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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
In 1849, the Thomas Arbuthnot set sail for Australia. Onboard were 194 Irish girls. I heard the emotion in Sarah's voice as she asked, 'Will we ever come back?' 'Come back where?' 'Home,' said Sarah. 'Do you think we will ever see Ireland again?' Maggie and Sarah are on their way to Australia. Their homes and their lives have been devastated by famine, with death coming to so many. Even when they sought refuge in the workhouse they found horror and heartbreak there. When the girls are given the chance of a new life on the other side of the world, they know they have to say yes – no matter the price. On board ship, they are caught In Between Worlds. How will they find the courage and strength to build new lives in a strange land?
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REVIEWS FOR NICOLA PIERCE
Chasing Ghosts
‘A fascinating story about the Arctic. Perfect for readers of any age with adventure in their hearts.’
Irish Independent
Kings of the Boyne
‘Compelling and reveals … how all great historical events are shaped by the actions of those caught up in them, from king to foot soldier. Pierce draws together her characters’ stories, the real-life and the fictional … in ways that will catch the imagination.’
Books for Keeps
Behind the Walls
‘History as it really happened, with its gritty and realistic depiction of the terror-struck city of Derry in 1689 … A vivid evocation of life in a city under siege. Memorable characters … heart-breaking in places.’
parentsintouch.co.uk
Spirit of the Titanic
‘Gripping, exciting and unimaginably shattering.’
Guardian Children’s Books
City of Fate
‘Will hook you from the start … Historical fiction at its best.’
The Guardian
In memory of the brave 4,114 orphaned Irish girls who moved to Australia between 1848 and 1850, but also, in memory of my publisher Michael O’Brien (1941–2022) who rang me in 2010 to suggest that I write a novel about the Titanic …
Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.
Attributed to Chuang Tzu
Contents
Acknowledgments
Several people helped me with my research. I would like to give a special mention to Terri Kearney at Skibbereen’s Heritage Centre, Darina Molloy at Castlebar Library, Thecla Carlton at Drumshambo Library, composer Michael Holohan, writer Elizabeth Rose Murray and her musician husband Mick O’Callaghan, along with Margaret Bonass Madden, who supplied me with wonderful information about Irish wakes and funerals.
The first reader was my sister, writer and editor Rachel Pierce, who made several pertinent suggestions. I also want to thank my niece Anna Simms and Inga McGann, who thrilled me with their positive responses. In Australia, the manuscript was read by journalist Kate Nancarrow and historian Perry McLaughlin, who humbled me with their enthusiasm for this book, even as they were obliged to make corrections to earlier drafts.
This book exists thanks to my long-time friend and editor Susan Houlden.
I love the book cover and am in awe at artist Lauren O’Neill’s capturing the layers of my story in a single image. My thanks to her and designer Emma Byrne for transforming my manuscript into a piece of book art.
Michael O’Brien died unexpectedly after I delivered the book. I miss him terribly and hope he would have been pleased with the finished novel.
Come o’er the Sea
By Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
Come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro’ sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
’Tis life where thou art, ’tis death were thou are not.
Then come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
Was not the sea
Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,
But, on the waves,
Love and Liberty’s all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us —
Then come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro’ sunshine, storms, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where’er it goes.
Maggie’s Prologue
An Old Folks’ Home in Australia in the Year 1935
I think I will die today.
Do you hear me, God? Tell your mother to put the kettle on. I will be joining you just as soon as I can. Just as soon as I am done here.
Until then, I must smile and pretend to like my birthday cake when I would rather a whiskey.
A hundred years is more than enough years for one person, I reckon, particularly when it means putting up with scenes like this: that foolish woman, Mrs Olsen, putting her face too close to mine to bellow into my good ear, ‘Now, Margery, you must blow out your candles for the photographer.’
She has been eating garlic. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
The photographer looks as bored as I feel. Well, good enough for him. I can smell his awful aftershave from here. I do not want my photograph taken. Then again, I did not want a birthday party but here we all are.
