Workhouse Angel

by Holly Green

  ‘Now,’ she said sitting back, ‘you’re as brown as a berry, but there’s not much I can do about that lovely hair, except cut it short and hide it under a cap. Will you let me do that?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Angelina said. ‘Please do it!’

  Dervla picked up some scissors and took a lock of hair in her hands. Moira, sitting nearby nursing the baby, said, ‘It’s a shame, so it is, to cut such beautiful hair.’

  ‘It’ll grow again,’ Dervla pointed out, and made a decisive cut. Very soon Angelina’s hair was as short as a boy’s and Dervla produced a peaked cap and set it on her head. It was slightly too large and sagged over her ears, but that, Dervla said, was all to the good. She delved into a carpet bag where she kept her things and produced a sliver of mirror.

  ‘Take a look.’

  Angelina looked and saw a brown-faced urchin. ‘It doesn’t look like me at all,’ she exclaimed gleefully.

  ‘Well, you’ll pass a quick inspection,’ Dervla said, ‘but I wouldn’t go further than that.’

  Leary came by at that moment and said with a laugh, ‘Well, who’s this young scamp, then? I wouldn’t have known you.’ He looked closer and added, ‘You’ve done a great job, Dervla. But if she’s going to pass as one of us, she’s going to need a new name as well.’ He thought for a moment, with his head on one side. ‘I think you should be Maeve. It means a song thrush. How do you like that?’

  ‘Maeve,’ Angelina repeated. ‘Yes, I like that very much.’

  ‘Maeve it is, then. It’ll take a while to get used to it, I dare say, but you must try to answer to it, just in case someone should come inquiring.’

  In the ensuing days, Angelina enjoyed greater freedom she had ever experienced before, even during the two weeks of the Easter holiday when she was left at the convent. It was true that she was expected to make herself useful. Everyone had their jobs to do, including Quinn and Danny, and no exception was made for her. She finally succeeded in producing a basket that met the standard Dervla required, but then to her relief she was given some cloth and told to make it up into small bags to contain sprigs of lavender, which she then embroidered with coloured wools. The scent of the lavender brought back memories of home, where bags like this had been kept in the drawers containing her underclothes. It had never occurred to her to wonder who had made them. She was allowed to create her own designs for the embroidery and she enjoyed the work much more than wrestling with canes and reeds.

  Sorcha’s particular duty was the care of the nanny goat, which produced the family’s milk. Angelina was quickly co-opted as her assistant. As with the lavender bags, she had never wondered where milk came from, though she’d had a vague idea that cows were involved in some way. Her first sight of Sorcha tugging at the nanny goat’s teats filled her with disgust. Worse followed.

  ‘So, now you see how it’s done you can try it yourself.’

  Angelina drew back. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather just watch you.’

  ‘Just watch, is it? Nothing gets done by just watching. You drink the milk, you can help get it. That way we can share the work.’

  Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Angelina took Sorcha’s place on the low stool and took hold of the teats. The goat shifted irritably.

  ‘She doesn’t like me doing it. You’d better go on.’

  ‘Not I! She’ll get used to it. Just get a firm grip. You’re only tickling her like that.’

  Like it or not, Angelina could see no way of escaping and Sorcha refused to relent until she succeeded in filling the can which was used to carry the milk. From then on, milking the goat was a regular morning chore and one that Sorcha often found an excuse to escape.

  When the chores were done, however, she was free to do as she pleased. She roamed the fields and lanes with Sorcha in search of herbs and early berries. They found mushrooms too, which Angelina regarded with grave suspicion, believing that anything found growing wild was probably poisonous; but Sorcha laughed at her and took back an armful of yellow chanterelles, which were greeted with delight.

  Sorcha knew the names of all the flowers and plants and what they were good for, and could recognise birds by their songs; but she was a little too ready to laugh at Angelina for her ignorance of such matters. On the whole, Angelina preferred to join Quinn and Danny, drawing water, collecting firewood and learning how to set snares for rabbits.

