by Charles Egan
Eleanor put more turf on the fire.
‘So what about ye?’ she said to Kitty.
Kitty sank her head. Eleanor saw she was crying. She put a hand on her shoulder, ‘I’m sorry, alanna. I didn’t mean upsetting you.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Kitty said, still sobbing. ‘It’s only how everything’s against us. If it wasn’t the hunger, it was the cold and the fever. Now the hunger is back again. Half the villages are gone. They tell their stories walking down off the Mountain and past our house. Gort-na-Móna, there’s still families living in the wreckage after the eviction. Or at least there were. The half of them are probably dead now. Baile-a-Cnoic was wiped out by the fever. Sliabh Meán too. Even today, and I coming over to you, I saw them tumbling a cabin. I could see from the smell of it there were people inside, or at least what was left of them. Only the dogs are living, and you know well why that is. I met Tiernán O’Ceallaigh too coming down from the Mountain, leading a donkey, his wife and daughter slung over the back of it. Dead. Where he was bringing them to, I just don’t know, it surely wasn’t to a grave in Kilduff. A hole in the bog somewhere…’
She was crying again.
‘Hush there, alanna,’ Eleanor said. She had flinched at the O’Ceallaigh name, though no one had noticed. O’Ceallaigh was her maiden name, and she too was from the Mountain. But she knew no Tiernán. Perhaps a distant cousin, she thought. Who knows? We never will now.
Sabina poured a small amount of poitín and handed it to Kitty. Kitty pushed it away.
‘And the way we’re living, it isn’t living at all. Fergus is drinking more, God only knows where he gets it from, and not a penny to his name. I’ve heard he does be distilling it himself further up the Mountain, but I find that hard to believe. He’s not eating enough, all he’s doing is drinking, and he gets thinner every day. But still he lives on. I wish he’d die.’
‘You mustn’t say things like that,’ Sabina said. ‘Bad and all as he might be, we shouldn’t wish him dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Kitty, ‘you have the right of it. And it’s not Fergus we should be thinking of, it’s these. Our little ones here. They’re our future, our only future.’
After Sabina and Kitty had left, Eleanor and Winnie were surprised to see the door open. Without asking, Fergus entered.
‘Where is she?’
‘If it’s your wife you’re seeking, she left some time back.’
She saw Fergus was already drunk.
‘I told her never to come here again,’ he said.
‘And why wouldn’t she? ‘Tis only the baby she wants to see.’
‘Sending her to America, are ye?’
Both Eleanor and Winnie were surprised at the question.
‘Sure why would we do that?’ Winnie asked, ‘I never heard Kitty had that intention.’
He had spotted the cup of poitín on the table. Quickly, he reached for it and swallowed it.
‘You could have asked,’ Eleanor said.
For a moment, Winnie thought he was about to strike Eleanor.
‘Well, I don’t want her coming here again,’ he said.
‘Is it so we can’t see the beatings you’re giving her?’ Eleanor asked.
Once again Fergus went as if to strike her.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Eleanor said. ‘Bad enough attacking two women when there’s no men here, but Michael and Pat will hear of it, and they’ll have the beating of you.’
‘I beat Luke when he was seeing my wife.’
‘So you did,’ Eleanor replied, ‘but that was before you started beating Kitty. A powerless woman, that’d the only kind you can fight now, is it?’
For a moment, Fergus glared at the two women. Then he made for the door, and went.
They sat by the fire. ‘He was angry enough,’ Winnie said.
‘He was,’ Eleanor said. ‘He’ll never forget Luke and the business with Kitty. But that was before Luke knew you.’
‘I know,’ Winnie said, ‘and there’s many thought I should hate Kitty for it. But how could I do that, seeing the kind of woman she is, and the dreams she has for little Brigid too? And living with a brute like that. No, Kitty has paid the price, and she’ll go on paying it for many years yet.’
That afternoon, there was a knock on the door and Eleanor went to answer it. An old woman stood outside.
‘The hunger is on me.’
