Crooked Branch (9781101615072)

by Cummins, Jeanine

  “Have you far to go?” Ginny asked her.

  “Coolnabine,” the young woman said, pointing north, “up the far side of Beltra Lough.”

  “That’s a fair old walk for you,” Ginny said. “Hope the weather holds out.”

  “Please, God.”

  “Will you take a drop of water for yourself, for your journey?”

  “I will, thanks,” she said, following Ginny in through the gate and up through the boggy lower field toward the ridge.

  “I’m Ginny Doyle. You’re very welcome,” Ginny said as they neared the top of the slope. “The cottage is just there.” She gestured down to her tidy little home, gleaming against the rugged bleakness of the landscape.

  “Anne Cassidy,” the woman said. At the door, she wiped her brogues on the flagstone before stepping in.

  It seemed dim inside, after being out in the high light of a spring afternoon. Anne pulled off her bonnet, and Maire stood up to give her the stool. Ginny handed the visitor a mug of water, and she gratefully gulped it down.

  “I wish I’d a morsel to offer you,” Ginny said.

  Anne shook her head, but then she looked at Ginny, dead in the eye. It felt like years since anyone had looked her in the eye. “You’ve had a bad time of it?” Anne asked, without any guile.

  “Like everyone else,” Ginny said, then turned back to Maire. “Take the children outside for some fresh air, love, it’s a nice dry day.”

  Maire tucked her shawl around her shoulders and herded the others outside wordlessly. They were like a crowd of slips, the way they flitted from the room. Some deep horror crept over Ginny while she watched them go. She turned back to her guest.

  “There’s nothing to give them this two days,” she confessed. She stayed leaning in the doorjamb. “Their father is gone to America.” She tried a smile. “Since September. We’ll hear from him soon, with some money.”

  “Please, God,” Anne answered.

  “Please, God,” Ginny echoed.

  But that expression had lost its meaning. It was hard to believe in beseeching God anymore. Ginny changed the subject.

  “We don’t often see strangers out walking these days. The parish is near empty now. Is it home you’re going to?”

  “It is,” Anne said, wiping a dribble of water from her chin. “I was working at Springhill House these last months—I was chambermaid. Then this morning Mrs. Spring let me go.”

  “Ah, God love you,” Ginny said.

  The girl shook her head. “I can hardly believe it myself. I don’t know what we’ll do now. It was a good post. Kept my family going.”

  “Family?” Ginny asked.

  “Three sisters, two brothers,” she said. “I’m the eldest.”

  Ginny looked back over her shoulder and out at her skinny children in the yard. The others were helping Maggie find a good stone for the cairn.

  “What age are you?” Ginny asked.

  “Nearly seventeen.”

  “You’re awful young for these kind of worries.”

  Anne shrugged. “I don’t suppose there’s any good age to be, for them.”

  “And your parents?”

  “My dad’s at home with the little ones. My mam died in January, God rest her. The fever.”

  “Ah, God love you,” Ginny said, and she crossed herself, sent up a prayer for the girl’s dead mother.

  Anne stood up from the stool quickly and handed Ginny back the mug. She was uncomfortable talking about her mam. It was an awful thing that’d happened, the way this hunger had undressed death, and made it common. Ginny had nothing for this strange, weary girl, only platitudes. It didn’t matter how many people had died of starvation or the attendant fever, it didn’t make the pain of real, meticulous grief any less. It was all over Anne’s pretty young face, the mournful blackness of her hair.

  “No rest for the weary!” the girl said brightly, trying on a brave smile.

  “And do you mind me asking, why did they let you go, at Springhill House?” Ginny said. She was anxious for her guest not to go, not yet. It was so nice to have a visitor, someone to talk to. She hadn’t meant to upset the poor girl. “Are they finally packing it in, heading back to London?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “They would if they’d any sense. But the missus, she’s a nutter—I don’t know what she’s hangin’ around for. She’s not right in the head. She just takes a notion one day, and that’s it—you’re gone. She never keeps any of the staff on for long, only the old housekeeper.”

