Every member of the family was relieved to sit down but John stood at the window, watching the passers-by.
‘Well, we can’t stay here, so we need to find somewhere else to stay tonight,’ Mary reminded him.
They did not want to be wandering the city streets of New York when darkness fell.
‘I’m sure Pat will know of somewhere.’
Mary did not share her husband’s faith in his brother’s ability to procure lodgings for them.
‘I think that we should go and look ourselves. We can see Pat later, or tomorrow.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of the landlady, who brought them a pot of soup, some bowls and spoons, and a plate of fresh soda bread.
‘I’m sure you are all hungry,’ she said kindly, distributing the bowls.
The children rushed around her as she ladled out portions of the thick meaty soup.
‘Thank you, Mrs …’
Mary blushed with embarrassment, for she did not even know the good woman’s name.
‘It’s Mrs Catherine Ryan.’
Mary could not believe the kindness of this stranger to them.
‘Thank you,’ she said tearfully, for it had been the longest while since such kindness had been shown to them.
Later, Mrs Ryan returned to remove the dishes and Mary took the opportunity to ask her if she knew of anywhere close by where they might find lodgings.
‘Stay away from the Old Brewery,’ she warned. ‘It’s a rookery and no place for children. Try down around Mulberry Bend or Cross Street. Number forty might have space. Or try the corner building near the tannery.’
Mary thanked her for her generosity and began to organize the children to get ready to leave.
‘If you wish, you and Mr Sullivan may leave the children here with me a short while,’ she offered. ‘It will make it easier for you to go and search for rooms without such a brood.’
Mary was not sure about leaving the children with a stranger, but there was something about Mrs Ryan that made her feel she could trust her. Annie and Tim refused to stay with the landlady but the others remained in Little Water Street while John and Mary set off on their search.
There were no rooms anywhere they went, or if there were, they were not fit for a family.
They walked up and down the streets, knocking on doors. In desperation, Mary took out the card that the well-dressed woman at the wharf had given her. She realized it was for a boarding house on nearby Orange Street.
The owner shrugged. Mary was too late – her best rooms were already let.
‘We would be happy with anything,’ pleaded Mary.
Mrs Beatty hesitated, before beckoning for them to follow her down a set of steps to the rear of the house. The steps led to a room containing two old beds, a stained mattress stacked against a wall, and a few chairs. It was lit by a small window and, even though the day was warm, it still felt chilly.
‘I provide rooms only and no meals,’ she told them firmly. ‘And this will cost a dollar a week. There is a tap and sink and shared water closet in the yard.’
Mary wrinkled her nose, for the stench from it was overpowering.
She suspected that what they were being shown was more of a storage room, but at least they and the children would fit here.
‘Thank you, Mrs Beatty,’ John said. ‘My wife and I are grateful to you. We will take it.’
‘It’s grim,’ he admitted as they walked back to collect the other children, ‘but hopefully it will only be for a short time.’
They returned to the boarding house on Little Water Street to find Pat Sullivan deep in conversation with Nora, Sarah and Jude. He and John, the minute they saw each other, embraced tearfully.
‘Brother, forgive me, but I never thought that I would see you again in this lifetime, let alone here in New York.’
‘Nor I,’ admitted John ruefully. ‘But we had no choice. Mary and I were evicted from the home place and Wrixon Becher’s men offered us paid passage to here.’
‘Nora told me about what happened to Con.’ Pat’s voice broke. ‘I asked her where her brother was and it’s right cut me up to hear tell of his death on that ship! I’m so sorry for the both of you to lose your boy.’
Mary nodded tearfully as she saw the sympathy in his eyes.
‘He was precious to us.’
‘He was the finest boy ever,’ added John, clasping his brother’s shoulder.
John outlined the terrible events and tragedies that had befallen the family and their neighbours since Pat had left Skibbereen.
Pat’s eyes filled with anger as John told him about the death of his uncle and aunt.
‘I’m sorry, John. I know how much the place and the land meant to you. And poor Flor and Molly.’
Pat looked well, Mary thought. Compared to John, he was healthy, strong and muscular. If possible, he was even more handsome than ever, she decided, as she watched him covertly. He was full of talk of New York and this new land of opportunity, where a man could make his fortune. He explained how he had found work in a slaughterhouse at first.
‘All that blood fair turned my stomach, for I had the job to clean it all up. Then I got hard labouring work on a house two blocks away. These days, I am working as a carpenter on a big new house. It’s being constructed on a plot of land not half a mile away and will house plenty of families.’
‘So there is work!’
‘Plenty of it, but they work us hard. The foreman is a decent sort. I’ll ask him if there is any work on offer.’
‘But I know nothing of building and construction.’
‘That’s no matter. Like us all, you will soon learn.’
The other boarders had begun to return, so Mary took the children outside.
‘We have found somewhere to stay,’ she explained to them, as John and Pat joined them on their walk to Orange Street.
Mrs Beatty was not too pleased when she realized they had five children, not two.
‘We are well used to sharing beds,’ Mary said pleasantly as she led her family down the steps to the large dank room.