On my bedside locker sits my birthday card from King George V, if you please. No, he is not my king, but he does not know that. Anyway, it is not personal because he sends a card to everyone on their hundredth birthday. Or his secretary does, at any rate.
Do you want to know what it says? It is not very comforting or cheerful, but it is honest. I will give him that much.
His Majesty’s hope that the blessings of good health and prosperity may attend you during the remainder of your days.
‘Remainder of your days?’ said Rosie, giggling, ‘He doesn’t want you organising anything for your 101st!’
Rosie is my favourite nurse. She holds the cake in front of me so I can blow out the four candles. Well, they could hardly expect me to blow out a hundred. Rosie decided on four, with each one representing one quarter of my hundred years. She is great like that – is Rosie – for coming up with practical solutions. Another example of her cleverness is her bribing me to play along with this silliness. Taking my hand in hers, she solemnly promised that she would get me as much whiskey as I wanted. All I had to do was look like I was enjoying myself, for twenty or twenty-five minutes.
Deal, I thought as I squeezed her hand for my reply. I have not spoken since my last stroke when my mouth collapsed to one side and my voice was lost in the chaos.
Oh, Lord help me!
Mrs Olsen is clapping her hands for silence so that she can be heard telling everyone to sing ‘Happy Birthday’.
What is so ‘happy’ about my still being here?
Everyone that was important to me has been dead for years. I do not have a friend left in the world, except for Rosie, and she will be leaving soon to have her baby. Her belly grows a little bit more every day. The blue uniform stretches unevenly across it and the buttons look strained. I find myself staring at the bump with a mixture of pity and envy. That little being is already much loved by Rosie and her husband, Rick.
I was at their wedding. Rosie insisted. It was the last time that I left the old folks’ home. Well, now, I am ready to leave it again and, this time, for good.
See here, God, you had best get me organised because I am ready to go.
I am not afraid of dying. It is just another journey after all, and I get to leave this wreck of a body though it has served me long and well.
You see, I believe in Heaven and the Afterlife. Sure, what else was all this living for? And make no mistake. I have earned my place in Heaven.
The candles are flickering despite that windbag Mrs Olsen breathing over them. Rosie arches her eyebrow at me, warning me to be good. Well, I will be but just for Rosie, mind, nobody else.
That is the reward for being a hundred years old: nothing matters.
The candles are slim and bright pink. Awful colour! They clash with the chocolate icing and are too puny to represent a century.
How funny to think that I was born on the other side of the world. These days I almost forget it myself, and I bet not many in this room would believe it now. Since I cannot talk, I do not know what remains of my Cork accent.
Maybe I would have liked to have seen Ireland one more time. Only it would have been like going backwards, while I have always maintained that one must only go full steam ahead.
Things I remember about Ireland: being hungry, being cold and being miserable.
No, that is not fair. There is other stuff too, for instance that certain shade of green worn by the fields around Skibbereen. Never have I seen that particular green since. Oh, and the smell of a turf fire and the sweetness of Dada’s pipe.
And the awful, awful smell of death and dying and rotting potatoes.
Yes, that smell has proved impossible to forget, which is unfair considering that I have all but forgotten what my parents looked like. I remember dark hair, but I cannot say more than that.
Before my hair turned white, it was a mousy brown, the kind of brown that is almost apologetic. Maybe if I had stayed in Ireland, my hair would have been as dark as my parents’. It was the Australian sun that made short work of me, burning my skin raw and diluting the colour of my hair. Australia changed me in every way, I reckon. No, there cannot be much of Ireland left in me.
But isn’t a birthday an opportunity to think about everything that has led me to this moment, huddled here beneath my old patchwork blanket whilst pretending to nod along, keeping time with the chorus?
‘For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow …’
A jolly good fellow?
Was I?
Well, let us see.
1
Mama’s Map
I was so angry at my parents for dying on me. I am still angry now. If I managed not to starve to death, I don’t see why they did. Of course, Mama would say that it was God’s will. She brings Him into everything or, at least, she did.
My mother. She is the reason that I am here at all.
