Gracelin O'Malley

by Ann Moore

  “Tell us,” Sean always demanded first.

  “Shrove Tuesday, ’twas, with all the lads about their games, and all the girls looking to be caught by them as they wanted.” She laughed, then put her hand over her mouth and glanced toward the door. “Your da had just hired on at the mill and he came to our shop for onion bread and a cup of the mead that made your mother famous.” She pulled herself up and deepened her voice, wagging her head in imitation of Patrick’s youthful cockiness. “‘I’ve eaten all over Ireland, Miss,’ he says to her. ‘And your bread is finer than any I’ve tasted.’

  “’Tis my mam does the baking,’ she says to him, hands on her hips, but a blush to be seen miles away—she was shy, our one, but you’d never know it for all her fire.

  “He steps as close to her as he dares and says, looking bold into her eyes, ‘Herself will have to live with us when we’re married, then’.

  “He made her laugh and that was it. Your mother always knew what she wanted.” Gran sighed, but not without pride. “They were married after Easter and then went looking for a small bit of land to lease in County Cork, which is where your da wanted to settle. I thought I might open a baker’s shop along the square in Macroom, but they wanted me here, so I come, not having no one else to stay for. Faith, they loved each other true as the sun, they did. Your mam didn’t think twice about giving up city life to be a farm wife. Strong and independent, she was, with a great passion for scooping up life and patting it in around her.”

  The children listened, their hunger for stories of their mother matched by Granna’s need to speak of the daughter she’d loved so well.

  She and Kathleen had smuggled in religious tradition where they could, and, perhaps because they were Protestant, Patrick had turned a blind eye to most of it, sometimes even staying in the kitchen to hear stories of Christ’s miracles while they made sweet pancakes for Shrovetide, a last treat before Lent. Most of their neighbors made due with one meal a day during the forty days before Easter, but Patrick wouldn’t hear of such nonsense and insisted on two good meals a day for his family. When he’d gone up to the fields, Kathleen would wipe her floury hands on her apron and speak seriously to the children about the Lord’s suffering before His death, and the importance of keeping it in mind by giving up a little something themselves. Granna seemed to think that Kathleen’s death covered the giving up for the rest of their lives, and she no longer asked for personal sacrifice at Lent.

  Once a year of grieving had passed, Granna began to speak more freely of Kathleen and openly continued the traditions that she knew had been important to her daughter. Sean and Grace were her only audience now, as Ryan was old enough to work with his father. Patrick still could not bear the singing, so this, too, they did when he was out, Granna teaching them the words to “John O’Dwyer of the Glens,” the melody to Thomas Moore’s “Tho’ the Last Glimpse of Erin,” and their mother’s favorite, the ancient “Derry Aire.”

  There was no talk of attending services. Sean did not even ask, although he missed the church and the hymns, the sound of the lake lapping at the shore.

  “Your da is angry with God,” Granna explained to them. “He cannot make sense of his life without your mam, and he cannot forgive Him for taking her away. But is he not the good father he’s always been, and are we not to be a comfort to him now? ’Tis what your mam would want of you. Leave it to the Lord to soften his heart.”

  But as time passed, the lines in Patrick’s face only grew deeper, and his once auburn hair was shot with white. He was closest to Ryan, who now worked each day with him and was learning to run the farm, but he remained distant from his younger son and daughter.

  Grace emerged from childhood even more beautiful than her mother had been, though she couldn’t have known it. She’d long forgotten Kathleen’s face, and this troubled her heart, although at times the night would bring her comfort and she’d awaken to the sound of gentle humming. There, a figure would stand in the corner of the little room, braiding the long hair that trailed to her waist, her face turned just enough to hide its features. A wonderful peacefulness would sweep through Grace, but when she reached out her hand or tried to awaken Granna, the figure would turn away and disappear.

  “God’s not forgotten your loss,” Granna would whisper to the weeping girl, stroking her hair. “I carry her face in my heart, but you’ve no memory of that.”