  “I heard that all right,” Ginny said, refilling the girl’s mug with water. Anne waved her off.

  “I’m grand now, thanks,” she said. “I’d better be off. I’ve a long journey ahead of me yet.”

  Ginny poured the water back into the pail, and followed the girl back out the door into the yard. The children stood around the cairn, watching them. Their eyes were as big as saucers. The girl stopped short in the yard, looking at them.

  “What’s your name?” she said to Maire.

  “Maire.”

  “I’m Anne.”

  “Anne,” Maire repeated, without smiling.

  Then Anne reached into her satchel and drew out a cold block of cheese and a small hunk of grainy bread while the children watched.

  “Here you are, Maire,” she said.

  Maire tried not to show how eager she was, stepping over to the older girl, while the little ones clamored around them. Anne handed the cheese and the bread to Maire then, who broke everything into five equal pieces, careful to save a portion for her mother. The children were all so patient and quiet, God love them, while Maire passed the bites around. They fell on the food in silence. Ginny’s sight had gone blurry from tears.

  “God bless you,” she said to the visitor.

  Anne smiled. “God bless and keep you,” she answered. “Good luck.”

  When she turned to go, Maire caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, miss,” she said.

  Anne nodded, and made for the road. When she got to the top of the ridge, she waved back before she disappeared over the other side. Maire came to her mother in the doorway, to hand her a portion of the cheese and bread.

  “You have it, love,” Ginny said, but Maire pressed it forcefully into her mother’s reluctant palm.

  “I’m not hungry, Mammy,” Maire insisted, pushing the food at her mother’s hand.

  “I’ll have it!” Michael piped up behind her.

  Maire reeled on him, smacked him in the back of the head. “You will not,” she hissed.

  “Are you hungry, pet?” Ginny asked him.

  Michael looked at Maire, who glared ferociously back at him.

  “No, Mammy.” He shook his head.

  Ginny brought the three-legged stool out, and sat beneath the blackthorn tree, nibbling the corner of the cheese. She chewed slowly while her stomach yawned and groaned in anticipation. That little bit of nourishment had been enough to cheer the children, at least in their spirits, and Michael and Maggie were lying on their backs now, pointing up at the passing clouds.

  “Look, that one’s like a ship with a dragon’s head,” Michael said.

  Maggie twisted her head and squinted. “I see a selkie.”

  Poppy was creeping around by the cairn, running her little fingers along the gaps in the stones. Maggie sat up and looked at her.

  “Don’t touch it!” she warned her sister.

  Poppy drew her hand away.

  Maire sat beside her mother on the ground, quietly watching the others. She folded her legs beneath her and leaned her head on Ginny’s knee. Ginny combed her fingers through her daughter’s long, fair hair.

  “Mammy?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Maybe they’d be hiring a new chambermaid at Springhill House.”

  “Mmm.”


  Then they were both quiet again, for a moment.

  “Were you listening at the door?” Ginny asked.

  Maire only shrugged in response. “Would I be old enough?” She lifted her head to look at her mother.

  “Ah, no, love,” Ginny said, rubbing her hand along the softness of her daughter’s cheek, her chin. “You’re too young to go out working.”

  “But I could do it,” Maire said. “I’d be a tremendous chambermaid.” She put her head back down on her mother’s knee. “What if Daddy couldn’t find work straightaway, in America? Or what if the money got lost on its way here? What if it doesn’t get here in time?” She didn’t say in time for what, but Ginny shuddered. She put her arm around her daughter, and leaned over her, kissed her.

  “Shh, don’t worry,” Ginny whispered into her daughter’s hair. “It’s my job to do the worrying.”

  But Maire’s posture stayed rigid while Ginny sat up and chewed thoughtfully on the last nibble of bread. Ginny licked her fingertips, then brushed them against her petticoat to dry them.

  “I’m still hungry, Mammy,” Poppy said.

  Maire lifted her chin from her mother’s knee.

  “Me, too,” Michael admitted, ignoring the look Maire was giving him.