Her pride and joy were an old pair of faded brown shoes that she kept for special days. Only we did not have many special days, so those shoes mostly sat under her bed, leaving her barefoot like the rest of us. She inherited them from some forgotten aunt who had worked in a big house a long time ago.
Every so often Mama took the shoes out for a wipe of the cloth that was used to wipe everything from the table to my brother’s snotty nose. And every time she did, I would ask to try them on, but she would just laugh and say in a pretend haughty tone, ‘If I cannot wear them today, you certainly shall not!’
Mama was not afraid to dream. As she fished out those shoes, she would have me spread out the tattered map of the world that Dada had rescued from a puddle outside Mrs Hegarty’s hotel in Skibbereen. Someone had mushed it up into a paper ball and left it behind as if the world had let them down in some dreadful way. We dried it out in front of the fire and then tried to make sense of it, turning it this way and that. It took a while before we began to understand what the different shapes meant.
When Mama suggested that I show it to Father O’Driscoll, I disagreed. ‘Why should he know more than us? He has never travelled anywhere either.’
Mama checked my cheekiness. ‘Now, little girl, do not be getting above yourself. Father O’Driscoll is a very learned man. Not everyone can be a priest. It is a vocation that involves lots of hard work.’
‘What is a … a vokaysen?’ asked Seán, my little brother.
‘You are not saying it right,’ I snapped, although I hardly knew if he had or not.
Mama tutted at my behaviour. ‘A vocation is a very, very strong feeling that a person must do something no matter what. So, Father O’Driscoll would have had to make up his mind a long time ago that he would be a priest.’
‘No matter what?’ said Seán.
‘Yes, my love, no matter what. It is a tough life and not everyone would be up to the task of carrying out God’s work.’
I resisted questioning this. Mama worked hard all day long, taking care of us and Dada and everything in the cottage and making meals and cleaning and mending our clothes and spending months on end planting hundreds of potatoes and then digging up the harvest when it was time to.
Meanwhile, Father O’Driscoll had a housekeeper and said Mass and heard confessions and visited his parishioners for bread and jam and whiskey. That did not seem like hard work to me. Why, I could do all of that just as well, apart from drinking whiskey. Mama had made me take some when I had a bad toothache. I hated it. She got me to dip my finger into the bottle and rub it along my swollen gum.
‘It is making me feel sick,’ I complained.
‘But hasn’t it made you forget about your toothache?’ was the triumphant reply.
In any case, I was proved right about not needing Father O’Driscoll’s help with the map. Once we found our own country, it allowed us to unlock the key to everywhere else.
I watched Mama trace the outline of Ireland with her finger as she said, ‘Margaret, look how small Ireland is. Can it really be so?’
‘No, Mama,’ I answered. ‘There must be a mistake. Someone has got their measurements wrong.’
There was no way that I could believe Ireland to be so small. Why all one had to do was walk out into the middle of our field and spin around. Ireland continued on forever, no matter if you faced north, south, east or west. Our country was as big as the sky. I was sure of it.
‘So, Margaret, where should we go this time?’
This was part of our game. Mama would choose a country for us to visit that obliged her to polish her shoes. We pretended that the shoes were magic and could bring us places.
So far, we had been to the Russian and Chinese empires, just because they were bigger than everywhere else.
I looked at the world stretched out on the floor in front of me, while Seán sulked in the background because I told him that he could not join in. This game was just for Mama and me. Scrunching up his grimy features, he pouted, ‘Well, I didn’t want to go anyway!’
‘Yes, you do!’ I laughed. ‘But you can’t. So there!’
It was easy to make him cry or lose his temper.
To distract us from quarrelling, Mama pointed out a country that sat alone. The Russian and Chinese empires were practically neighbours as was the Arctic – the one place that Mama and I agreed never to go to as we knew it was covered in snow and ice. Sure, why would we want to visit somewhere that was colder than Ireland?
I pronounced the name of Mama’s chosen country slowly, though we had no way of knowing if I was saying it correctly. ‘A … us … tra … li … a.’
‘I think that is right,’ said Mama. ‘In any case, this is where I would like us to go. Now, tell me, what do you think we shall see there?’
