pulled on the stringy black hair over his forehead, then wiped his hand on his sleeve and held it out for the bread Maureen had taken out of the basket. “Connemara’s me home, when I’m there.” He bit hugely into the bread. Billy began to play.
“On wings of a wind . . .” sang Katie. The hungry boy swallowed and sang with her.
“. . . hear the wind blow,” they finished after three full repetitions. Danny Murray’s dark eyes were shining like black jewels.
“Eat, then, Danny Murray,” Maureen said. Her voice was rough with sentiment. “You’ll need your strength later. I’m going to brew up a pot of tea, then we’ll want to hear more of your singing. Your angel’s voice is like a gift from heaven.” It was true. The boy’s Irish tenor was as pure as Gerald’s.
The O’Haras busied themselves arranging teacups so the boy could eat unobserved.
“I learned a new song I think you might like,” he said while Maureen was pouring the tea. “I’m on a ship that stopped in Philadelphia before it come here. Shall I sing it for you?”
“What’s it called, Danny? I might know it,” Billy said.
“ ‘I’ll Take You Home’ ?”
Billy shook his head. “I’ll be glad to learn it from you.”
Danny Murray grinned. “I’ll be glad to show you.” He tossed the hair off his face and took a breath. Then he opened his lips, and music poured out of him like shining silver thread.
I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,
Across the ocean wild and wide
To where your heart has ever been
Since first you were my bonny bride.
The roses all have left your cheek.
I’ve watched them fade away and die.
Your voice is sad when e’er you speak
And tears be-dim your loving eyes.
And I will take you back, Kathleen
To where your heart will feel no pain.
And when the hills are fresh and green
I will take you to your home, Kathleen.
Scarlett joined in the applause. It was a lovely song.
“That was so grand I forgot to learn,” Billy said ruefully. “Sing it again, Danny, for me to get the tune.”
“No!” Kathleen O’Hara jumped to her feet. Her face was streaked with tears. “I can’t listen again, I can’t!” She wiped her eyes with her palms. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I have to go.” She stepped carefully over the sleeping children and ran away.
“I’m sorry,” said the boy.
“Whist, it’s not your fault, lad,” said Colum. “It’s real pleasure you’ve given. The poor girl’s pining for Ireland is the truth of it, and by chance her name is Kathleen. Tell me, do you know ‘The Curragh of Kildare’? It’s a specialty of Billy’s, him with the music box. It would be a rare favor were you to sing with him playing and make him sound like a musician.”
The music went on until the sun dropped behind the trees and the breeze became chill. Then they went home. Danny Murray couldn’t accept Jamie’s invitation to supper. He had to be back at his ship by dark.
“Jamie, I’m thinking I should take Kathleen with me when I go,” said Colum. “She’s been here long enough to get over being homesick, but her heart’s still aching.”
Scarlett nearly poured boiling water on her hand instead of in the teapot. “Where are you going, Colum?”
“Back to Ireland, darling. I’m only visi
ting.”
“But the Bishop hasn’t changed his mind about Tara, yet. And there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Well, I’m not leaving this minute, Scarlett darling. There’s time for everything. What do you think, with your woman’s heart? Should Kathleen go back?”
“I don’t know. Ask Maureen. She’s been up there with her ever since we got back.” What difference did it make what Kathleen did? It was Colum that mattered. How could he just pick up and leave when she needed him? Oh, why did I just sit there singing with that filthy dirty boy? I should have gotten Colum to go for a walk the way I planned.
Scarlett only picked at the cheese toast and potato soup they had for supper. She felt like crying.
“Oof,” Maureen groaned when the kitchen was tidy again. “I’m going to take my old bones to bed early tonight. Sitting on the ground all those hours has me stiff as a plow handle. You, too, Mary Kate and Helen. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
Scarlett felt stiff, too. She stretched in front of the fire. “Good night,” she said.
“Stay a bit,” Colum said, “while I finish my pipe. Jamie’s yawning so, I can tell he’s about to abandon me.”
Scarlett took a chair across from Colum’s, and Jamie patted her head on his way to the stairs.
Colum drew on his pipe. The smell of the tobacco was sweetly acrid. “A glowing hearth is good for talking by,” he said after a while. “What’s on your mind and your heart, Scarlett?”
She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what to do about Rhett, Colum. I’m afraid I might have ruined everything.” The kitchen was warm and dimly lit, the perfect setting for opening her heart. In addition, Scarlett had a muddled notion that, because Colum was a priest, everything she told him would be kept secret from the rest of the family, as if she were confessing in the cramped little closed booth in the church.
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