On his next visit, Henry Marmion, accompanied by his underagent George Hogan, made his position clear to all the tenants of Sir William Wrixon Becher.
‘Potatoes or no potatoes, the rent is still to be paid,’ he declared.
‘But we have nothing to give you,’ pleaded Nell Flynn. ‘Would you have us take the food from our children’s mouths to give to a man who has never known a day’s hunger or hardship in his life?’
‘Mrs Flynn, there are no exceptions to the rule,’ George Hogan replied coldly. ‘Those who do not like it know well what the result will be.’
Mary thanked heaven that, unlike Nell, she and John at least had their rent, though little else to feed their family with during the coming winter months.
‘Everyone has bad years,’ John consoled her, ‘but we’ll manage to get through the long lean months until we have next summer’s potato crop.’
As the days grew shorter, Mary and the children foraged and scoured the hedgerows and shoreline. Early in the morning, she combed the fields for mushrooms, and gathered nettles and herbs. She even paid a secret visit to the orchard at Creagh House, for the house was empty, where she filled her apron and shawl with damaged windfall apples.
John worked all the hours that he was able, doing whatever rough labouring jobs he could get, but there was little enough work to be had with so many other men trying to keep their families fed.
The Sullivans’ last sack of potatoes grew emptier by the day and Mary fed the children turnips and eggs. Now, even the poor hens were laying less for she had no meal to feed them.
All around her, the neighbours were beginning to sell their possessions to purchase food and pay their rent. Mary looked around her small cottage to see if she had anything worth selling or pawning.
There was her bristle brush, with its silver handle, that John had bought her when they were courting; a rough brush and a simple comb would suffice now. She studied the pair of fine, soft leather shoes that she rarely wore any more, for they were not sturdy enough to use on the farm. They could certainly go. Then there was John’s mother’s heavy, black woollen shawl with the tassels. It was far too big for Mary to wear, but it had sentimental value, as did the blue-and-white china jug and plate that had also been his mother’s.
She opened the chest where her wedding dress lay carefully folded in the hope that, one day, one of her daughters would wear it. She wasn’t ready to part with it yet and closed the lid firmly.
Pat offered to give her a lift into town as he had some business there. He made no comment on the fact that she intended to sell some of his late mother’s things. As she climbed down from the cart they arranged to meet later.
Mary swiftly joined the queue of people outside Hegarty’s pawn shop, waiting their turn to have their possessions assessed. The women around her carried shawls and dresses, blankets and shirts. Men carried wooden stools, cradles, frock coats and fishing tackle, their eyes downcast as they stood in line. All were ready to sell each and every item in order to buy oats, flour and grain with which to feed their families.
She watched the people ahead of her enter the shop, only to leave with disappointment etched on their faces as they counted the money in their hands before entering the provisions store next door, which was also owned by Denis Hegarty and run by his son.
‘Bad cess to you,’ an old man in a stained coat and hat shouted angrily as he left. ‘Thieving off the poor in their misfortune!’
Mary tried to remain composed as she moved up the line and entered the busy pawn shop. A good-looking woman ahead of her held a blue satin hat trimmed with fine feathers, which she wanted to sell.
‘Dublin-bought!’ the woman claimed, tossing her hair.
‘Fine feathers, but who is to wear them here, my dear?’ sneered Mr Hegarty.
‘Then what about this?’ she asked, producing a golden locket which she dangled in front of him.
The shop owner studied it carefully, weighing it in the palm of his hand as the two of them haggled over the price.
‘I could take it to Cork or Dublin,’ she argued, her cheeks reddening.
Mary could see that, under her good coat, the woman’s shoes were broken down and her dress well worn.
‘That is your right, if you want to travel so far,’ the pawnbroker said coldly. ‘But my offer is eight shillings. That, of course, will include the hat.’
The woman nodded reluctantly. Stretching out her hand, she grabbed the money and pushed past Mary in her rush to escape the place.