At least the landlady had provided them with a few blankets and a lamp. The following day they would go in search of a few more essential items they needed to purchase.
Pat had disappeared and returned shortly with two cans of milk, a few slices of salt beef and a loaf of a strange type of dark rye bread. He handed the items to John and pressed a few dollar bills into his hand.
‘I’ll pay you back once I start earning,’ John promised his brother earnestly.
Annie and Nora were already half asleep, and Mary could barely keep her eyes open as John and Pat said goodnight, agreeing to meet again tomorrow.
As she lay in the darkness, Mary missed the rocking of the ship and the sound of the slapping water. As she listened instead to the strange and unfamiliar noises of New York City, she finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER 81
MARY OPENED HER EYES AS THE MORNING SUN CREPT INTO THE GLOOMY room. John lay asleep beside her and the children slept too. Tim’s arm was flung across his head, while Jude snored lightly. Annie was curled up like a kitten beside Nora and Sarah. They were all tired and dirty, still wearing their soiled clothes from the long voyage.
She felt strangely weary as she stared at the damp-stained walls and grimy woodwork, the mouldy rug and mattresses. She tried not to give in to the disappointment she felt that after such an arduous journey they should end up in such a place, so different from their neat, tidy cottage and green fields. She was tempted to go back to sleep but there was much work to be done if they were to get used to New York and its ways.
She got up and went outside to the empty yard. She was delighted to see a large tin wash basin and that some obliging tenant had left a bar of carbolic soap beneath it. Quickly, Mary slipped back inside and lifted dresses, shirts, britches and jackets from the bodies of her sleeping family for washing and airing. Being poor was no shame, but being dirty was. She would not have her family s
neered at or insulted!
She hung the laundered clothes to dry on the rope line that was strung across the narrow yard.
‘Where is my shirt?’ demanded John when he woke up.
‘Mammy, my dress is gone!’
‘They are washed and will be dry soon,’ she assured them.
Despite the howls of protest, she washed herself and the children in the yard, scrubbing at their skin until it was pink, then combed through their wet hair to get rid of the lice and nits that had plagued everyone on board the Lady Jane. Finally satisfied that everyone looked decent and clean, she shared the remainder of the black rye bread and milk between them.
A few hours later, John set off in search of work.
‘I hope you find something,’ Mary said, kissing him lightly as she saw him on his way.
‘Even though Pat put in a good word for me, they say they already have enough men employed at his place,’ he sighed in disappointment, but he persisted in walking the district.
He enquired at the livery yards, abattoirs, and even the docks. He was glad to find work eventually at the nearby fish market, cleaning up and sweeping out the place.
‘At least it’s work, John,’ she encouraged him when he told her the news.
The pay was low but Pat insisted on giving them a small loan to tide them over.
‘You can give it all back to me when you get a better job,’ he reassured his brother.
Mary purchased a bucket and a scrubbing brush, some baking soda and vinegar, and set to cleaning their place from top to bottom. Lord knows how long it had been since anyone had lifted a finger to clean it! She aired the mattresses and beat the rug. She washed away the grime and polished the glass in the small window.
‘This place looks much better. If you keep this up, Mrs Beatty will want more rent,’ John teased when he came back from work one day.
As she combed the markets and provision stores, she thought of the hunger back home. She could not escape a profound sense of guilt at the abundance of fresh meat and fish, butter, cheese and eggs, potatoes by the sackload, and vegetables, breads, cakes and spices available to buy. She longed to be able to cook a proper meal for her family, spend time preparing and making something John and the children would want to eat that would not sicken them or barely fill their stomachs.
However, Mrs Beatty refused to let her use the kitchen. Instead, they had to make do with cooking on a small fire they lit on an iron grate placed against the stone wall. Mary made the best of it, though. With her pot and a new pan and some cheap vegetables, a little lard, some offcuts of meat and a half-sack of flour and oats she had bought, she began to make more nourishing meals that little Annie and the children would eat.
The children played in the street with the other youngsters who lived in the neighbourhood. It wasn’t long before they lost their pasty, gaunt look and began to regain their strength.
Mary found out about schooling from a neighbour. Jude, who had just turned thirteen, was considered too old but the rest of the children were enrolled at the old school building a few streets away. Tim was declared an excellent student, and Nora and Sarah, to her surprise, both took well to reading and began to learn all about the history and geography of this new country of theirs.
‘They can teach us,’ Mary said proudly.
Mary found those first days and weeks in New York a terrible trial. Although Pat was there to guide them as best he could, they remained outsiders, unused to city life. The crowded tenements, noise and pungent smells were overwhelming, for she missed home – the quiet of the fields and the fresh breeze blowing across their land.
Though their lodgings were now clean, the room remained damp and cold, and Catherine Ryan, who had been so kind to them on their arrival, was most helpful to her, warning her that soon the winter would come.
‘Mary, I tell you, there is nothing as cold as New York in the winter. We’ll soon be covered in snow and ice. ’Tis nothing like home and you’d best be prepared for it!’
‘I need to get some material to make us warmer clothes,’ she told John urgently.
