The Hungry Road

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  Curious, she walked around the empty shop and went upstairs to Honora’s living quarters. She had never crossed the door of her employer’s abode. Its kitchen was small and the dining and drawing room was a simple affair with few luxuries, only a couple of tasselled, pink and green satin cushions on her chairs and a small table with a vase of faded flowers. It certainly was not what she had imagined for the stylish dressmaker. As she continued to look around, she could not help but wonder if some of her employer’s finer items had already been sold or pawned.

  Opening the bedroom door, Mary was assailed immediately by the smell of sickness and stale air. She reached to unlatch the window in the simple but pretty room. A large bed lay tousled and bare, with only a blanket, some dirty sheets and a rolled-up bolster on it. Folded away neatly on a chair was a beautiful French lace counterpane and two delicately embroidered pillowslips. A few fine dresses, along with a satin wrap, a cloak and a velvet-lined coat hung in the mahogany wardrobe.

  As Mary sat on a carved chair in front of a mirror, she thought of Honora. Despite how little she really possessed, the older woman had always shown great kindness towards her. She had not only given her work but also had insisted on several occasions that Mary take some bread, eggs or salted fish back home to share with her family.

  A small, nearly empty glass bottle of perfume sat on the neat dressing table. Unthinking, she opened it and the scent reminded her immediately of Miss Barry. She sprinkled a little around the room before replacing the stopper.

  A sense of guilt engulfed her. She felt she had let Honora Barry down, just as she had Kathleen. If only she had returned the shrouds when she was meant to, she would have seen her employer was sick. Perhaps she could have fetched the doctor, or helped her in some fashion.

  Back downstairs, Mary remembered the money drawer in the back room of the shop from which Miss Barry had paid her once or twice. Bent down, she reached around and found the narrow drawer. Her hand closed in on a few brass and silver coins.

  She counted out her wage fairly, unsure of what to do with the rest of the money. Should she just leave it there, where likely the next person to enter the shop – be they beggar or thief – would come upon it? Then her fingers touched some paper, a rent book and an envelope with a sheet of paper, which contained a note in Honora’s hand. ‘For Mrs Mary Sullivan’, it read, and detailed the money due to her.

  Tears pricked Mary’s eyes as she realized that she had not been forgotten. Across the back of the paper was an additional note, scribbled in larger, looped writing: ‘In the event of my demise, I bequeath to my employee, Mrs Mary Sullivan of Creagh, all of my remaining personal possessions to dispose of as she wishes.’

  Mary read it and re-read it, over and over again. This good woman in her hour of sickness had made a special point of remembering her.

  She took a while to compose herself, considering what she should do. The note made it clear that Honora had left her few possessions to her, but what if a distant relative of the dressmaker appeared, or her landlord made a demand for rent? She wished that she could go home to consult with John, but worried that on her return to the shop she would find the place boarded up and empty, which is what happened to so many vacant buildings in the town to prevent trespassers and beggars from entering the premises.

  Honora knew well the desperation of Mary’s circumstances and her family, and so Mary decided she would follow the wishes of her employer. Returning to the bedroom, she gathered up the heavy lace counterpane carefully along with the embroidered linen pillowslips. She was torn about selling the dressmaker’s personal things but it was what the good woman had wanted, her last wishes. She also took the satin cushions and bundled them all together. She would go to Maguire’s pawnbroker, who took furniture and household goods only, to see what they would fetch.

  There were only two people ahead of her. Most people in town had sold off their valuables and possessions a long time ago.

  Julia Maguire raised her head suspiciously at the likes of Mary having such fine items to sell. She fingered the French lace, admiring its beauty.

  ‘My employer, Miss Barry the dressmaker, sent me with them,’ Mary lied, hoping that the news of Honora’s death was not yet known through the town.

  The other woman smiled. ‘I have done business with her previously, but today can only offer her two pounds for the lace and a guinea for all the cushions and bed linen.’