I studied the country’s shape and position, but before I could conjure up an answer, Mama answered her own question. ‘See how it is an island like Ireland, two oceans away. Only Australia is so much bigger.’
‘How much bigger, Mama?’
‘Well, let me see.’ She counted up and down on her fingers, reciting numbers in barely heard whispers, before announcing, ‘Hmm, maybe a thousand times bigger than here. Best keep that in mind while I tell you that no matter where one goes in Australia one can always hear the ocean. Now, most only hear the usual sound of waves crashing against each other and think nothing of it. However, there are others who can understand what the ocean is telling them.’
Mama’s answer thrilled us both, with Seán completely forgetting himself to ask in his most plaintive voice, ‘Please can I come too?’
Mama looked at me with raised eyebrows as if I, and not she, were the captain of our trip. I bowed my head solemnly, making a show of giving this matter a lot of thought, before saying, ‘Yes, Seán, you can come. But just this once!’
My brother clapped his hands in celebration.
Did he think that we were actually going there?
Mama’s shoes must have been the cleanest shoes in all of Ireland seeing as how she rarely wore them. She said, ‘I like to feel the earth’s breath tickling my bare feet.’
She claimed that she could walk on nails and not feel a thing. The soles of her feet were the colour of muck and she liked to boast that this meant that she was paying homage to the ground that gave us life. ‘You see how I can bring our home wherever I go, thanks to the soil that clings to me.’
I nodded. ‘So, no matter where you go, you will always be home?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Exactly that!’
‘Well, then, Mama,’ I said. ‘Let us go. Let us all go – to Australia!’
2
Poor Stella
Dada was not one to waste time on dreams. Instead, he preferred to spend his time worrying about all manner of things.
I found it strange how much he fretted about his standing amongst our neighbours. Mama showed no concern for what anyone else thought, although she did care that she did right by God, Our Lady, Jesus and the angels and saints. But, apart from all of them, she concentrated on being herself through and through.
Of course, she had her heart set on entering Heaven when she died and was doing her best to make sure that there was room for the rest of us. She tried to make Dada see things from her point of view, but he never quite managed it.
For instance, there was that time when he and our neighbours were helping to dig Stella, Mr O’Leary’s old cow, out of a ditch that had caved in following heavy rain.
* * *
Stella was bellowing mournfully from where she sat, plonked up to her chest in mud, showing no gratitude to the sweating men who had managed to drape a rope around her thick neck. They began to form a line, each man a chunk of rope in his grip, shoulders bent forward, preparing to pull together as one.
‘Heave Ho! Heave Ho!’
How they had strained in their attempt to drag a reluctant Stella back on her feet.
I asked Mama, ‘How heavy can she be?’
We were standing by with some of the wives and children, glad to take a break from our chores, eager to be entertained.
Sarah McSweeney, who was two years older than me, giggled at my question and said, ‘It looks like they are trying to pull apart the Red Sea. Where is Moses when you need him?’
All the women had laughed until a couple of the men glared at us as if we had sullied the day and their good intentions.
Sometimes I felt that the men were out of step with the women because all the women I knew seemed wiser and calmer and not prone to worrying unnecessarily about everything.
‘Poor cow having to rely on that lot,’ murmured Sarah, almost setting us off again.
I could see Sarah’s mother squirming as she glanced at her husband. For her sake, we straightened our faces and pressed our lips together. We knew that if Mr McSweeney heard his daughter speaking so freely there would be trouble later. Some days his wife and daughter’s bruises were exactly the same shade and size.
Stella hated having so little space in which to manoeuvre herself. She hardly knew the whereabouts of her own feet thanks to her own bulk blocking them from sight. She looked embarrassed to be the centre of such a tremendous fuss and bewildered too.
‘Silly old girl,’ said Mr O’Leary, though not unkindly. His cap was askew as he tried to do two jobs at once, telling the men how to pull while encouraging Stella to do as he bid.
