The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  The proprietor shrugged. ‘Perhaps you could try somewhere else?’

  ‘I am selling my bridal dress too. It is made of fine lace and embroidery, and is precious to me,’ she continued, the desperation in her voice growing.

  Mary remembered how bad she had felt when she brought her own wedding dress to the shop last year.

  Hegarty fingered the young woman’s garment and carefully examined its pearl buttons and delicate stitching. His wife and daughter were known for their fashion and Mary could see at once that he was tempted by the gown.

  ‘For a young couple going to the New World, I will be generous. What do you say if I give you two guineas for the furniture alongside the dress?’

  ‘It is not enough,’ blurted the husband. ‘They are worth far more.’

  ‘I will take the dress with me,’ the woman added defiantly. ‘Sell it when I get there.’

  The pawnbroker sighed, exasperated. ‘Three pounds and not a farthing more.’

  The couple stood still, taking stock of the offer. Mary could see that the young wife was ready to argue with Hegarty, but her husband’s fingers caught her wrist, warning her to say no more.

  ‘Thank you, sir. We will accept your offer,’ he muttered.

  Before Mary could step forward, an old woman with a bundle pushed ahead of her. The woman’s grey hair fell lank around her shoulders and her dress was soiled and muddy. Mary caught the stale odour of the woman’s body as she reached to untie her parcel of scraps of material.

  ‘It’s just rags,’ the pawnbroker retorted. ‘Rags are no good to me.’

  ‘A few pennies are all I want, sir,’ the woman argued loudly. ‘’Tis all I’ve left to sell.’

  Mr Hegarty cut short her pleas and ordered her from his premises.

  ‘I can’t have beggars like her in here. This is a place of business,’ he said brusquely, beckoning Mary to come forward.

  ‘Mr Hegarty, I have a few more items that I wish to sell,’ Mary said, placing them in front of him. ‘I made the counterpane and dresses myself. It is good work, for I am a seamstress.’

  As the pawnbroker thumbed the coloured patchwork cover, she could sense his greedy brain working and assessing what price the items might fetch. They finally settled on only four shillings and Mary hid her disappointment as she bid him good day. It was little enough to buy what she needed.

  As was her habit, Mary paused outside Honora Barry’s dressmaking shop. Honora was inside and so Mary knocked on the glass, filled with a wild hope that her former employer might have some mending work for her. Miss Barry let her in and enquired politely how she and her family were faring.

  ‘Things have been very hard,’ Mary admitted. ‘John took ill and could not work, so I had to work breaking stones on the road these past weeks.’

  ‘My poor dear child,’ she sympathized. ‘Look at your hands and fingers!’

  ‘Just a few bruises and scratches,’ Mary said defensively. ‘I can still sew.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a customer at the door to collect an item. Honora disappeared into the back of the shop for a minute and returned with a white garment, which she rolled up carefully and wrapped in paper as the tearful older woman paid her.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Barry, for your kindness to us in our time of trouble,’ the woman said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ the dressmaker said, walking her to the door.

  ‘Mrs Callaghan’s daughter died two days ago,’ she explained to Mary once her customer had left.

  She gestured to a roll of creamy white material on the far side of the room.

  ‘All people want me to make these days are shrouds to bury their dead in. For God help us, there are no coffins. This is what keeps me busy. Have you ever made one of them, Mary?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Never.’

  ‘I didn’t ever think that I’d see the day I’d be taking on such work either,’ the dressmaker admitted ruefully, ‘but it is what is necessary. I promise that they are easy enough to make. That is, if you are interested in helping me?’

  Eager for work, Mary agreed without hesitation.

  ‘They are a simple pattern,’ she explained, ‘and people will pay promptly for them.’

  Mary studied the shroud that the dressmaker had been stitching when she came in.

  ‘I can teach you how to make one,’ Honora offered, leading her to the workroom.

  The dressmaker showed her quickly how to cut out the pattern, wasting as little material as possible, and how to shape it and sew the simple seams.