  “Tell you what.” Ginny stood up, lifting Poppy onto her hip, and taking Michael by the hand. “We’ll all have a drop of warmed water. Come inside now.”

  They took turns with the mug.

  “Better?” Ginny asked.

  Michael nodded, but not believably, and Ginny watched his back as he returned outside. She looked at his little shoulder blades standing up in his back, and for a moment, she imagined she could see him withering in front of her, like the stalk of some diseased potato. She had the sense that if she stood still for a time, she would actually watch him disappear. It seemed like a certainty in that moment: they would die here, one by one. Not in some distant, tentative, theoretical way, but soon, presently. Her babies would die. And she might even go first, leaving them to fend for themselves. She imagined them gathered around her body in the morning, trying to waken her, Poppy curling in for a cuddle. That thought seized her with horror, like a hand on her throat. She couldn’t breathe for grief.

  “Mammy?” Maire’s hand was soft on her mother’s.

  Ginny turned toward her daughter.

  “D’you know what I need you to do, Maire?” Ginny said, crouching down and taking her daughter by the two hands. “D’you think you could manage to look after your brother and sisters?”

  Maire’s eyes widened, but she answered bravely. “I can of course.”

  Ginny brushed a loose strand of hair away from her daughter’s face. Maire had always been a serious child—wise beyond her years. But looking at her now, Ginny could only think how young she was, how much life she hadn’t yet lived. Eleven years of age. “Not just today, but for a little while?” Ginny said. “Until we hear from your father? A few weeks maybe?” She needed to be sure her daughter could take it on. It was an awful lot to ask.

  Maire gulped, a tiny quiver in her throat. She nodded.

  “You’re the best girl,” Ginny said, giving her a squeeze. “Daddy will be so proud of you when I tell him.”

  Ginny stood.

  “Are you going to get the job, Mammy?” Maire asked. “At Springhill House?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  • • •

  Ginny splashed water on her face, and pinched color into her cheeks. She removed her kerchief and knotted her hair into fresh plaits while her children sat quietly on the floor, watching her. Poppy was crying, but Ginny wasn’t moved by her baby’s tears. She felt renewed. She had a fixed plan. She could shut away her fears, and concentrate on the task at hand. At least for now there was something she could do.

  “You’ll be all right,” Ginny said, stooping down to kiss Poppy on top of the head. “Maire’s going to take great care of you, aren’t you, Maire?”

  “I am.” Maire stood up, and, with some effort, hoisted Poppy up onto her hip. Poppy flopped her blondie head against Maire’s shoulder.

  “I’m going to call in to Mrs. Fallon as I’m going past and ask her to look in on ye,” Ginny said, tying a bonnet over her tidied hair.

  The Fallons were about the only nearby neighbors left. Ginny fluttered around the cottage while she talked, stoking up the fire for them, looking for things she could set to rights before going. There was nothing. No chores left, no animals, no food in the house, no crop in the ground outside. Until she could get food to them, there was nothing else to be done. She breathed deeply.

  “I’ll stop and ask Father Brennan for a reference on the way,” she said to Maire. “You may start preparing the ground in the turnip patch. If I can get some seed, we’ll plant that as soon as the weather turns.”

  Michael was watching his mother with a hardness in his jaw. His eyes were dry.

  “Help your sister, Michael,” she said to him.

  He only nodded. She was ready to go, ready to walk out the door and down the road, away from her four babies, ready to leave them on their own. Maire allowed Poppy to slide down to the ground and run to Ginny. Poppy wrapped herself around her mother’s legs.

  “Michael, take Poppy and Maggie outside for a few minutes,” Ginny said, standing. “Let me talk to Maire.”

  Michael unfolded himself from his spot beside the fire, and herded his sisters out into the sunshine. Maire turned from the doorway to face her mother.

  “You know what to do if Poppy wakes up crying in the night?”

  “Give her a bit of warmed water and a cuddle.”

  “That’s right, and sometimes she likes a song,” Ginny said. “If you can sing to her, that always settles her right down.”