Eleanor poured a cup of water and brought it to the woman who drank it quickly. When she was finished, Eleanor took the cup back and closed the door.
‘It was food she was looking for,’ Winnie said.
‘I know,’ Eleanor said, ‘but if we gave her food, we’d have a hundred back in the morning. And one way or the other, we’ll be needing it ourselves. We can’t be giving it away.’
‘But…’
‘There’s no buts about it. I gave her water, and God knows on a dry day like this she needed it. At least we gave her one blessing.’
‘Yes,’ Winnie said, ‘I suppose you’re right. Still, with all the hunger around us, I almost feel bad about eating the little we have. What will the neighbours think when this is all over? They’ll be looking at us, saying we could eat when so many died.’
‘I know. But it’s little enough food we have, and little enough money to be buying food. And any money we have, we must save for the ticket for yourself and Liam.’
It was late May when Luke’s letter arrived from Bytown.
‘So what does he have to say?’ Eleanor asked.
‘He’s left the forests. Gone to somewhere called Bytown.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Eleanor said.
‘No, me neither. But wherever he is, or whatever he’s doing, he’s still sending us money. He says too he’s hoping to have some kind of fixed address whenever he manages to get to meet up with Farrelly and the lads, but he says that may be three months. And you know what that means.’
‘I know, alanna,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’ll be too late in the season. There’s no chance of a winter crossing, even when we do get a lasting address from him, in Pennsylvania or anywhere.’
‘I’ve heard there are winter crossings to America.’
‘There might be, but what of the storms? And it’s not just yourself, it’s little Liam too. No, you’ll just have to be patient.’
‘But for how long?’ Winnie asked. ‘Next year? A sailing in March or April? It’ll be May of next year before I get to America. That’s still a full year away.’
Chapter 29
Staffordshire Advertiser, April 1848:
The line from Stoke to Norton Bridge forms part of the contract of Messrs. Brassey & Co., and has been completed in a style that fully sustains the reputation of that celebrated firm. The government inspector, who passed over the line last week, said it was one of the best he had ever travelled upon.
Raining again. The Edgeley Viaduct was nearly invisible in the grey. Danny stood by the coal fire, watching the barely visible outline of a train pulling out of Stockport Station in the direction of Manchester.
‘Can’t you sit down?’ Irene said.
‘Not while I’m thinking,’ Danny replied.
‘So what do we do now? You tell me.’
‘Damned if I know,’ Danny said. ‘You were the one who said we should keep our prices high.’
‘I did,’ she said, ‘and we have a contract with Andersons to that effect. How could I have known he’d drop the rates like this? He’s in breach of contract.’
Danny turned, gazing into the glowing centre of the fire. He could hear the distant hooting of another train on the viaduct.
‘And what of contingencies? Didn’t we build in a contingency?’
‘We did,’ she said. ‘But a twenty per cent reduction, we’d have needed a very big contingency to allow for that.’
‘We could, of course, take Roy to court.’
‘And what good would that do? It’ll cost a fortune, and one way or another, Anderson can outspend us on lawyers.’
<
br /> ‘So what then, Irene? What can we do?’
‘Reduce the wages.’
‘Have sense, would you. They’re at the lowest they can be. We can’t reduce them anymore.’
‘But we’re losing money now on every cubic yard,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘So we’ll just have to start firing men on all the Anderson sites.’
‘But that’ll slow them down.’
‘Not if we increase the hours by a quarter.’
‘A quarter!’ Danny exclaimed.
‘Why not? Less men, more hours, same rate of work.’
‘By God, Irene, you are one tough lady.’
‘Any objection?’
‘No.’
‘So that’s agreed then. We start firing men on these three sites, and that’s just a slow build-up to what we’ll be doing when the Brassey site finishes.’
The rain was clearing. Another train was crossing the viaduct, this time in the direction of Stockport Station. A local, he wondered, or a long distance? Stopping or express? Heading south. London or Birmingham?
Pat left for England.
As he walked across Connaught he saw all the evidence of a country shattered by famine. East Mayo, Roscommon, East Galway – nothing but starving people on the roads, hundreds of them outside the Workhouses. Twice he saw dead bodies by the side of the road.
