the three babies had died of malnourishment and fever, despite her going without to allow her to fill their plates. One after the other Nuala, Jimmy and Éamonn had weakened and died, each death dealing a blow to her soul, each burial feeling as though she buried another part of her being. There were only Gracie and Michael left. Kitty had wondered, many times, if the children might have survived if she’d taken them and gone into the workhouse. But she would have been separated from them. And she’d heard such terrible stories of what happened to children in workhouses. There would have been no way back for them. People only came out of the workhouse in wooden boxes.
She hauled the bucket out of the stream and set off back down to her cottage. For now, at least, they had food, and she’d saved Gracie from going the way of her brothers and sister.
Grace was back from delivering the bread to Mr O’Shaughnessy, and almost as soon as Kitty entered the cottage she heard Michael’s familiar whistle as he came up the track from Thomas Waterman’s fields.
‘Look!’ he said, excitedly, as soon as he reached her. ‘I saw Mr O’Dowell in town and he’s after giving me a whole book for drawing in, and a box of pencils!’
Kitty smiled to see what Michael was holding out. A week ago she might have cursed, wondering what was the use of paper and pencils when they were starving, but now they had food in their bellies and more food stored in the cottage they could enjoy life a little, for a while. Michael had always been good at drawing, ever since he was a small boy attending the National School down in Ballymor; but since Patrick had died of course there had been no money to spare for non-essential things like artist’s materials.
‘That was kind of Mr O’Dowell,’ she said. Patrick’s old foreman had done what he could, over the years, to help them out a little. Giving Michael drawing materials was a lovely gesture, something the boy would really appreciate. He’d had to grow up so fast after Patrick died, and he’d become the main earner in the family. And the deaths of Little Pat and the babies had hit him hard. It would do him good to have something to do, other than work.
‘I’ve drawn some pictures already,’ Michael said, flipping open the book to show her. He’d sketched James O’Dowell, showing him leaning against the outside wall of O’Sullivan’s, pipe in one hand, pint in the other. It was a good likeness.
Kitty nodded appreciatively, and Michael turned to the following page, which showed a man on horseback, his back straight, his expression haughty. He held a horsewhip in one hand, raised as though he was about to use it.
‘Mr Waterman came to the fields today,’ Michael explained. ‘He stopped near me while I was eating my lunch, and I quickly drew him, so I did.’
Kitty pursed her lips. Again, it was a good likeness, but not a face she wanted to see in her son’s sketchbook. That man had done her family enough damage. Wasn’t it in his mines Patrick had perished?
‘Is it good, Mammy? Would you recognise him?’
‘It’s like him, to be sure,’ she said, then flicked the page to see what was next. But it was the last drawing. She turned back to the one of O’Dowell. ‘You’re a fine artist. Perhaps you should give Mr O’Dowell this picture as a thank you.’
‘Sure, and I’ll do that,’ Michael said. ‘Where’s Gracie? I want to show her. And then I’ll draw a picture of her, before the light fades.’
‘She’s inside,’ Kitty replied. She remained standing outside the cottage while Michael went in. That picture of Thomas Waterman had disturbed her. Michael had captured the essence of the man – his aloofness, his cruelty, his tyrannical nature – as well as his appearance and stance. She hated Thomas Waterman with every inch of her being. She had not set eyes on him for many years – thankfully he spent most of each year in England – but he owned the land, he owned the mines, he owned the cottage she lived in and the ground in which she grew her potatoes. Their lives were entirely dependent on him, and she knew, more than anyone else, that he was not at all a good man.
The next day was overcast and threatened rain, so I decided to drive into Cork city to visit the art galleries and museums there. I hoped I’d find a few Michael McCarthy portraits in one of them, and maybe even a ‘Kitty’. I had a leaflet from Ballymor tourist information office – a Cork city tourist guide with a list of galleries – and, having parked the car not far from the small but beautiful university campus, I set off on foot with my trusty rain-mac to visit as many galleries as possible. Disappointingly most of the galleries were dedicated to modern art so did not detain me long. I mean, it’s nice enough, but not what I was looking for. Mid-morning, in need of refreshment, I ducked into the nearest café and was delighted to find it specialised in chocolate. I wanted to drown in the glorious deep warm aromas. I could have sampled everything on the menu but made do with a hot chocolate and a slice of chocolate brownie. Heaven.
Heading away from the town centre and along a riverside walk, I eventually came to the Cork city museum. Perhaps this would be more likely to have some McCarthy pictures. He was, after all, a local artist. The museum is an impressive Georgian building set in pleasant grounds. I went in, mooched around various displays related to Youghal lace, Irish patriot Michael Collins and a history of copper mining in County Cork, then finally, tucked away in a corner, I found a section devoted to local artists. There, side by side with two other McCarthy portraits and a couple of sketches, was an unmistakable ‘Kitty’. My heart beat faster as I stepped forward to examine it. It wasn’t one I’d seen before in any books, and it was a beauty. The museum had labelled it ‘Unknown Woman by Michael McCarthy’ but, as I gazed at her long copper curls and startling green eyes, I knew it was her – my great-great-great-grandmother. In this portrait she was sitting on what looked like the deck of an ocean liner, with a glass of wine at her side and an open book on her lap. She was wearing a pale pink dress and a grey shawl, and I noticed the shawl was pinned with the same distinctive Celtic knot brooch she was wearing in my own Kitty portrait, back home. The brooch must have been a treasured possession, I thought, though it was hard to imagine that someone who lived in such a poor cottage as the ones I’d seen at Kildoolin yesterday would own anything of value. I stood for a while, staring into her eyes, trying to see beyond them into her mind. ‘What happened to you, Kitty?’ I whispered. ‘Where did you go? Where did you end up?’
I took some notes and a couple of photos of the portrait (I knew I’d have to get permission from the museum and a professional picture of it if I was to include it in my book, but this would do for now), then looked at the other McCarthy works on display. One intrigued me – it was a rough pencil sketch of a haughty-looking man on a horse. Something about the expression of the man made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was quite unnerving. It was unsigned but the museum label said it was attributed to Michael McCarthy and had hung for many years in Ballymor House. The style was odd – it looked almost amateur, juvenile, as though Michael had not yet refined his technique. I wondered who the man was, and whether Ballymor House still existed and who had lived there. More questions for poor Declan when I next saw him!
*
All in all, it was a pleasant day in Cork city, with the rain holding off for most of the day. I drove back to Ballymor full of chocolate and thoughts about the Kitty portrait and the sketch of the man on the horse.
Back at O’Sullivan’s, I went up to my room to freshen up before dinner and an evening in the bar. I felt like dressing up a little after the last couple of days in my jeans, which were feeling a little tight on me these days, so I put on a loose summer dress and wedge sandals. I fancied wearing my Pandora bracelet to complete the outfit, and rummaged through my toiletries bag for it. Usually I put jewellery for a holiday into the side pocket of my toiletries bag, but it wasn’t there. I upended the bag on the bed and rooted through – a pile of tangled necklaces but no bracelet.
‘Shit. I’m sure I packed it,’ I muttered, and tried my handbag. Perhaps I’d put it