  There were aspects of this new life that were less enjoyable. She did not like having to relieve herself over a smelly pit behind a scanty shield of bushes, and as the summer weather grew warmer the atmosphere in the crowded caravan overnight became stuffy and oppressive. Worst of all was the lack of any opportunity to wash properly. The others seemed to be quite content to splash their faces and hands with cold water but Angelina soon began to long for warm water and soap and the privacy to have a good wash. Once, Sorcha took her to a place in the nearby river where the water formed a deep pool. Leaving Quinn on guard, with Sorcha’s threats of what would happen to him if he looked round ringing in his ears, they stripped to their chemises and lowered themselves into the cool water. It was bliss, but Angelina was never able to persuade Sorcha to repeat the adventure.

  One afternoon Danny asked, ‘Will I show you where we get the eggs?’

  ‘If you like.’

  The boys led her across several fields until they came to a high stone wall.

  ‘That’s the laird’s castle, in there,’ Quinn told her.

  ‘A castle? Like in the fairy stories?’

  ‘Don’t know about that. I never seen one. But there’s a farm, too, with pigs and chickens. That’s what we’re after.’

  ‘Suppose the laird sees us?’

  ‘No chance. He doesn’t live here. He’ll be back in England, like all the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘The men who own the land. They’re all English. They’ve got castles and farms, but they don’t want to live in Ireland. They have tenants and managers to look after it for them, and they just take the profit.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘It’s not, but that’s how things are. Anyway, it’s not the laird we need to worry about, but if the farmer sees us we’ll be for it. This way.’

  He turned along the line of the wall and Angelina followed, torn between excitement and fear. They came to a point where some of the stones from the top of the wall had fallen and lay in a heap at the base.

  ‘Danny, you keep watch,’ Quinn ordered.

  He scrambled up, using the fallen stones as a ladder to reach the top, and Angelina hitched up her skirt and climbed after him. At the top he looked round.

  ‘Stay down, till I see if the coast’s clear.’

  He raised his head cautiously and peered around, then turned back to whisper. ‘No one about. Come on, but keep quiet.’

  On the far side of the wall a small tree provided a way down. Angelina had never climbed a tree before and the drop below her made her heart thud. Encumbered by her long skirt it took her some time to lower herself down, while Quinn waited impatiently. When she joined him he led the way through a shrubbery and into an orchard. Ahead she could see farm buildings and hear hens clucking.

  ‘I know the places where they lay,’ Quinn whispered. ‘They’ve got nest boxes where they’re supposed to lay their eggs but some of them just like to wander. This way. Keep low.’

  Within minutes he had located a clutch of eggs under a currant bush and another in the corner of a low wall.

  ‘Here, you hold out your apron and I’ll put the eggs in it. Don’t drop them! We’ll have some of these blackcurrants, too.’

  Before long Angelina’s apron was full of eggs but to scramble back up the tree without dropping them was an impossible feat. She took her apron off and wrapped the eggs in it to pass them to Quinn, who was already at the top of the wall. Then she struggled upwards and arrived scratched and panting at his side.

  Once they were back on the other side of the wall he looked at her. ‘You’re not b
ad for a girl. Sorcha won’t do it. She won’t even try. She says climbing’s for boys.’

  Another memory rose in Angelina’s mind. She looked at her skirt. It was patched with mud and green mould from the tree trunk, and there was a tear at the hem. ‘Will Dervla be angry with me?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For spoiling my clothes.’

  He drew back his head as if the question made no sense to him. ‘You can brush the dirt off.’

  ‘My skirt’s torn, too.’

  ‘Well, you can mend it, can’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes I suppose so.’

  ‘Well then.’

  As they walked back to the camp Angelina wrestled with a problem of morality.

  ‘These eggs, they really belong to the laird, don’t they? We stole them.’

  Quinn shrugged. ‘So what?’

  ‘Stealing’s wrong. It’s a sin.’