The Workhouses in Leinster did not seem as crowded as those in Connaught. When he arrived in Dublin, he walked to Kingsbridge Station, reckoning from the front of it that it was very new, and very costly too. He hailed a hansom cab, which brought him to the Dublin Docks. He bought a ticket for the upper deck on a cattle boat. Then he fought his way through the milling crowd, and carried his bag aloft. During the crossing, he stayed at the rail above the cattle hold, which was crowded with cattle and humanity.
He watched the people, and thought of the time he had spent working on the harvest in Castle Bromwich. That was two years back, just as the hunger was starting. Even then, the cattle boats had been rough for those who had to travel with the animals. Was it worse now? Or was it just that he was more accepting when he was younger? The hold was far more crowded with people, and less cattle maybe? But the people were the real difference. He reckoned their clothes were more ragged than he remembered, their bodies thinner, their faces more etched with the signs of hunger. When he had first travelled, he went with harvesters to work on the corn and potato harvests in England. They were strong young men then, nothing like this pitiful crowd of men, women and children. He knew few of them would earn much on the harvest, let alone the railways.
In Liverpool he tried to avoid the worst, but it was impossible. He had to force his way through more crowds of Irish emigrants. He walked to Buckleys’ in Scotland Road. Shocked at the conditions of the surrounding tenements and of Buckleys’ itself, he walked towards Lime Street Station.
He could not understand what had happened to Buckleys’. There was a time he would have been happy to stay there, but within one or two years it had become run down in a way he could never have expected.
He stayed that night in Brown’s Temperance Hotel, close to the station. He woke late, and ate a cold, greasy breakfast, still glum from what he had seen of Liverpool. It was not until he was aboard the train to Manchester that he felt he could relax.
At Manchester he changed to the Manchester & Birmingham travelling south across Edgeley Viaduct to Stockport.
That evening, Pat met Danny for the first time since Danny had left for England. His first surprise was the quality of the lodgings, though he had heard that Danny was building a private house. As he soon found out though, even these were not just lodgings. Danny and Irene were renting the entire house.
Danny met him at the steps.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he said to Pat, extending a hand. ‘Did you have a good journey?’
‘Good enough,’ Pat said. ‘I’m getting used to it.’
Danny ushered him into the hall.
‘How did you come?’
‘Walking across, from Mayo to Dublin. Cattle boat to Liverpool, but I stayed on the upper deck, then train to Manchester and Stockport.’
Danny’s appearance surprised him. Yes, he was certainly taller – far taller – than he had been when he had left Mayo. He was dressed in a well-cut suit, a white shirt with a winged collar and cravat. What struck Pat most was Danny’s face, most of all his hard, gleaming eyes. No tears here. This was no heartbroken spailpín leaving Carrigard for the unknown.
‘What’s Mayo like?’ Danny asked.
‘Terrible. It’s getting better though. There’ll be a great potato crop this year, and I reckon the hunger will be over soon.’
‘Well, I’m delighted to hear that,’ said Danny. ‘Now, come on in and meet everyone.’
Pat followed him into the living room. Murtybeg was there, a glass in his hand. He jumped up.
‘Pat. At last.’
‘Murteen.’
‘It’s lucky you’re meeting me too. I’m only back here on Sundays now. Come on now, a drop of whiskey surely.’
He poured a glass.
‘Best Irish too,’ Danny said. ‘It’s one thing we stayed true to.’
‘I’m sure,’ Pat said. He felt the deep cut crystal glass, and held it up to the light. ‘Irish glass too?
‘Of course,’ Danny said, ‘Waterford, what else.’
They sat on easy chairs. Pat sipped at the whiskey.
‘It’s good,’ he said. There was no sign of Murty or Aileen though.
‘Murty and Aileen aren’t coming across, are they?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t know when you were coming,’ Danny said. ‘If we did, we’d have had them over.’
‘They’re a fair distance, are they?’ Pat asked.
‘Far enough,’ Murtybeg said, avoiding his gaze.