  Ginny was amazed by Maire’s solemnity, and she could see that it wasn’t a performance. The courage in Maire’s face was not for her mother’s benefit—it was authentic. Maire could do this.

  “And you’re not to tell anyone that I’m away, except Mrs. Fallon—she’ll know. But if ye have any other visitors call in, say nothing. If they ask where your father is, you can tell them he’s gone to America, but if they ask for your mother, just tell them I’m gone to see a neighbor, and you expect me back presently.”

  “Of course,” Maire said.

  “If anything happens, if you need help, send Michael to Mrs. Fallon, or up to Father Brennan,” Ginny went on. “I don’t want you leaving Poppy and Maggie. You send Michael, understand?”

  “We’ll be grand, Mammy,” Maire said, crossing the floor to where her mother stood.

  Ginny embraced her eldest daughter. She would not cry. She would be stalwart, like Maire. They clung to each other for a full minute, but Maire was the first to let go. Ginny stood, fluffed her petticoat out beneath her, went to the doorway, and looked out. Maire stood beside her mother, and Ginny noticed how tall she was—that the top of her head came nearly to her shoulder now.

  “Mam?”

  Ginny turned to look at her.

  “What will I feed them?” she whispered.

  Ginny caught a thick breath in her chest. What a leap of faith she was asking of Maire, to stay calm while her mother walked out the door and away. She was turning her back on them, Ginny was. That’s what it must have felt like, leaving Maire alone with three hungry babies, and not a morsel of food left in the whole of Knockbooley. Surely Maire knew that Ginny would never abandon them; she wouldn’t leave them to perish.

  “Oh, Maire, you poor darling, I’ll send food right away,” Ginny said, lifting her daughter’s chin. “I promise, as soon as I get there, that’s the whole point in me going. So I can send food back at once.”

  “But how, Mammy?”

  Ginny shook her head. “I’ll find a way.”

  • • •

  Ginny kept her legs moving swiftly beneath he
r, pushing on to Springhill House. When she was fit and healthy, she could have walked this distance in two hours, but now she was weak and her body felt wilted and warm. Her legs were shaky beneath her, and a few times, she was tempted to rest, but she feared sitting down, in case she couldn’t get up again. Tears kept brimming her eyes, but she pushed them away. She felt like a sweet left on a rock in the sun, melting. In the last weeks, there was a strange gnawing sensation in her belly that she initially put down to hunger, but today there was a distinct fluttering there, too.

  “It’s only my nerves,” she said to herself, though she knew, in that instinctive way that women know, that it wasn’t her nerves at all.

  Her stomach flipped and swooped as she tramped the road. Each step felt more like a struggle, like she’d a yoke on her shoulders, a rope stretching home to her babies that grew taut as she ventured on. There was part of her that hoped she’d be turned away, an icy slice of terror in her gut when she thought of her children at home without her. But then she pictured Maire’s stern and determined little face, and she knew that somehow this might work.

  “I’ve no choice,” she reminded herself. “If I go back, we starve. That’s it.”

  In truth, she wasn’t sure she was fit to walk home again. She’d heard stories of people falling over dead in the road from the hunger. She took a deep breath and straightened herself from the shoulders. After three arduous hours, Ginny Doyle arrived at the gates of Springhill House. There were two men and a woman already waiting beside the gates. One of the fellas looked to be in fair enough shape. He was lean, but tall, and he still had a color in his face, a bit of animation about him. He was dressed in a swallow-tailed coat and a hat. The brogues on his feet were worn but not broken. He nodded at Ginny when she drew close to the gate.

  “All right?” he said. She nodded back.

  The other two sat in a fixed heap, leaning against each other for the strength of their combined posture. They were so feeble and gray that a stiff breeze might have blown them away like a scattering of ash. The man’s head hung limp from his neck, his dry mouth agape. The woman stared at Ginny with unblinking eyes. She moved her lips in greeting, but no sound came out. Ginny couldn’t look at her for more than a moment. Beyond the gate, a fat, sweaty man was hustling down the long drive from the house. Without opening the gate, he addressed the older couple first, gesturing toward them.