Dada always said that Mr O’Leary liked to be in charge, whether he was propping up the bar in Becher Arms or out in the fields acting the big man on account of his position as our landlord’s ‘middleman’. Dada and most of our neighbours paid the rent to Mr O’Leary, who passed it on to the landlord. Whoever he was.
Details about our landlord were scant. All I knew for certain was that he was an Englishman and very rich. I could never remember his name, which did not matter as Mama assured me that I had more chance of sailing off to a strange country than ever meeting him. His continual absence made me curious about this man that we all worked for. It was our job to keep him happy. At least, that is how Sarah put it to me.
‘Have you ever met him?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied, ‘though I suppose I’d remember if I’d met an Englishman, wouldn’t I?’
‘Are they very different from Irishmen?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘They must be. Sure, aren’t they in charge of us?’
‘But,’ I argued, ‘aren’t our Irishmen in charge of us women and children?’
She was about to laugh again but then touched a bluish patch on her cheek, just below her eye, caressing it for a moment. Sighing, she said, ‘Well, perhaps the difference is that Irishmen think they are in charge of us, but the Englishmen really are. Or is that the wrong way around?’
With that, she grabbed her thick plait and pretended to fasten it across her upper lip, as it if were a moustache. ‘Do I look like I could be in charge of anyone?’
‘Only yourself,’ I laughed.
‘Good enough!’ She winked.
In any case, I was free to imagine the landlord however I chose. Was he tall? Did he have a loud voice? Had he ever been to the Russian or Chinese empires? I bet that he had a map just like ours and could go wherever he liked, although it seemed that wherever he liked did not include Ireland. He never came here. This fascinated me. Fancy owning all this land and not wanting to see it! If I owned something, I would want to see it every day.
Mama said he probably lived in a great big house with a hundred windows and servants.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘like the workhouse?’
* * *
The workhouse was newly finished when Mama decided that the four of us should have a look at what we had heard described as the most splendid building in the whole of Cork. Sure enough, we saw it long before we reached the entrance gate.
‘Why, it is taller than the trees!’ I gushed.
‘I prefer the trees!’ muttered Dada.
It was the biggest thing that I had ever seen that was not the sky or the sea or the land. Not that we could see it in its entirety thanks to the high walls that surrounded it. Dada had Seán on his shoulders, while Mama and I stood on our toes, even jumping up to snatch a better look.
What I could make out was that its slated roof was longer than any street I had ever walked upon. At each end was a tower whose pointed head was taller again than the bit in between.
‘Would you look at all those windows?’ gasped Mama. She had put a hand on my shoulder to help her jump up, greedily seizing upon as many details as she could before landing on the ground once more. Then she generously offered me her arm and I made the best jump that I could. She was right. I did not know that one building could have so many windows.
Seán was barely five then, but even he was impressed. His eyes widened as he pointed at the workhouse. ‘Oh, look … look!’ He did not yet have the words to describe what he was seeing.
‘Yes, my love,’ said Mama. ‘Isn’t it grand?’
‘How many rooms does it have?’ I asked.
Mama shrugged. ‘I don’t know, pet. Maybe twenty, maybe more?’
‘Twenty rooms!’ I roared. ‘Really and truly?’
Nineteen more than our cottage.
Dada tried not to echo his family’s admiration, yet he was just as impressed. Of course he was! None of us had ever seen the likes of it before. However, he clicked his tongue in annoyance at the building and, probably, at himself too.
I was curious. ‘What, Dada? Do you not like it?’
‘It is a workhouse, Margaret. There is nothing good about it and you may pray to God above that this family never needs to step through these gates.’
I was never to forget my amazement at all those windows.
‘Would the landlord live in something as big as the workhouse?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mama.
‘Sure, it makes sense why our landlord stays away then. If I owned a big house like that, I would not want to leave it either. Of course, he must prefer his lovely house in England to just fields and trees here.’
Mama made no reply to this. Then I thought of something. ‘Could our landlord not build the same sort of house here and that way he would be beside his land?’
‘His land?’ said Mama, her mouth curling as she repeated my words. ‘Don’t let your father hear you talking like that.’