  Mary hesitated, for she knew well that they were both worth a lot more. She was, however, in no position to argue the case and accepted the payment.

  On her return to the dressmaking shop, Mary searched the shelves and living quarters for any remaining items to sell. The little furniture was likely the landlord’s so she dared not touch that. Her heart lifted when she found a teapot and some cutlery, which might fetch a pretty price. There were also a few items of clothing of Honora’s which might sell too.

  As she continued her search, she found a packet of needles of all sizes and Honora’s large fabric scissors, along with a tray of spools of coloured thread and a pincushion. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the sight of the dressmaker busy at work, her head bent and concentration on her face. She would keep these items in memory of Honora.

  This time she took her collection of items to Hegarty’s. Denis Hegarty ran his fingers over the stylish satin dresses, warm woollen coat and fine leather boots.

  Mary held her breath and prayed that he would not question her about them, but with two women and well-dressed gentlemen behind her, all pushing and demanding attention, he concluded their business quickly and gave her two pounds for everything.

  She returned to the shop one last time to lock it up. Silence hung around her as she replaced the key under the stone and took the shrouds with her.

  She called to the dispensary and explained the situation. She asked if they knew anyone who would be willing to buy them from her. The apothecary himself told her immediately that he would happily take all five of them, and paid her generously sixpence for each one. She couldn’t quite believe her luck.

  Using that money, she purchased a few items of food before setting off home.

  On the long walk to Creagh, Mary’s heart sat heavy in her chest at the death of her friend. The realization that there would be no more work for her hit her hard. However, the knowledge that she had a few pounds in her purse provided her with a sense of comfort, for which she would always be grateful.

  Mary was determined that Honora’s gift to her be set aside for a special purpose, used only to protect and save her family.

  CHAPTER 70

  Creagh

  JOHN HAD SAT AND LISTENED QUIETLY AS MARY TOLD HIM ABOUT THE death of the dressmaker and her unexpected generosity. Upset and nervous, Mary showed him the money she had raised from pawning the woman’s few possessions.

  ‘Am I a desperate thief for taking Honora’s things and selling them?’ she fretted. ‘Perhaps I should have left everything as it was.’

  John studied the few short words.

  ‘Miss Barry wrote you this note,’ he said. ‘Obviously the poor woman was all alone and afraid of dying. You were the one who visited her more than most. She helped you as best she could, by giving you some work when she had it.’

  ‘I feel so guilty that I did not get the chance to say goodbye to her or pray over her.’

  ‘She is at peace now,’ he soothed, ‘but I think it is clear that as she neared her end, she intended for you to get your wages and follow her wishes.’

  ‘I will never forget her for it,’ Mary said softly, finally giving in to tears at the loss of her friend.

  As spring turned to summer and the days grew warmer, the Sullivans’ fields lay bare. Like all their neighbours, they had no money for seed potatoes and were still afraid to plant them. Mary had sown half a field of turnips and cabbages because at least they were crops upon which they could rely.

  All around them her family saw small farms and holdings empty as starving fam
ilies were forced either to abandon their holdings or give up their land. The landlord’s agents were ruthless and turned out men, women and children on to the roads.

  ‘If they come near us we will use Honora’s money to pay the rent,’ Mary offered.

  ‘I fear it is too late,’ John said. ‘The landlords and their gombeen men want to rid the land of people like us. They want to clear small tenants off their holdings and turn the fields to tillage and pasture.’

  Fear crawled in Mary’s stomach. What would happen if they were put off their land? They had six children to think of now.

  ‘Four families were evicted off their holding up near the Old Hill Road four days ago,’ John said, his face serious. ‘I am going to the Learys’ to meet Denis and a few of the other men to talk about it. There’s a rumour that anyone with more than a quarter-acre will get no relief or assistance of any kind unless they give up their holding.’

  The sun was dipping in the red sky when he returned home that evening. Anger and dismay were written across his face as he beckoned her to come outside.

  ‘What is it, John?’ she urged.