Putting a smile on her face, Mary stepped forward, as if her business with Mr Hegarty was an ordinary, everyday matter. She did not want him to sense her nervousness.
‘What have you got today, Mrs—’
‘Sullivan,’ she interjected, placing the shawl on the counter before her. ‘A heavy woollen shawl, in perfect condition.’
He said nothing as he lifted up the item and inspected it.
‘It was my late mother-in-law’s. I would wear it myself but she was of a much taller and broader physique than me.’
She could sense Hegarty’s eyes run over her neat, trim figure.
‘Hmm,’ he muttered, fingering the garment. ‘I already have a store room of shawls.’
‘But this is of far better quality than most,’ Mary insisted, holding her ground. ‘I also have a pair of fine leather shoes that are barely worn. I live out in the countryside now but used to work in the town.’
Hegarty feigned disinterest, but he knew the shoes were well made and would appeal to the ladies in the town.
Mary produced the jug and bowl next before finally placing the pretty silver-inlaid bristle hairbrush in front of him with a flourish. Denis Hegarty began to tally some figures, scratching them on a scrap of paper with a pencil he took from behind his ear.
‘I can give you twelve shillings for the lot,’ he said in his nasal tone. ‘Though I’ll likely be stuck with them, for who wants to buy such items these days?’
She flushed, for the amount being offered was far less than she had hoped for. Two women pushed and shoved behind her, awaiting their turn.
‘I expected that the brush and shoes would be worth more?’
‘That is all they are worth to me, Mrs Sullivan,’ Hegarty said, the shillings already in his outstretched hand. ‘Take it or leave it!’
He gestured for the next customer to come forward.
‘Thank you, Mr Hegarty,’ Mary said politely, taking the pawn tickets and coins in her palm.
There was enough to buy some grain and oats to sustain her family for a few weeks, but she would not give Denis Hegarty the satisfaction of spending it in his provisions store next door. He’d had enough of her business for one day, and she would go elsewhere for her purchases.
Skibbereen was crowded with people like herself trying to purchase food for their families, but despite their numbers the normal commerce of the town continued, with people still going about their business and visiting the bank and hotels, solicitors and tradesmen.
Out of force of habit, Mary stopped outside Honora Barry’s and found herself pushing open the door and entering the dressmaker’s shop where she had worked years before. Honora was busy with a customer so Mary stood quietly and watched the older woman narrow the fine pleats on the front bodice of a pretty satin dress. She then proceeded to pin up the cuffs of the gown as the sleeves needed shortening very slightly.
Before her marriage to Jeremiah Collins, Mary’s mother had been a seamstress in a big house in Bantry. She used to work by the fireside in the evenings, when Mary and her siblings were children, taking up hems, making and mending garments. She had taught both her daughters how to sew, but Kathleen had no patience for it, injuring herself with the needle and scissors. Mary, on the other hand, enjoyed it and began to make clothes herself from scraps of material.
Her skill with the needle had led to her being hired as an apprentice seamstress at the age of sixteen by Honora Barry in her shop in Skibbereen. The hours were long
but Mary soon learned how to cut patterns, sew satins, silks and lace, and make dresses, skirts and jackets. It was at the shop that she had met John Sullivan, the tall, dark-haired young man with the rather hesitant smile and a solitary dimple in his lower left cheek, who constantly seemed to need torn jackets, shirts and trousers mending.
It had taken months for him to finally summon the courage to ask if he could visit her at her parents’ cottage on her Sunday off.
Within five months she had fallen in love with John, who, with his kind heart and steady way, declared he could not live without her. She had accepted his marriage proposal happily and that summer made her wedding dress. Honora had given her advice along the way and admired the beautiful garment Mary had designed and hand-sewn herself. A married woman, Mary left the shop to look after her husband and growing family.
Mary smiled as she watched her former employer fit the customer’s satin gown expertly.
‘The bodice and neckline are ideal for someone with your fine figure,’ Miss Barry complimented.
‘Will my dress be ready in time?’ the dark-haired young woman fretted. ‘We are visiting Dublin and attending a few balls.’
