Dropping like a stone, the owl swooped and lifted a mouse from the ground. It carried it to a nearby tree, a low oak, planted in memory of a woman who had died of pneumonia at eighty-three years of age, and swallowed it, the tail hanging, still flickering from its beak, before the final gulp.
Satisfied, the owl sat and dozed, closing its yellow eyes. It opened them again and turned its head almost all the way round as the stillness of the graveyard was broken. Two gravediggers, one tall, one stocky and short, talking, opened the side gate, carrying spades on their shoulders.
They walked to the main iron gates, and pulled them back, the stop of the gate dragging in the hardened mud, casting a perfect semicircle. They waited, still chattering, until a large black carriage appeared and slowed, turning sharply into the entrance of the graveyard. The rumble of the vehicle, quietened their words. The horse whinnied and snorted when the driver yanked its reins to a stop.
From the carriage, five sets of boots dismounted, causing the body of the vehicle to lean towards the ground. It steadied itself back to level, as the coroner, two doctors, the inspector and the clerk of the burial board arranged themselves in the quiet of the graveyard.
Another carriage, smaller and with the words Dublin Metropolitan Police painted on its side, rolled in behind.
The gravediggers closed the gates of the graveyard and walked to the assembled party.
“You’ve marked the spot?” asked the inspector.
“We have,” said the small stout gravedigger, who was older and had dug holes to bury hundreds and hundreds of souls.
They followed the gravedigger, hand-lamps swinging in the dark, balancing along kerbstones, showing their respect.
“This is the one,” said the man, and pointed to an inconspicuous but fresh enough grave.
“Well, let’s get to work so,” said the inspector.
The gravediggers pushed their shovels into the soil and began to dig. One of the policemen who had come in the Metropolitan carriage went back to fetch the things they would need.
The two doctors pulled a set of wooden benches together, benches that usually supported the bottoms of the grieving who came to sit and think and pray.
The party stood back as the gravediggers took to the earth, throwing it up in showers of fine clay and small stones.
Soon they dislodged the gravestone and the policemen and the gravediggers lifted it from the ground, grunting with the weight, laying it carefully on the white sheet they had spread on the ground.
They stopped for a few minutes’ break, the diggers wiping at their foreheads with rags from their pockets, the inspector stamping his feet impatiently.
Exhumations made him queasy.
“Let’s keep going,” he said, when he could stand the silence no more.
The pile of earth grew higher, the smell of wet soil and mould filling the air. When the shovels hit the coffin, a damp thud to the wood, they carefully dug around it and applied the ropes. With help from the heaving policemen, the coffin was disinterred and placed, flatly on the pushed together benches.
The clerk of the burial board checked the name plate, as did the coroner.
All put their hands to their noses as the lid of the coffin was prised open.
“Let’s get this done quickly,” said the inspector, from behind a scarf he had brought for the occasion.
The shroud was torn from the body to reveal a grey, stinking pulp.
The doctors opened their glass jars and took out their instruments. The first doctor put a small handsaw to the head and sheared the top of the skull. He lifted what was left of the brain into the jar proffered by the other doctor. The jar was labelled and sealed with muslin.
Next the doctor separated the centre of the body, drawing a line with his scalpel where the oesophagus should have been. They lifted what they could of the pulp and labelled it Heart, Lungs, Stomach. From the lower regions of the body, they took more of the matter and labelled it Intestines.
“That’s all we can take,” said the doctor with the scalpel.
The jars were placed in a wooden crate and given to the coroner. He would deliver it that very night into the hands of the analyst at Trinity College who had already been put on notice.
They put the shroud back on top of the remains and resealed the coffin.
The gravediggers lifted it and lowered it carefully back into the grave and began to shovel the earth on top.
“Thank God that’s over,” said the inspector who by now was fighting the urge to vomit.
The party waited, with swinging hand-lamps held aloft, until the grave had been fully filled and the headstone put back in place.
Shadows fell across the stone as the men readied themselves to depart.
The engraving on the headstone flashed as the lamps swung.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
JAMES MARTIN
NATIVE OF STRAWBERRY BEDS
WHO DEPD THIS LIFE
18 DECEMBER 1879
MAY HE REST IN PEACE
The black carriage rolled out of the graveyard, led by the Dublin Metropolitan policemen, the coroner satisfied that they had enough matter to examine for their inquest, the clerk satisfied that the exhumation had been carried out legally and his paperwork would meet all of the burial board’s standards.
As the inspector clutched his stomach, the gravediggers shouldered the wrought-iron gates and heaved them closed, glad that their task was over and they could go home to their beds.
As they walked out the side gate, an owl swooped low, its wings silent, its eyes searching for mice that may have been disturbed by the digging and the men’s feet.
ab
An Updating Letter
Ballyheath, Kells, County Meath, Ireland
April 1880
Dear Christy,
Thank you for your last letter. It’s hard to believe you are out. I’d say you don’t know yourself.