I was confused. I mean, I sort of understood what she meant but I also knew I was correct in what I had said. Our landlord owned the land that we lived on. Otherwise, why were we paying to be here?
Anyway, he did not need to be in Ireland as it was Mr O’Leary’s job to collect our rents, which ended up somewhere in Cork city. At least, I think that is where it went. All our money.
This is how I imagined it: hundreds of coins in a potato sack that had been scrubbed clean by Mrs O’Leary, and the neck of it tied prettily with one of her ribbons.
Maybe she even wiped each coin clean before it left so that the landlord could forget that it came from our men whose hands were the same shade of brown that lined the soles of Mama’s feet.
I envied our landlord his big house and hoped one day I might have one too.
* * *
Stella mooed, causing some of the women to nod along instinctively, agreeable like, as if wanting to show Stella that we were supporting her just as much as the menfolk, even if it looked like all we were doing was standing around. The women were grateful that there was no room on that rope for any of us. It was a rare moment when we were not required to be pulling and heaving and dragging alongside the men.
As usual it was raining, though not as heavily as the previous day. I pulled my damp shawl around my shoulders and neck. Mrs Lynch had her cat, Saint Patrick, in her arms, all swaddled up as if he were a baby. He certainly looked a lot warmer than I felt. All I could see was a dab of pink nose and a whisker or two. It was a sight that might have made a stranger stare, but there were no strangers here.
Mrs Lynch used to be a woman who smiled and laughed until one winter’s day she lost her husband and youngest son to a fever. Three years later, her eldest son, Matthew, headed off to America, telling all who would listen that there was no future for young people in Skibbereen.
As far as Mrs Lynch was concerned, Matthew had died too as she knew she would never see him again. However, thanks to the money he sent her, she was able to stay in her cottage. She wanted God to take her but had no idea how to make this happen. Mama advised her to wait and see. So, she waited and waited, but God left her alone. Mama convinced Mrs Lynch that He was keeping her alive because Saint Patrick needed her and that, like anybody else, she had to respect God’s wishes. The cat was her family now and we never saw one without the other.
Again, Stella mooed pitifully and looked as if she had had enough and wanted to sit back down.
‘Pull, pull!’ roared Mr O’Leary, as if Dada and the others were not doing exactly that.
Dada was at the end of the line, farthest away from the ditch and Stella, and he looked to be working a lot harder than anyone else. His feet were dug into the mud as he heaved with all his might.
But Mr O’Leary was not impressed with the men’s effort. ‘Dammit, can’t you do better than this?’ And if that was not insulting enough, he decided to rearrange the men, starting with Dada. ‘John Gaffney, swap places with Donal Óg there.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard me, man. Swap with Donal Óg. He makes two of you and should be at the end of the line.’
Dada’s face reddened. He stopped pulling and looked as if he might abandon Stella and everybody else to their fate.
However, there was no denying that Donal Óg was bigger in every way. His shoulders were broader, and his arms were thicker, all the way to the tips of his stumpy fingers. Donal Óg approached my father and waited for him to drop his end of the rope. Dada sighed and handed it over, retracing Donal Óg’s steps to where he had been in the line. No one seemed to find fault in this, all their attention being trained on Stella, yet I sensed Dada’s determination to take umbrage at being compared unfavourably with another man.
Finally understanding what the men were doing, Stella deigned to give in to them, allowing them to drag her into standing up. She looked up at the men and put her best hoof forward. Realising that she must head in their direction in order to be saved, she began stumbling up the ditch, searching for the best spots in which to place her feet.
The younger children, including our Seán and Sarah’s three brothers, Jackie, Oisín and Michael, clapped their hands and cheered Stella on.
‘Silence!’ roared Mr O’Leary. ‘She needs to concentrate.’
A few of the women slapped their fists to their mouths to cover up their laughter. Sarah pushed a corner of her shawl between her lips as tears rolled down her cheek. I did not dare catch her eye.
And so the men pulled and tugged, and with every step Stella grew more confident in them and in herself until, sure enough, she made it back to firm ground, receiving Mr O’Leary’s triumphant smack of congratulations across her hide with a swish of her tail.