  ‘See here. This land belongs to us, not the English. It’s the laird who stole it from us, and now he sits in his fine house in England and feasts himself on the pork and beef that he fattens on our land, while the people who live here starve. There’s no sin in taking what’s ours by right.’

  This seemed to make good enough sense, so she left it at that.

  On another occasion, Quinn persuaded Killian to let them accompany him when he went to tickle trout. It seemed an odd thing to want to do, but Quinn was plainly excited by the prospect so she went along with him. The river ran through a little valley a short distance from the camp. When they came to the point where the ground dropped away into a thicket of trees and bushes, Killian said, ‘Stay here.’

  Quinn began to protest but Killian said, ‘You’re on guard duty. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes peeled, and if you see the keeper, whistle.’

  Quinn’s look of disappointment turned to one of self-importance. ‘Trust me. I won’t let you down.’

  Killian disappeared among the trees and Quinn faced about and began to scan the landscape behind them.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Angelina asked.

  ‘Hush! You heard Killian. We’re on watch for the keeper.’

  ‘What keeper?’

  ‘The laird’s gamekeeper. We’re still on his land. The trout belong to him – so he thinks.’

  ‘The fish? Even the fish in the stream belong to him?’

  ‘Aye. So do the rabbits in their warrens and the deer in the forest. Ordinary folks are not allowed to take any of them.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘It’s not, but that’s the way the government in England has it.’

  They stood for a while, watching the fields for any sign of movement, until Killian reappeared carrying a knapsack in which something writhed and wriggled.

  ‘You got one, then?’ Quinn said.

  ‘Aye, a fine big fellow. But we could do with another. There’s another pool further down. We’ll try there.’

  He led them downstream for a short distance, and when he stopped this time, Quinn begged, ‘Let us come and watch. Maeve’s never seen a trout tickled. And there’s no one about.’

  Killian hesitated, then nodded. ‘Very well, but I don’t want to hear a sound out of you, understood?’

  ‘You won’t,’ Quinn promised.

  They made their way down into the valley, to where the stream had formed a deep pool shadowed by a willow. Killian pointed to a spot on the bank. ‘Still and silent!’ he whispered.

  Angelina sat beside Quinn and watched as Killian lowered himself to his knees by the pool. For a while he remained statue still, then he very slowly slid his arm into the water. There was a moment of intense concentration, then a sudden movement and a gleaming silver fish landed with a thud on the bank beside him. It wriggled violently, thrashing its tail in an effort to regain the water but Killian reached into a pocket and produced a short, heavy club and struck it a single blow on the head. It lay still and he scooped it into his knapsack.

  Quinn gasped as if he had been holding his breath in the effort to remain silent. ‘Well done, Killian! He’s a beauty.’

  ‘He is that,’ Killian agreed. ‘Come on. Let’s get them back while they’re still fresh.’

  As they walked back Angelina asked, ‘How did you do that, Killian?’

  ‘They call it tickling. When the trout’s resting he’s half asleep. You slip your hand very slowly underneath him and just let your fingertips stroke his belly. They seem to like that. Then one quick grab –’ he jerked his arm in demonstration ‘– and he’s out on the bank before he knows what’s happening.’

  ‘Is it difficult?’

  ‘Well, it took me a while to learn. Many’s the fine fish that’s slipped through my fingers in days gone by – and some still do.’

  The best day of all was when Leary lifted her onto Queenie’s back and led her round the field. She had soon discovered that Quinn and Danny were almost as much at home on horseback as the older boys and even Sorcha could ride. She longed to be able to join them. Feeling the shaggy coat and the strong muscles under her legs, she had an inkling of how they must feel when their bodies and their mounts’ moved as one. Up there she felt proud and powerful.

  ‘Can I learn to ride properly, Leary?’ she begged.

  ‘Sure you can. Will we try a little trot now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  That was more difficult. She found herself bouncing up and down and would have slid off if Leary’s strong hand had not been there to steady her.

  ‘Relax!’ he instructed. ‘Let yourself sink down. Let your spine take up the movement.’