  ‘No one is going to examine it stitch by stitch,’ Honora reminded her, ‘but people do expect good work for their dear departed … despite the circumstances of their burial.’

  It was certainly not the type of work Mary had expected to be offered, but work was work. She promised to return next week with the five shrouds they had agreed upon.

  ‘Do you have a good supply of thread and needles?’ the dressmaker asked as she carefully measured out and parcelled up the lengths of material that Mary would need.

  Mary blushed. How could she admit that she had come here looking for work and yet had barely a spool of thread at home! The other woman lowered her eyes discreetly and generously added a packet of needles and a few spools of thread to one of the packages.

  ‘If you want, I could let you have an advance of six pennies now and the rest when you are finished,’ she offered.

  Mary was overcome with gratitude for the kindness of her old employer, who was proving herself a true friend.

  ‘But you must promise to have the shrouds back to me by Tuesday,’ she urged. ‘And they must be spotlessly clean, with no smudges of turf or dirt on them.’

  Mary agreed without question and watched as Honora took some coins from the small drawer and counted them into her hand. It was little enough but it would buy a small bag of oats to take home with her.

  ‘Take this too, for it doesn’t agree with me,’ insisted the kindly woman, wrapping up a half loaf of rye bread for her.

  Mary carried the parcels through the town, deciding to stop at Kathleen’s as she hadn’t seen her sister for weeks. Sarah and Lizzie were both sick, and her sister looked more tired and thinner than she had ever seen her before.

  ‘We are lucky we can take the soup every day,’ she sighed, ‘but it runs through me.’

  Mary looked around the cottage. The straw underfoot was dirty and foul and in need of changing. The whole place could have done with being swept out and washed down.

  ‘I haven’t the energy for cleaning it,’ admitted Kathleen, as if reading her sister’s mind.

  Mary told her about getting work making the shrouds.

  ‘God between us and all harm, but I suppose someone has to do it!’

  ‘I’m happy to have work,’ she said defensively.

  ‘If only my Joseph could find some kind of job now the roadworks have closed down,’ Kathleen complained, ‘we wouldn’t always be in the terrible state that we are in.’

  Walking home, Mary couldn’t wait to tell John the good news of her new job, even if it was as a shroud-maker to the dead.

  CHAPTER 60

  Skibbereen

  DAN STOOD IN THE GROUNDS OF ABBEYSTREWERY GRAVEYARD. IT WAS A beautiful spot, situated on the Ballydehob side of town on a sloping hill with some shady trees, and overlooked the broad expanse of the river. However, the peace and beauty of the burial place was now destroyed by the large, deep trench that had been dug in the graveyard to receive the large numbers of bodies of those who had died overnight or during the day. With such large numbers of decaying corpses being brought to the graveyard, immediate interment was imperative.

  Many of those poor souls who had died in the workhouse during the night and in the early morning would be buried here in the deep pit – the mass grave that had been dug to contain them. It was his duty to ensure that the bodies were disposed of as quickly and sa
fely as possible, and to ensure that once one section of the pit was full, it would be covered with lime and filled in with earth as a new pit was dug and prepared to receive more bodies. There was no time for gravestones or crosses to mark the last resting place of so many.

  He watched as the cart arrived and the men made ready the hinged coffin they used to place the remains of the deceased, one at a time, into the burial pit. Dinny Burke and his helper approached the grave and released the coffin base, so that the body of a skeletal middle-aged woman fell on to the decaying corpses below.

  No prayers or blessings were uttered for the deceased. Father John and his curate tried to attend some days but often, like himself, they were too busy administering to the sick to come and say a few words of prayer over those who had left this world.

  The men returned to refill the coffin and repeated their actions.

  The stench from the pit was overpowering. The gravediggers most certainly needed to close this section once these new bodies had filled it. Dan stared down at the young men and women who should have had their lives ahead of them, the innocent children and babies who deserved better than this undignified end in a crowded, unmarked grave. How much longer could this appalling situation continue without some proper form of rescue for the people? Dan sometimes felt like a moth batting against a lantern as he tried to attract attention and aid for his patients and the hungry.