She’d discovered a haberdashery that sold cheap offcut remnants of the exact material she wanted. With some money John had set aside, she bought what she needed and cut, sewed and made new warm dresses, shirts and coats for them all, to see them through the long winter days ahead.
CHAPTER 82
Skibbereen
‘GOOD MORNING, FATHER,’ CHORUSED THE SCHOOL CHILDREN LOUDLY as they welcomed him.
Father Fitzpatrick smiled as he took in the desks packed with young pupils keen to learn and to receive the free meals supplied by the British Relief Association. Since the inception of its charity scheme for feeding children a few weeks ago, attendance at St Fachtna’s School had never been so high, the place now crowded out. The Association’s schools scheme ensured that nearly every hungry child in the district could not only get an education but also be fed.
A few of the children had protested and objected at first to the conditions that hands and faces had to be scrubbed clean, and hair had to be combed for lice and nits, but if the children wanted to avail themselves of the two free meals provided generously by the British Association every day in the school, they must abide by the rules. The scheme was a good one and though, at first, Father Fitzpatrick had wondered about its efficiency, the promise of a bowl of gruel in the morning and oatcakes later in the day enticed the hungry. Children from all over now flocked to school.
‘It’s a devil of a job, Father, trying to get them to let their faces and hands be washed every day,’ confided the school master. ‘And you should hear the roars from some of them when the poor assistants are trying to use the fine comb to de-louse their hair.’
‘But it has made a difference?’
‘Most certainly. How can a child be expected to learn when they have an empty belly?’
‘Aye,’ he nodded. ‘The hope is that feeding and washing and cleaning the children will help curtail the spread of disease.’
The school and its classrooms had not been built to accommodate such huge numbers, but if the parents wanted the children to attend, he was happy for the school to oblige. It meant the burden of feeding so many mouths in a poor family was somewhat eased. No longer wan and pale-faced, the boys and girls, he hoped, could concentrate and learn.
As the priest walked through the town, he wondered how much longer they would have to endure such conditions. He remained tired and drained from the constant demands for his services. The young curate, who assisted him as best he could, looked of late to be exhausted too.
A few of the young men with whom he had studied and trained for the priesthood had already succumbed to fever, which they had caught while performing their religious duties in their parishes. His friend Father James Coyle had died of typhus only a few weeks ago. A kind-hearted, gentle man, it had been a great loss.
Some days, he felt as if there must be an angel watching over him as he attended the sick and dying in the lanes and hovels of the town. His job was to bless and comfort them in their final hours on this good earth. He had come to realize that doing the Lord’s work here in Skibbereen was what he had been called for, and that it was a true testimony of his faith.
‘I have your meal ready,’ declared Bridey when he returned home that evening.
The woman fussed over him like a mother hen, making sure that he ate enough and slept enough, and got a little peace to himself.
‘If I don’t look out for you, Father, who will?’
‘Thank you, Bridey. Without your good care I would be lost,’ he said, seeing her flush with pride as she returned to the kitchen.
Taking out his Bible, he began to read, finding great comfort in the familiar words …
CHAPTER 83
New York City
March 1848
THAT LONG, FREEZING FIRST WINTER IN NEW YORK WAS THE WORST, FOR John earned little and they had not even a proper fire or stove to warm them. In early spring, as
the snow melted, a lad who worked on Pat’s building, hulking bricks and materials, injured himself. He broke his shoulder and arm badly and was no longer fit for work.
‘One man’s bad luck is another’s good luck!’ observed Pat as he sent John to talk to the building foreman.
‘He offered me the job,’ John reported with delight after his brief interview. ‘I start tomorrow.’
‘I told you that Jerome Daly would change his tune mighty fast.’ Pat laughed. ‘And he’s glad to hire you.’
In his new job, John disappeared early in the morning and returned home exhausted, but was glad to have found a position that paid decent wages.
‘At least here we can afford to pay rent, buy food and some of the things we need,’ he said proudly.
Pat also found a job for young Jude. The nearby printing factory was looking for an apprentice who was ready to learn and not afraid of hard work. Jude, in his own quiet way, was exactly what they wanted. He was turning into a fine young man and was very like Mary’s late sister.
‘Your mam would be proud of you,’ she said, hugging him close.
Mary had struck up a growing friendship with Catherine Ryan, who would give her honest advice on where to go and what to do.
‘I hear there are rooms coming up to rent in a house on Mulberry Street,’ she tipped off Mary one day. ‘The people renting them are moving out west.’
Immediately, Mary and John arranged to go and see them. The lodgings were on the second floor of a four-storey house and were made up of three rather cramped rooms, one of which was a kitchen with a small stove. In all, there were ten families living in the building.
‘Oh, John, it’s so much better than where we are,’ Mary enthused, noting the way the sun streamed in through the windows, and the neat back yard with a water closet.
‘It will cost us more,’ John fretted, ‘but to be honest, I don’t know if I could face another winter where we are.’
The sun was warm in the sky when they packed up their few belongings and, with a small handcart, moved from the dank basement to their new rented home. Mrs Beatty watched from the door with a face like thunder, for she had been most put out when they had told her they were leaving.
The Hungry Road Page 26