  After that he gave her a lesson every morning and slowly her body adapted itself until she no longer needed him to hold on to her.

  One morning there was an unusual bustle of activity in the camp. Fergal and Moira’s tent was removed from the flat cart and it was brushed out. Dervla was collecting up all the baskets that were finished, and packing up Angelina’s lavender bags. Moira and Sorcha appeared in clean dresses and had combed their hair.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Angelina asked Dervla.

  ‘We’re going into town. There’s things we need, and stuff to sell, and the lads are keen for a drop to drink and a bit of the craic.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘A bit of chat and gossip. A bit of entertainment. You’ll see.’

  One of the horses was brought in and harnessed to the cart and the goods were loaded onto it. Dervla took the reins and Moira climbed up beside her. Leary lifted Angelina onto the back, beside Sorcha, then leaned up to her.

  ‘Best you say as little as possible when we’re in town. You may look like one of us but your English voice will give you away. And remember, your name’s Maeve.’

  All the men and boys were already mounted. Leary vaulted onto the back of his favourite black and white stallion and the cavalcade set off.

  It took about half an hour to reach the town, which was little more than a large village. As they drove down the main street they were greeted by some with friendly shouts of welcome, but Angelina saw others draw away with frowns and shaken heads. The horses were tethered under the shade of a tree on a small green at the end of the street, and Danny and Killian were left to keep an eye on them, with the promise of being relieved later.

  Dervla took Angelina’s hand. ‘You come with me. Here, you can carry these.’

  She handed her a basket containing the lavender bags and strung a bundle of empty baskets on her free arm. Together, they set off down the street. At each house Dervla knocked and offered her goods. Sometimes they were well received; sometimes the door was shut in their faces. Dervla sold several of her baskets, but it was the lavender bags that went fastest.

  The first woman they spoke to looked down at Angelina and asked, ‘And what have you got there, my pretty?’ Angelina mutely held up one of the bags and the woman took it and examined it. ‘Now there’s a pretty thing! Did you make this?’ Angelina nodded. The woman looked at Dervla, and asked, ‘Does she not ha
ve a tongue in her head?’

  ‘She’s shy,’ Dervla said, and patted her on the head.

  ‘Well, I’ll take two of these, to bring a smile to that little face,’ the woman said and pinched Angelina’s cheek. As they walked on, Dervla murmured, ‘Well, you’re turning out to be an asset, for sure.’

  At midday they picnicked beside the cart, but when the sun began to drop, and the shops in the village shut, they all headed for the inn, which stood where the two village streets crossed. Angelina hung back.

  ‘Am I allowed in there?’

  ‘Sure you are,’ Dervla said. ‘Who’s going to stop you?’

  There was only one room in the inn and it was already crowded. The air was full of tobacco smoke and loud with conversation, much of it in a language she did not understand, but which sounded different from the tongue the travellers spoke among themselves. There was a counter at one end, with shelves of bottles behind it, and rough tables and seats made from empty barrels took up most of the rest of the space. Leary and Fergal claimed a table and the women seated themselves round it. The younger men were already mingling with the crowd, trying to strike up conversations with any young women present. Pots full of what Angelina presumed was beer were brought and one was set in front of her.

  ‘You’ll not be used to strong liquor, I imagine,’ Dervla said, ‘but this is small beer. It’ll not do you any harm.’

  Angelina sipped. She didn’t like the taste, but she was thirsty and there seemed to be no alternative on offer, so she drank it.

  As the evening drew on and the conversation became more animated and louder still, Leary produced his fiddle and began to play. Very soon he was the centre of attention with people crowding round with requests, and some of the younger men and girls cleared a space in the middle of the room and began to dance. Then Leary changed the mood with a soulful ballad and suddenly called out, ‘Maeve, come over here to me!’

  Slightly fuddled by the beer Angelina was slow to recognise her new name until Dervla gave her a poke in the ribs. Shyly, she made her way across to where Leary sat.