  And in the morning, when Grace asked again why she and no one else saw such a thing, Granna said to her, “Sure, and hasn’t the Lord always blessed you with visions of angels and the like, signs of the otherworld since you were in your mother’s lap? Wouldn’t you warn us away from corners for fear we’d tread on the toe of an angel?” She laughed, then looked up from the onions she peeled, “Don’t question it, child. I wish upon my soul I had the gift to look upon her just once more.”

  Sean spoke up from his hob near the fire, where he spent most of his days. “I dream of saving her, you know, of pulling her from the river. Every spring when the water rises, don’t I have the same dream?”

  Granna peered at him. “I know you do,” she said. “I hear you thrashing around some nights when I go out back.”

  “Why was she taken from us?” The anguish was still clear in his voice, even though they had talked this out many times before.

  Granna shook her head. “It was her time and that’s all.” She paused. “I’ll tell you a story: Long ago, the Irish were blessed with knowing when their time would come, and all were content with living their lives fully until then. But there came a man who saw he was to die after harvest, so he built only a makeshift fence for the sheep, and barely patched his roof. The neighbors began to talk on this so loudly that an angel came to see the man. ‘Why have you not secured your sheep, or made good repair on your cabin?’ he asked. ‘I see no reason if I’m to die after harvest,’ said the man. ‘Let the next one do the work.’ The angel saw that this was no good and spoke to God, who then took back the knowledge of death from the people so that they might not give up on life before their time.”

  Grace listened to the old story and took the words into her heart, but Sean just shook his head.

  “Some give up on life and hope for death, anyway,” he said. “Like Da.”

  “Aye, ’tis wrong,” Granna allowed. “But he doesn’t really want to die, your da. He wants to know how to go on living, for he sees no plan to his life a’tall.”

  “Nor do I,” Sean said bitterly, staring down at his twisted arm and leg.

  Granna slapped down her paring knife. “You know better than to question the way of the Lord, Sean O’Malley. You think God has punished you by leaving you a cripple, but that’s looking at what you don’t have instead of what you do. Were your limbs strong and your body big, you’d be out in the fields with your da and brother, or working at the linen mill, or down in Cork City on the docks. All of it hard work, day in and day out—with no time left for the books you love!”

  Sean raised his eyes and she saw the pain in them.

  “I know it’s not been easy, agra. Fourteen years old and no running with the other boys, except Morgan McDonagh, bless his heart. No dances, not much life outside this house, and sick most of the winter. But your mind is strong, boy.” Her eyes burned into his face. “You’ve got your mother’s quick way of thinking and your father’s strong will. Reading and writing is your ticket into the world and you’d never have learned so much or studied so hard if you were working with your body.”

  Grace moved close to her brother and put her arms around his neck. “Isn’t it you who taught me to read and write, then?” she asked softly. “Where would I have learned it if not from you? I’m sorry you’re cripple, Sean … but I thank Jaysus for letting us keep you, a’tall.”

  Sean squeezed her strong arms and smiled weakly. “Ah, never mind me. I’m still an eejit for all my books. What’s that the old ones say?” He thought for a moment. “‘The lake is not encumbered by the swan; nor the steed by the bridle; nor t
he sheep by the wool; nor the man by the soul that is in him.’ I think I’d best take hold of that.”

  Granna and Grace smiled, not following a word of what he said, but relieved that the depression that often fell on him would slip away easily this time.

  “Are we not due a visit from Morgan?” Granna asked. “That talk of the lake makes me want salmon. The two of you’ve not been fishing for over a fortnight.”

  “Missus O’Dugan says his mam had the baby, another girl,” Grace said. “And his da’s gone off to sea again.”

  “Leaving the boy to look after them all, the scalawag.” Granna clucked her tongue. “’Tis a hard life, he has. A day of fishing would do the both of you some good.”