  ‘It’s all true. This new quarter-acre law affects tenants like us. Anyone with more than a quarter-acre must give up their holding if they want to get a bowl of soup or a bed in the workhouse. Imagine, a man must renounce the field he has worked for thirty or forty years in order to get any type of assistance – a bite to eat for his child or a bed for his sick wife to lie in. What kind of law is that?’

  ‘It’s cruel!’

  ‘Cruelty doesn’t come into it!’ he spat bitterly. ‘All across the Mizzen they are tumbling the cottages, pulling down the thatch and kicking out the doors so people cannot find any shelter there. They’re forcing people to move from their home place. All they want is to clear the place of small tenants.’

  ‘Where are people going?’ she ventured.

  ‘It’s some choice,’ he said scornfully. ‘The road with nothing, or the workhouse. I’ve heard that the Union’s guardians are making each landlord pay a contribution to the keep of their tenants there. Some are offering to assist with paying their passage to Québec and New York. I’ll not give up this place easily.’

  Mary could sense her husband’s rage and sadness at the prospect that they might be forced to leave Creagh.

  ‘John Sullivan, I tell you, if we are put out of here, this family will not set foot in the workhouse,’ she told him firmly. ‘Flor and Molly wouldn’t go because they would have been separated, and I’ll not be separated from you and the children.’

  ‘Then we’ll take passage to North America, like Pat did.’

  ‘Leave Cork? Leave Ireland?’

  ‘Aye, what else can a man do if he is left with no roof over his head and no land to work but travel the ocean in search of a new life away from this misery? Pat was the wise man who left when he could.’

  Mary tossed and turned all night as John’s words ran through her head, over and over. How could they ever leave this, their home place?

  CHAPTER 71

  July 1847

  ‘MAMMY!’ SCREAMED NORA AND TIM, RUNNING ACROSS THE FIELDS AS fast as their legs would carry them. ‘Mammy, the men are coming! The ’viction men are coming!’

  Mary could see the upset and fear in their eyes.

  ‘They were up at Learys’ cottage,’ Nora panted, coming to a stop.

  ‘We saw them batter their door and pull down the thatch roof,’ added Sarah.

  Mary tried to control the trembling that overcame her body.

  ‘Run and get your father,’ she told them. ‘As quick as you can. He’s up in the woods with the boys.’

  It would be only a few minutes before the landlord’s eviction gang reached their cottage, and she was sick to her heart at the thought of what to say or do.

  Frantic, she began to put things in order. She folded up into a sacking bag whatever food they had left, along with spoons and a knife or two, and a pot with tin mugs and bowls. She hid them in the corner.

  Over the past few days, she and John had discussed over and over again how this might come to pass. Despite his misgivings, she had hoped naively that they would not face such disaster.

  Quick as a flash she saw them come – ten, maybe twelve of them, in a group, surrounding the cottage and trampling over her young cabbages. Some she recognized: James Murphy, Denis Carmody and his younger brother, Sean, who had the reputation of being a powerful fighter; the others burly strangers bearing sticks and cudgels. George Hogan was at their head.

  ‘Sullivan,’ they shouted. ‘Sullivan!’

  Mary pulled her shawl around her and stood at the door to face them.

  ‘I’m Mary Sullivan,’ she said coldly. ‘My husband is not here at present but is due back.’

  ‘We have orders to follow, Mrs Sullivan, from your landlord and his agent,’ George Hogan boomed, his long and narrow face serious as he gazed around him, taking in the well-cared-for cottage and her vegetable patch. ‘Any tenants behind in their rent must leave their dwellings and the holdings that they have occupied.’

  Just as he finished speaking, John arrived with the children behind him. Relief flooded over her as he came and stood protectively beside her.

  ‘What is your business here, Mr Hogan?’ John asked.

  ‘I have orders to clear these holdings today, Mr Sullivan. My employer has been patient for far too long with unpaid rent monies, but now seeks the return of his property.’