‘Certainly, for it will take only two days to make these slight alterations,’ the older woman promised, tapping the pincushion that was tied to her wrist.
‘I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mary,’ acknowledged Honora Barry as she escorted her customer to the discreet changing room to help her out of the gown.
The stylish young woman re-emerged soon after in a beautiful fitted coat with a velvet-trimmed collar and cuffs. Miss Barry accompanied her to the shop door before turning to her visitor.
‘Motherhood suits you, Mary, for you look as pretty as ever,’ she told her, before enquiring after John and the children.
Mary nodded. ‘They are all well. Though we lost most of our crop and have had to sell our animals.’
‘The government needs to step in and do something about giving assistance,’ pronounced the dressmaker in sympathy.
‘Miss Barry, I came to ask whether you have any spare work – alterations, repairs or mending – that I could do?’
Mary worried that she was being presumptuous, but could see that Miss Barry was considering her offer, knowing well that Mary was one of the finest seamstresses she had ever employed.
‘I need the work,’ Mary admitted, ‘and could do it for a reasonable rate.’
‘Normally I wouldn’t have any spare work,’ the dressmaker said, arching her grey eyebrows, ‘but Catherine left me high and dry just last week. She’s moved to Cork City where she and her betrothed are getting married next month. Her position is free, but with the way things are at present I do not intend taking on another employee for the workroom. There is, however, still work to be done.’
‘Please, Miss Barry, give me the chance. I won’t let you down.’
Honora Barry smiled. ‘Mary, if there is one thing I know it is that you are a good, reliable worker. So perhaps such an arrangement might suit us both for the present.’
‘Oh, that would be grand, Miss Barry. When will I start?’
‘Well, you can start today, for I have this bundle of men’s clothing that needs repairing. It’s just sitting up in the workroom, and Jane and I are far too busy to attend to it at present. Would you be able to have it done and returned by next week?’
‘Yes,’ Mary promised.
The bag of mending was heavy and she was glad that Pat was still in town with his cart so she could get a lift home, for she still needed to go and purchase some oats and flour.
‘Well, isn’t that a piece of luck, getting some work?’ congratulated her brother-in-law as they drove home. ‘Though there is little enough for me except hauling and carting stuff.’
Mary knew how hard it was for Pat of late. A few times a week he came to the cottage to eat. They didn’t have much but she could not begrudge him a share of what was in the pot, for when he could he provided them with a rabbit or hare, or even a fish to eat.
Passing Oldcourt, the small harbour and inlet overlooking the sea and the river, Pat and Mary watched two ships that had journeyed from Liverpool to West Cork’s fishing port of Baltimore and then upriver, carrying grain bound for McCarthy’s brewery. Men worked tirelessly unloading the stores of grain on to four smaller boats and barges that would transport it to the quays and the brewery’s piers.
‘O’Connell and his committee in Dublin called on the Lord Lieutenant and the authorities to stop the export of food and corn, and to halt brewing and distilling so that the grain can be used to feed the people,’ Pat said in despair. ‘But they refuse to do it.’
‘How can they use grain for porter when people can’t even afford to buy it?’ Mary protested.
‘Some day they’ll pay for making the like of us scratch and scrape for food,’ Pat said coldly, urging the horse homewards.
CHAPTER 11
November 1845
WHEN THE DAYS GREW SHORT, JOHN SULLIVAN DISCOVERED THAT THE few potatoes he had stored in the potato pit had all rotted.
‘Bad cess, every single one of them has turned black,’ he told his wife, disgusted. ‘Even the smell of them would make you sick.’
Mary could not understand how such a thing could happen to saved healthy potatoes lifted from the ground, but the same thing had happened to all their neighbours’. Everyone was at their wits’ end, for they still had the winter to endure and the long months of spring and summer ahead of them before the next potato harvest.