  As he walked over to the gravediggers to tell them they must close this pit and begin a new one, a woman arrived at the site. Dressed in nothing but rags, she staggered over to him, her legs bloated with oedema. She was almost too weak to walk but she demanded to know where they were interring her husband, who had been on the cart.

  ‘Where is my Paddy?’ she wailed. ‘I’ll be in the grave with him before too long.’

  The man’s body was gone from the cart and had been deposited already. For a moment, Dan thought the poor, crazed woman was going to jump into the pit herself to join him.

  ‘Your husband is at peace,’ he said, taking her arm gently, ‘but you are most unwell and need to be cared for.’

  Tears ran down the woman’s dirt-creased face.

  ‘Your husband would not want you left here like this. I am a doctor in the Skibbereen Union where I promise you will be cared for.’

  ‘I’ll not go to the workhouse,’ she spat stubbornly. ‘I’ll stay here close to him.’

  ‘The men will lock the graveyard soon,’ he cautioned. ‘So it’s far better that you come with me to the Union where you will have, at the least, some nourishment and a place to lie down.’

  The woman swayed on her feet, near to collapse. She was starved but when he observed her he could detect no sign of fever. With the help of Dinny, Dan managed to get her to his carriage where she lay down, exhausted. She closed her eyes and said nothing more as Dan drove towards the workhouse and down the avenue leading up to it, passing all those waiting outside in the desperate hope of admission.

  ‘Dr Donovan, you know better than anyone else that we are full,’ the newly appointed matron protested sternly as Dan pleaded for the woman to be admitted to the women’s section.

  ‘I could not leave this poor woman lying near her husband’s grave, waiting to be thrown into it,’ he petitioned her.

  The matron’s cheeks flushed and she acceded reluctantly to his request.

  He was all too aware that Skibbereen Union Workhouse was overcrowded, but he was very hopeful of acquiring a warehouse down by the quay that could be used soon as an auxiliary workhouse to accommodate more women during this crisis.

  As he turned the carriage for home, Dan felt himself grow weak. He found himself having to stop for a few minutes to get his breath back. He checked his pulse and temperature, aware of the worsening of the headache he had felt since earlier that morning. He had stayed at the dispensary for three hours, but in the end had to refuse to see patients, and made the excuse that he was urgently needed somewhere else.

  By the time he arrived at the house on New Street he felt wretched and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. His body was already feverish as he made his way upstairs, undressed and lay down on the cool sheets.

  As Henrietta followed him, she was unable to hide her concern.

  ‘What is it, Dan?’

  ‘You must fetch Patrick Dore,’ he told her. ‘Tell him I have the fever …’

  CHAPTER 61

  HENRIETTA COULD NOT BEAR TO SEE DAN SICK. WATCHING HIM ARRIVE home in a state of near collapse, she had been overwhelmed by fear and panic but composed herself. She knew that her husband would not wish for her to be in such a state. She had asked Sally calmly to go to North Street to fetch his friend and colleague Patrick Dore.

  Thoughts crowded her mind as she considered the many diseased hovels her husband attended, as well as the workhouse and graveyards, but she reminded herself that in the years since they had first met, Dan Donovan had never been sick a day or complained even of being unwell or in pain. He was a strong man and, as he said himself often enough, had the constitution of a horse.

  She dispatched the children to play in the back garden and warned them to be quiet as their father was not feeling well.

  Meanwhile, Dr Patrick Dore arrived promptly and went upstairs to examine Dan. His face was serious when he told her that Dan had contracted typhus fever, was very poorly and would need good care and nursing.

  ‘I have already had typhus,’ Henrietta informed him as she promised to follow all his instructions with regard to Dan’s medical care.

  ‘I will call to see him tomorrow,’ the doctor promised, ‘but if there is any change for the worse during the night, please send for me.’