  ‘You know well that not a man in this district could pay his rent with the hunger,’ he stated firmly. ‘I promise you that when the crops return and the land is fertile again, Sir William will have his full rent. But we can only offer you a part payment this day. The Sullivans have always been good tenants here. You know that well, Mr Hogan.’

  The overseer barely acknowledged John’s words.

  ‘Give me a chance to pay the rent,’ John continued. ‘It may take a while but every penny and shilling will be returned to you.’

  Mary could see a frown crease the man’s brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sullivan. The decision has been made that this area is to be cleared and tenants moved off Sir William’s estate and properties.’

  ‘We will not give up this place,’ John said loudly, his temper rising. ‘You cannot put us off these fields and land, for we have earned them with our labour. You have no right to do such a thing.’

  ‘You are wrong, Mr Sullivan. A legal eviction order has been issued for this property and holding.’

  ‘There is no justice when a scrap of legal paper declares this land can be held for eternity by a man who cares not a whit for it or those that work it!’ John said contemptuously.

  ‘My advice is for you and your family to go quietly and cause no trouble here. Pack up any of your belongings and leave this place.’

  ‘Leave our home, our land?’

  ‘The land agent, Mr Marmion, is a fair man and arrangements have been agreed with the Union workhouse for payments to be made for tenants agreeing to enter there.’

  ‘You would put my wife and children and me in the workhouse?’ John shouted, unable to control his anger any longer. ‘We who have done nothing wrong but try to feed our children? With not even a penny of help or as much as a bag of grain from our landlord, I may remind you.’

  Mary could see Mr Hogan growing uncomfortable and one or two of the men looked shamefaced, but he continued with the job he had been sent to do.

  ‘Otherwise, for all tenants giving up their holding, there is an offer of paid passage on ships to North America.’

  ‘Leave our home, our land and our country? What choice is that?’

  Mary swallowed hard, trying to control her impulse to scream and kick at the men.

  ‘Do not cause trouble, Mr Sullivan,’ George Hogan warned again.

  ‘What kind of man do you think I am, Hogan? I will not give up our holding.’

  With that, John grabbed his wife’s arm and beckoned for the children to
follow as he stepped back inside the cottage. He closed the door behind them firmly and put on the iron bolt.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, man!’ Mary could hear the exasperation in Hogan’s voice on the other side of the door. ‘Step outside.’

  John, Con and Tim blocked the window quickly with the wooden pallet and pushed the settle bed against the doorway. The girls stood by, terrified. John and the boys braced themselves, ready to hinder the group of men for as long as they were able.

  ‘We Sullivans will not go from here easy and give up what is ours without a fight,’ he told the children as the men began to push and rush against the door, pummelling the wood. ‘Do you understand?’

  The words had barely left his lips when the wood began to splinter and crack, gaping as sticks and heavy shoulders pushed at it.

  ‘Hold firm!’ he urged as Mary and the boys used all their strength to resist the attack, trying to push the settle bed back against the men while Nora, Sarah and Annie stood at the window.

  Despite their best efforts, the settle bed was shoved backwards and, with a mighty bang, the cottage door gave way. At the same time, over their heads, men began to strip the thatch from the roof.

  Poor Annie began to scream, petrified.

  ‘Shush, shush,’ said Nora, taking her little sister in her arms.

  Dear God, they were going to pull and tumble the place down around them.

  John and the boys pushed hard against what remained of the door, trying to hold back the men, but they were no match for the might of the group. Mary braced herself as five of the men entered the cottage. Part of the roof was already open to the sky as she and the three girls managed to flee outside. John pushed against Sean Carmody, telling him to leave the place for this was no fight of his, and earned a few punches in the stomach and ribs for his trouble.

  ‘Leave my father alone,’ Con shouted at them angrily, his eyes blazing.

  Hogan entered the cottage and gave a signal to the men to stop.

  Annie whimpered like a little puppy as John and the three boys appeared slowly, standing in front of the battered wall and door.