Mary sat darning and patching, and repairing hems and tears late into the night until her fingers grew tired and her eyes became heavy with sleep. The money she earned from Honora Barry was scarcely enough to buy a bag of meal each week and the odd jug of buttermilk or piece of smoked fish, but if she was frugal, she and her family would survive these hard times.
A few weeks later, with not a bag of oats or grain in the place, Mary decided without a second thought to take her wedding dress and a lace blouse to sell at Hegarty’s. A sack of flour was now more valuable to her than any item of clothing.
She still had her hens but she suspected someone was stealing their eggs, for whenever she or John went to check on them, a few would be missing. She told the children to keep an eye on the birds and watch for anyone who was lurking around their field and hen-house.
To her dismay, it wasn’t long before one of her good-laying hens disappeared too.
‘Maybe a fox or dog or cat got her,’ consoled John.
‘It was no hungry animal,’ she retorted. ‘There is no sign of a feather even, so I know well ’tis a thief who took her and stole the food from under our noses.’
‘Hush,’ he said, trying to calm her. ‘If it were a hungry person who was desperate, we cannot begrudge them.’
‘Well, you may say that when all the hens I have kept are gone and we don’t have even an egg for the children to eat or a hen for the pot, while others feast on them!’ she said, angered by her husband’s reaction.
She warned Con and Nora to be on the lookout for the culprit.
‘Mark my words, they will come back again.’
‘Mammy, I saw Paddy Flynn searching one of the nests under the bush,’ Con confided in her. ‘You know, the hen with the white speckles, and I think he took her egg. I tried to talk to him but he just ran away home.’
‘Never fear, pet. I’ll keep my eye on him and his brothers.’
Annoyance burned inside her that Nell Flynn, to whom they had always been good, would use them in such a fashion.
‘They have little enough, God help them,’ soothed John, ‘and my mother was always fond of her.’
‘Well, ’tis not your mother she’ll be dealing with if they steal any more of my eggs!’
At night Mary listened, and during the day she watched. Then, one evening when she was about to lie down, Mary heard the hens squawking. She rushed outside in the darkness to find a figure just about to lift another protesting bird away from her
roost.
‘Who is that?’ she called. ‘Is that you, Nell, or one of your thieving family trying to rob us?’
Mary lunged at the figure and caught them by the shoulder. As she made them drop the hen and pushed them towards the cottage, they let out a sob.
In the gloom of the fire, Nell stood there, defiant.
‘You have nine fat hens and my family have nothing,’ she declared.
‘At the rate you are going, soon I will have no hens,’ Mary retorted angrily. ‘They will all have found their way into your pot. What am I to feed my family with then?’
‘It’s just a hen,’ Nell wheedled. ‘A stupid old hen.’
‘It’s my hen and she’s a fine layer.’
‘There is not a pick of food in the place or even a few leaves for the tea!’ Nell sobbed. ‘And we have Hogan threatening to put us out for we have no rent. Poor Tom is addled with it.’
Mary felt guilty immediately, but she had her own family to think of.
‘Nellie, don’t let me catch you near our hens!’ she warned.
‘It won’t happen again,’ her neighbour promised.
‘I am sorry for your troubles,’ she offered as she watched the forlorn figure of Nell in her black shawl walk slowly back across the fields.
Overcome with pity for her neighbour, the next morning Mary sent Con over to Nell’s with two turnips and a screw of tea leaves.
CHAPTER 12
Skibbereen
December 1845
‘THEY SAY THAT A THIRD OF THE CROP IS LOST IN SOME PLACES,’ TIM McCarthy Downing explained to the huge crowd at the packed public meeting in Skibbereen Courthouse to discuss the potato failure. ‘But here it is far worse than in other parts of the county, with half or even two-thirds of the crop gone. Given such circumstances and the situation we face, I suggest that we set up a fund to make provision for famine in the coming months.’
There was instant approval for raising such a fund.
Dan’s heart gladdened to see landlords, labourers, farmers, and both Protestant and Catholic clergymen coming together. They all knew that the state of affairs was grave.
The Hungry Road Page 4