  Henrietta slept in the chair at Dan’s bedside as his fever raged. A reddish macular rash covered his body and his head was splitting with the pain, causing him to thrash around and moan. She did everything in her power to cool him down with cold compresses and keep him comfortable.

  The following day he would not even open his eyes and lay curled in their bed like a small child.

  When he made his promised visit, Dr Dore reassured her that even though Dan appeared seriously ill, it was the normal progression of the disease.

  ‘I may consider bleeding him in the next day or two, if it is needed,’ he told her. ‘But, knowing Dan, I am hopeful that he has the strength to fight this disease.’

  Patrick Dore was a fine physician and he and the town’s other doctors, Cornelius O’Driscoll and Thomas Tisdall, all assisted by seeing patients at the dispensary, while Patrick temporarily took over Dan’s workhouse duties.

  Father John was the only visitor Henrietta permitted to see Dan, and both of them prayed for his recovery. The priest told her that their friend Tim McCarthy Downing was, like Dan, very ill. Poor Mary Hegarty from the hotel was bereft as her daughter had died a few days ago. So too had Major Parker.

  The next week and a half passed in a blur, and the children remained wide eyed and fearful for their father’s health. The older boys and Ellen hovered at the bedroom door, terrified whenever Dr Dore called to see their father.

  ‘What will happen if Father dies?’ Jerrie asked with worry.

  ‘I will not have you talk like this,’ Henrietta said, hugging him. ‘Your father is a man of good health and his body will fight this illness.’

  Her reassurances were as much for her own benefit as for her son’s and she prayed with all her might for Dan to recover.

  One evening, when Henrietta had dozed off in the bedside chair, Dan stirred and sat up. To her amazement, almost in a whisper, he asked her for a sip of water before slumping back on to the pillows and falling into an exhausted sleep again. The following afternoon he asked for fresh sheets on the bed and the morning after that, to her relief, Dan took not only more water but also three small spoons of milky porridge.

  Each day, Henrietta watched as her husband, little by little, regained his strength. Ellen would come in to sit and read a story to him that she had written, while
young Daniel and Harriet showed him drawings they had made for him: Dan in his tall hat and long coat in a sunny garden, and a family portrait of Dan and Henrietta surrounded by all seven of their children.

  ‘What wonderful artists you are!’ he encouraged them. ‘I will treasure them always.’ Henrietta’s heart soared to see Dan gladdened by the short visits of his children.

  In no time Dan began to demand that he be allowed to dress and return to work.

  ‘You have been very sick, Dan,’ Henrietta pleaded with him. ‘Dr Dore says that you must have a period of convalescence.’

  ‘Henrietta, I have had more than enough of lying down and convalescing,’ he complained, exasperated. ‘It is high time for me to return to work and tend to my patients.’

  Two days later she watched as her husband, in his usual long frock coat and black hat, set off for the dispensary, medical bag in hand and a zealous glint in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 62

  EVERY WEEK MARY WALKED TO TOWN WITH HER WORK STRAPPED TO her back.

  ‘Let me come with you,’ Con begged and pleaded with her, but she refused. Truth to tell, she did not want her son to see the hollow-faced hungry and sick who besieged the town.

  The dressmaker inspected each shroud as if it were a pretty dress or fine coat for a customer, meticulously checking the seams and stitching. Happy with Mary’s work, she went to the drawer in the back room and, taking out some money, counted the coins for her.

  ‘Would you be able to make another eight shrouds for me for next week?’ she asked.

  Mary nodded, delighted to have more work.

  ‘Then I will measure out the yards of linen for you.’

  ‘If it is all right with you, Miss Barry, I will return in a while and collect it on my way home?’

  ‘Aye, it’s better not to be traipsing it around,’ agreed the dressmaker. ‘I’ll have it ready for you.’

  Mary made her way to the soup kitchen, took the broth and was grateful, for it sustained her after her long walk. Then she went to see her sister.