I’m delighted you have found a job. It will stand to you I’m sure.
Yes, I’d imagine it is a little bit strange being free after all these years. I hope you will go slow and enjoy it and get used to it. It’s a big change.
Let me know if I can do anything for you, or if you need anything at all.
I’m not sure if you heard about all the goings-on here, but we got some very bad news there, just two weeks gone.
I’m sorry to let you know that Mick took ill and died. They reckon it was tetanus, an infection from a cut in his mouth. He suffered something shocking.
We are all very upset about it, especially Winnie as you can imagine.
I never saw the man sick a day in his life, strong as an ox he was, but it took him just like that. We were up in Drogheda for the funeral, helping out as best we could.
It brought back a lot of memories, being back in the North Road.
I did mention you to Winnie but she didn’t want to talk about it. I was wondering if a letter to her might be a good idea? Of course, now is not a good time for her, but maybe in a few weeks, she might come round herself.
The past is the past and you have done your time now.
Write and let me know all your news.
If you fancy a visit to Kells, let me know, although maybe leave it for a few weeks until things settle down.
Your loving sister,
Susan
Chapter 21
William D. Thomas
He could feel the sun burning through a crack in the curtains before he opened his eyes. It cut a line across the eiderdown, searing, hot. It was going to be a beautiful day.
He rose and dressed in a light shirt and cravat, noticing how it was the first day in a long time that he felt he had something to look forward to.
Ethel had prepared a picnic for them with sandwiches and a flask of tea. She’d put some jam tartlets and some scones and butter in the basket and told them to keep an eye out and see if they could pick up some cream at a farmer’s stall on the way.
The baby was all ready. He
was delighted to see she was alert and smiling under her white bonnet. A parasol was attached to the perambulator.
“Isn’t she bonny?” he said as the baby gave him a toothless smile. He tickled her chin. “I really love to see her smile. I feel I only see her when she’s sleeping.”
“She’s staying awake to see the sunshine,” said the Nanny.
They left Number 43, William walking a little ahead of the Nanny, with the picnic basket in his hand and fishing rod against his shoulder. They made their way across the bridge and turned onto the Dublin Road to walk to the train station.
They puffed up the hill, their cheeks turning red in the burning sun. When the workhouse appeared to their right, the Nanny turned her head to the left, to look out over the town.
At the station, they queued for their tickets and joined a melee of people wearing bonnets and straw hats and clutching baskets and cloth sacks.
Stalls had been set up outside the station offering bread, scones, milk and jam.
The Nanny pondered over some blackcurrant jam, turning it over in her hand.
“Put it in the basket, Miss Murphy – today we dine like kings,” said William light-heartedly.
She smiled and put it under the linen cloth.
“It’s been ever so long since I’ve enjoyed a day out,” she said.
He smiled and thought how he felt the same.
They’d started walking in the evenings with the baby. The only thing that took Anna from his mind was by putting distractions and activities, in the way.
He was starting to learn more about Miss Murphy. She seemed to uncurl herself in his presence, telling him stories, about the children she’d minded, quoting funny things she’d heard them say.
The truth was, he uncurled himself too. He found that taking a walk, with the Nanny and the baby, brought a certain sense of calm.
They folded the perambulator and climbed onto the train at the platform, a thick cloud of smoke billowing across their heads, blocking out the blue sky before evaporating into the sunshine.
The Nanny sat across from him and took the baby on her lap. She looked out the window as the train eased itself out of the station, pointing out things to the baby: tree, cow, birdy. How easy her manner was with the child, how lovely it was to see Anna Genevieve cuddled close to her, her eyes curious.
The journey was a short one, cutting through the green countryside, field after field flying by the window. Dark hedges divided up the land they passed. Insects had come alive in the heat and they scattered as the steam train pushed on over the track.
The chug-chug of the track echoing through the open window was a comfort. He thought how they should plan more trips like this. Dublin was just over an hour away, a journey the baby would be well able to handle.
The last time he had gone to Dublin was to fetch back the ring Mrs. McHugh had sent to the jeweller’s to sell. It was a sorry journey, not lessened by the tragic circumstances that had befallen Mrs. McHugh afterwards.
He could well have pressed charges, had her prosecuted for theft. Although he would never have done that. He could never do that do a woman like Mrs. McHugh.
How he missed her kindly smile in the morning and her chatter in the evenings when he came in.
The only memory Miss Murphy would have of the woman was how it all ended. He couldn’t discuss with her how Mrs. McHugh’s departure had been like another death to him.
They had gone ahead and hired another housemaid as Miss Murphy had suggested, a quiet girl, Polly, a little older than Ethel.
Miss Murphy saw to the baby and also took over many of Mrs. McHugh’s tasks: the household accounts, decision-making, laying down what the two housemaids were to do. She had shown a prowess for leadership. She had stepped into the breach.