‘And Irene?’
‘Still working, I think,’ Danny said. ‘She’ll be along shortly.’
Over dinner they spoke of many things. The maid served them oxtail soup, followed by steak and vegetables on china plates, all on a linen tablecloth. A six stemmed candelabra in the centre of the table lit the room.
Murtybeg thought that Danny would talk business, as he always seemed to do these days. He was surprised when he opened up with the subject of Nessa. So too was Pat.
‘You can have little idea how that shocked me,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Pat said, ‘it was a horrible shock for us all. We hadn’t expected it.’
‘It was,’ Danny said. ‘And it was only when I heard the news that I realised how many good times we had together then. Of course, we were all young when I left. I often wondered what kind of young woman she had become since I left. Now I’ll never find out.’
‘We heard you sought your revenge,’ Pat said.
‘Of course we did, Murtybeg and me. We couldn’t let Corrigan away with that. He was the father, and what good was he for her when she needed him. Cut and ran, he did. We had to do something.’
‘I’d have preferred you hadn’t,’ Pat said abruptly.
Murtybeg looked up in surprise. ‘But we had to, Pat…’
‘No ye didn’t. That was not called for.’
‘But Corrigan was the fellow who killed her,’ Danny said.
‘Killed her!’ Pat exclaimed.
‘Killed her,’ Danny repeated. ‘If she was never with child, she’d be alive today. Wouldn’t she?’
They were half way through the main course when Irene entered the room.
A tall woman, Pat saw, nearly as tall as Danny. Thin too, but not from hunger. She wore a purple dress, tucked closely under her breasts. This was a woman who knew how to impress and excite.
‘I’d like you to meet Irene,’ Danny said. ‘You’ve heard of her, I’m sure.’
Pat stood as Irene held out her hand.
‘Of course.’
He took her hand and stepped back, looking into her eyes. Hard eyes. A tough woman. But wh
at else had he expected of Danny’s woman?
‘So this is Pat?’ she said, icily. ‘I’m delighted to meet you.’
‘And I’m delighted to meet you,’ Pat said. ‘Murtybeg has told us much about you.’
She did not smile. They sat down to dinner again, as Irene was served soup.
‘How are your mother and father getting on?’ Pat asked.
‘Not so bad,’ Danny answered. ‘Over with the gang in Leeds, like I wrote you. They seem to be well enough.’
Pat noticed the frown on Irene’s face, and he wondered what the story there was. Best not to ask yet.
‘Nice lodgings you have here,’ he said.
‘Not too bad,’ Irene said, sharply. ‘It’ll be better when we have our own.’
‘Yes,’ Pat said, ‘I’d heard about that too. Still, if it’ll be better than this, ye must be doing well on the railways.’
‘Well enough,’ Danny said. He was about to go further when Irene interrupted him.
‘There’s excellent opportunities on the railways,’ she said, ‘and Edwardes & Ryan are the best. Our competitors, they can’t keep up with us. We’ll drive them all out soon enough.’
Pat could see the fear now in Danny’s eyes. He wondered about that. Did he not agree with Irene? Or was he afraid of her? Danny? Afraid?
‘Keep the prices up so?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Irene said, emphatically. ‘Once we get rid of all the muck-shifters, we’ll have the prices as high as we like. It’ll be hard work, but that’s where you’re going to help us. Keeping costs down, that’s where you come in.’
‘What costs?’
‘Never mind,’ Danny said. ‘We’ll explain it all later.’
That night Pat shared a bedroom with Murtybeg, using a small camp bed in the corner.
‘How’s your father?’ Pat asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why did they leave?’
‘I don’t think either of them are very happy to be in England at all. You know mother, you know how she is.’
Pat folded his shirt, and left it neatly on a small chest-of-drawers beside his bed.
‘And your father?’
‘It’s just like I told Luke it was going to be, before he left for America. Father is trapped. With his school gone, it seemed his only future was working with Danny. Once he saw how cruel Danny was though, and the way he was treating his workers, he couldn’t stay.’