  But Morgan did not come, and they resumed their work, sewing steadily until their eyes were dry and tired. Sean had earned a reputation as a steady hand with the needle, taking in piecework from the mill and some custom orders from the gentry. Granna had taught him as a way of keeping his fingers nimble and his mind occupied, and now he’d gotten enough of a trade to bring in a bit of change. Grace had taken it up to keep her brother company, and had quickly showed a gift for design. She embroidered handkerchiefs, collars, aprons, and lapels, and made beautiful samplers. Those who could afford it often called upon her to sew up wardrobes for newborns, and in this she was assisted by Sean, who could make up dozens of nappies in no time. Although his posture was awkward, he was quite adept at cutting out and stitching up the nightgowns, hats, blankets, little jackets, and robes, which Grace then detailed with embroidery and ribbon. An order like that could bring in a fair amount of money, but it was not steady work and could not be depended upon. Granna and Kathleen had kept up their baking skills and had sold breads and rolls at the market in Macroom; but even with Grace’s help, this was now too difficult for Granna, who had to contend with Patrick’s refusal to send them off in the wagon any distance at all, let alone all the way to Macroom.

  Theirs was a rural neighborhood like any other; most of the families around them struggled to make it through each year and there was never money for extras. The cabins were sparsely furnished, the clothing simple. Further out into the countryside and up into the mountains, housing was rarely more than a windowless mud hut, one or two stools or big rocks for sitting, a pot for boiling potatoes over the fire, straw in the corner where the whole family bedded down at night with the animals. Potatoes and water were the mainstay, supplemented by whatever the land might yield: nuts, berries, small game, fish, herbs, and bitter greens. Those who dwelled in the mountains wore their clothes to rags and were lucky to have a blanket to share among them.

  Life was better for folks like the O’Malleys, who lived closer to the main roads that led to town. Theirs were small, stone cabins with thrush roofs across which were thrown lines of stone-weighted rope to keep the straw from blowing away. There were windows and half-doors, cobbled paths and swept yards, boulder-fenced pastures, wider lanes for travel. Inside, there were a few sticks of furniture, a cup and plate for each person, stuffed mats and blankets, an extra change of clothing. Most of the men planted their holdings in potatoes, but also hired out as labor to some of the bigger estates or went away part of the year to work the mills or go to sea. No one had a rich, comfortable life, but because of Kathleen’s head for saving, the O’Malleys had more than most. The pigs stayed out in a shed of their own and didn’t muck up the big room of the cabin; there were a few pictures on the walls, luster jugs, a set of plates and crockery. They had utensils and their mother had insisted they use them, not just scoop food into their mouths with their fingers, as was the custom. They had good pans and sharp knives, mended by the tinkers who came down the lane now and then, and even a tatted rug on the stone floor. In addition to the hobs and stooleens, there was furniture that Kathleen and Granna had brought from the bakery: a table with benches, a sideboard, two chairs, and a rocker. Painted benches were built in around the walls, and dried wreaths and flowers livened the room. They slept on proper pallets—large pieces of flannel sewn together and stuffed with straw—and had quilts to warm them at night. Her mother had drawn the suspicion of the neighbors by whitewashing the cabin twice a year and by leaving the sweeping broom sitting in a pail of disinfectant, but many of the fevers that swept through their county did not touch the O’Malleys, and Gran said they had their forward-thinking mother to thank for that. Granna was as mystified as the others about Kathleen’s modern ideas and the confidence she showed in executing them. She insisted the girl had been switched by tinkers with the baby of a queen, but her eyes twinkled with joy, and pride was there in her voice. Grace knew the money her mother had saved was long gone and that they now struggled to pay their rent in labor days to the landowner, but in this they were no different from anyone else. All the folk grumbled about landlords, just as they all squinted at the sky and scooped handfuls of dirt to sniff, made forecasts about the coming potato crop, and claimed accuracy no matter what. It was their life.

  And so the seasons passed, one after another, marked with the holidays and small feasts they all celebrated, although Patrick kept to himself and worked all days as if they were the same. His only conversation was with Ryan about the condition of the farm and how to come by the rent that had doubled in the past year. Rack rent was a constant worry, and Quarterday, when the agents came to collect, loomed ever large. Ryan had now assumed his father’s dour disposition; Sean and Grace considered him an old man since he could no longer be counted upon for a song to mark the day or a game of checkers on a winter’s night. It was as if two families inhabited the house: one resigned to the struggle of their life, the other just as determined to find joy in the day.