Suddenly, I heard my brother cry out, ‘Mr O’Leary? Mr O’Leary?’
Mama moaned softly, ‘Oh, Seán, for goodness’ sake!’
Mr O’Leary was obliged to acknowledge the voice that was intruding on his relief that Stella was safe. ‘Yes, what is it, boy?’
That ‘boy’ confirmed my suspicions that he did not know any of the children’s names.
‘Can we cheer now?’ asked Seán.
To our surprise, Mr O’Leary smiled and even laughed a little, replying, ‘Of course you can. Cheer away. Good lad!’
Seán and his friends did just that. ‘Three cheers for Stella!’
Sarah muttered, ‘Look at the pride on O’Leary’s face. I’m surprised he doesn’t join in with them!’
That evening, as I lay in under my blanket, I heard Dada complaining about Mr O’Leary’s treatment of him. ‘How dare he talk to me like that? And me working as hard as anyone else to save his beast.’
As usual, Mama attempted to soothe his anger with a possible explanation for Mr O’Leary’s behaviour. ‘I know, John. To be sure, he was rude, but he was out of his mind with worry. Some of the women thought him very funny indeed.’
‘Well, I did not find him one bit funny.’
‘No, my dear,’ said Mama. ‘Of course not.’
‘And now everyone believes that I am lacking in strength. I know they do.’
Mama tutted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her husband.
I thought Seán was asleep, until he called out, ‘Dada?’
Typically, Dada’s response was a terse ‘What?’
‘I love you!’
Mama’s giggle was delicious, and I could only guess at the expression on Dada’s face. In any case, he stopped his complaining and we all settled down to sleep, ending the day in the same way as it began, listening to birdsong.
3
Sarah Knows Something
Several weeks after this, Sarah appeared at our door.
‘Come in, come in!’ sang out Mama. ‘You will take some tea, won’t you?’
Sarah nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gaffney, but I am afraid that I cannot stop. Mother sent me to tell you that poor Mrs Lynch died. They fetched Doctor Donovan, but there was nothing he could do for her.’
Mama blessed herself. ‘May the Lord have mercy upon her soul. What happened? She looked fine the other day, though I suppose none of us knows when our final hour is upon us.’
It was not the first time I had heard Mama say this and it fascinated me. Imagine waking up tomorrow and knowing that you would be dead before sundown. How would I spend my last day? Now, this was where my thoughts crumbled as I could never think of anything interesting to do, apart from refusing to waste time boiling potatoes or minding my brother. Although I would make sure that everyone knew it was my last day and, therefore, I should be free to spend it as I wished.
No doubt Mrs Lynch had done nothing special before dying.
Sarah explained what happened. ‘It looks like she fell and cracked her head against the stone floor. From what I can gather, there was little mess or blood, and Doctor Donovan declares that he has never seen her look so peaceful. Father O’Driscoll is with her now.’
‘Well,’ said Mama, tearfully, ‘she will be glad to be reunited with her husband and child again.’
‘What about Saint Patrick?’
Sarah and Mama looked as if they had no idea what I was talking about.
‘Her cat,’ I added helpfully.
Mama rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be childish, Margaret. Now is not the time to be thinking of a cat. Go outside and tell your father what has happened.’
I looked at Sarah with some embarrassment, but she was busily wetting her finger and rubbing it over a mark on her skirt.
‘Go on, now!’ said Mama. She was really upset.
And so was I!
How dare she accuse me of being childish. I should have thought that asking about Mrs Lynch’s cat showed that I was a kind and considerate person.
Something felt off and had now for some time. Both Mama and Dada were not themselves and I found myself watching them for clues. Mama no longer hummed as she worked and would make no time to look at the map or polish her shoes, whilst Dada spent even longer outside. I caught plenty of looks between them that I could not decipher, and they had taken to having conversations away from the cottage. No doubt away from my prying eyes and ears. The trouble, whatever it was, was not between them. Sarah had once told me that her father had not spoken a single word to her mother for a whole month. At least my parents were still talking to one another.