And so they settled into a new routine.
Anna Genevieve was becoming more alert now. He was fascinated by her development, watching how she toned her body in preparation for sitting. How Anna would have loved to watch her grow!
They stood up ahead of Beauparc, the noise level on the train rising as the day trippers got ready to descend on the scenic spot.
The sun had risen higher in the cobalt sky.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, when they’d taken everything off the train and walked to a flat part of the grass overlooking the river, where other picnickers had set up.
“Starving,” she said.
“Let’s eat straightaway then,” he said.
They unpacked their picnic and watched as the river steamer pulled up at the dock and families spilled out onto the shore.
“They’re going to be busy today. Have you been on one before?”
She shook her head.
“Fabulous day for it. There’s nothing more beautiful than the River Boyne on a sunny day,” he said.
After the picnic they rested, while Anna Genevieve napped in her pram. He sprawled out on the blanket enjoying the freedom, the fresh air, the light breeze that blew in off the river and ruffled his hair and shirt sleeves.
She sat upright, keeping a distance.
“I expect you might have good sea legs, if your father was a boatman.”
“A dock worker.”
“Didn’t he ever go aboard?”
“I never really knew him, Mr. Thomas.”
He sat up on his elbows and looked at her.
“No family left then?”
“No,” she said. “A true orphan. I think that’s why I became a nanny. I love looking after children and I didn’t have any brothers or sisters growing up.”
“Must be very hard on you,” he said.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “My mother was wonderful. I got all the attention.”
“I got none of it, living in my brother’s shadow,” he said. “I was ever so pleased when he took to the seas, just like my father!”
He noticed how pretty she looked when she laughed. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight and she looked as wistful as a girl. He broke his gaze and picked up the flask to pour more tea.
“Ready to test those water-legs after all?” he asked when the cruiser appeared on the horizon.
“Yes!” she said cheerfully.
They took their fishing rod and left the pram on the dock, beside two others. The queue was long, but they were lucky to take the last seats right at the back, the baby nestling into the Nanny’s lap. They felt the cruiser rock under their feet and bump side to side as it left the dock, before picking up speed and setting sail down the river.
On the water, a fine breeze met their faces, easing the hot sun. The boat was topped with a wide roof and they settled back in the scooped chairs, pointing out things they saw to each other. A blue kingfisher hovering at the riverbank. The splash of an otter, its tail disappearing into the water. A large rhododendron in bloom.
After they passed a large country manor, the boat veered left, joining with the narrow canal that ran alongside the river. The water changed from the choppy waves of the river to the stillness of the deep canal, the surface a murky mirror, where they could see their reflections clearly. The boat slowed down, its roof tickled by trailing willow branches.
“It’s so beautiful here,” said the Nanny.
Walkers strolling along the canal path waved as the boat sailed by. Ladies in wide summer dresses held small children’s hands, gentleman in light suits accompanying them.
They passed under the small stone bridge at Oldbridge, before reaching the lock, where they had to wait for the water to tumble down and raise them up to the level of the road.
“Let’s get out here,” he said.
They wobbled up to the gate and the boatman put his leg on the pier so that they could get off. The Nanny held the baby tight to her chest and reached for William’s hand to step onto the bank.
It was the first time they had ever touched.
They walked back the way the boat had come, searching for a good fishing point.
“There used to be a great spot,
” he said, looking ahead. “I think it’s up there.”
When they reached it, two men were already set up, their rods in the water.
“Many biting?” he asked, looking at a pail of water where fish, half alive, splattered.
“Good few trout,” said one of the fishermen. “No salmon today.”
They walked on, enjoying the dappling light from the trees on the tow path.
“Thank you for taking me today,” she said.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said with a smile.
They turned off the canal path, to a field, making their way across tall grasses to the banks of the Boyne. Within minutes of casting out, a tug came on the line and their whoops startled the baby as William reeled the fish in to shore.
It emerged from the water, silver and flipping, the glint of its scales reflecting in the sun.
“A salmon,” she said. “A big one too.”
“It must be at least ten pounds,” he said, weighing it with his hands. “I hope Polly will know what do with it!”
He wrote it into the fishing journal she had bought him.
“You’ve brought me luck,” he said.
“Have I now?” she said and smiled. “I’d imagine it’s more to do with those scrumptious disgusting worms wriggling in that bait box.”
They both laughed.
When Anna Genevieve started to grizzle, they gathered their things and made their way back to catch the boat again.
“I could be Queen of the Nile,” said the Nanny, lying back and closing her eyes as the boat sailed with speed back to the dock at Beauparc.
“You certainly look like a queen,” he said.
She sat up, opened her eyes and looked at him.
The sun must be going to his head, he thought. But there they were. He was enjoying himself. And Miss Murphy looked radiant, carrying his daughter, both their faces wrapped in summer smiles.
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 13