  Christmas was not bountiful, but Grace was a stranger to the word, and she delighted in the ribbon Sean had for her hair, the rag doll Granna made with leftover bits of material, the absentminded kiss and hard peppermint from her father, bootlaces from Ryan. She had small trinkets for them, as well: fish hooks, a pair of woolen socks, an embroidered bookmark, a wax-sealed jar of summer preserves. This was the only day her father would relax some, although he still went to work when they began to sing.

  On St. Stephan’s Day, Granna insisted that Grace blacken her face with the other village children and trim the holly bushes with scraps of ribbon. St. Brigid’s Day came in February, which Granna celebrated on the sly, not being Catholic, but having great feeling for Brigid. “A true Irishwoman,” she’d say. “Much more suitable for us than Patrick—the old snake charmer.”

  Candlemas, the Feast of Lights, was followed by Shrove Tuesday and then Lent. Hungry children from the lane would appear at the O’Malleys’ half-door, knowing Granna or Grace would give them a bit of tea brack or gingerbread. On Ash Wednesday, the Catholics wore smudged ash on their foreheads; Grace stayed indoors because her difference from them was all too apparent on this day, and she wanted to avoid pitying looks from her neighbors, as well as scowls from the priests. Good Friday was a somber day, rare in that Granna would not work more than was necessary, then spent the evening sitting in the dark, telling them quietly the story of Christ’s terrible death on the cross. Easter Sunday, the day of His resurrection, brought with it a celebration of renewed life, with a feast of roast lamb for any who had it. The first of May was Beltaine, Grace’s favorite, when bonfires lit up the hillsides all over Ireland, and the cows were driven between them to get rid of murrain. St. John’s Eve, at midsummer, also meant bonfires, but in the middle of town. Grace, Sean, and even Ryan would jump on the haywagon that came down their lane and ride it into Macroom to watch the dancing, Ryan sometimes joining the other young men who leapt through the flames in a show of daring and strength. Lug’s Day, the first of August, was the welcomed day of digging new potatoes, and big plates of colcannon sat on every table.

  Autumn passed quickly with harvesting and winter preparations; the children celebrated Samhain with apple bobbing, blindman’s buff, and rounds of Black Raven, a board game Sean played with Morgan in front of the fi
re. Although she still baked the bram brack, Granna no longer put into it the rings, coins, or other tokens that were traditional. The year she died, Kathleen had found no token in her cake at all, an unheard-of occurrence; there’d been no fortune to foretell her coming year, and this had haunted Granna ever after.

  By the looks of the carts and rigs that passed down their lane, Ireland was getting more crowded every day, according to Gran.

  “Can’t hardly walk down my own boreen without some jennet near squeezing me out,” she often complained. But she enjoyed the population moving by her windows, and had a special place in her heart for the tinkers who stopped to peer in and bless the cabin.

  It was 1840. Grace was eleven, and the world had grown smaller, or so it seemed with all the coming and going down the lane. The past twenty years had doubled the population in Ireland, but the people still lived on potatoes, filling themselves with ten pounds a day or more; one acre could yield as much as six tons, so even the cottiers—who held no land—hired themselves out and leased conacres to grow enough to support their families. Land was life; to lose it was a death sentence. The O’Malleys rented a relatively large holding often acres planted mainly in potatoes, but also in grains, and pastureland for sheep grazing. They kept a kitchen garden, and raised chickens and pigs. With a long-term lease, there had been incentive to homestead. Now the lease had run out and Patrick could not afford the stamp to renew, so he paid quarterly like everyone else around them. He had followed his wife’s advice and resisted dependence on potatoes alone; she’d kept a small botha filled with preserves, sacks of meal, and salted meat. Patrick had teased her about stockpiling and said they’d gain a reputation for miserliness, but Kathleen had put her hands on her hips and insisted they could say what they liked, hadn’t the potato failed before and most surely would again? Come terrible times, she would not see her family starve.