that was not how things had turned out. She cast aside the memory. There were more important things to think about today – such as how she was going to feed her remaining children.
Martin O’Shaughnessy’s house was at the top end of the village, past a dozen empty cottages, some of which were already falling into ruin. She remembered when the village had been vibrant, buzzing with life, children running up and down in front of the cottages, goats and pigs tied up outside most homes, women hanging washing out to dry, men repairing thatch or hauling sacks of healthy potatoes inside to store in their roof-spaces. Strange to think that was only a couple of years ago, before the blight came, before the repeated failures of the potato crop.
She passed the Brennans’ cottage. When Seamus Brennan had died Mary Brennan and her five young children had gone into the workhouse, there being no one left in the family able to work. Kitty had been luckier, having Michael old enough to earn while she looked after the children. But it was a hard life for a young lad to have to provide for his mother and siblings. Sibling, she corrected herself. Only Gracie left now, of all of them. Her beautiful babies, all gone, buried in a single plot in the Ballymor churchyard. Beyond the Brennans’ cottage was the Delaneys’ old place. Two dead, one gone to Dublin in search of employment, and one seeking his fortune in America. And so it continued up the row of cottages. Everyone gone; either died or emigrated or in the workhouse. No one left. Finally, she reached the end cottage. Smoke curled from its chimney, and a scrawny tethered goat scrambled to its feet as she approached. She smiled and scratched its head. It was a little reminder of how things used to be.
She rapped on Martin’s door. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy? It’s me, Kitty McCarthy. Are you at home?’
The door opened, and Martin, a grizzled-looking man with the beginnings of a hunchback, came out. ‘Welcome, neighbour. Is it your little girl?’
Kitty was momentarily taken aback, then realised he was assuming someone had died. To be sure, that had been the usual reason for knocking on doors these last two years. ‘No, no. She’s sickly, but still with us, God be praised,’ she replied.
‘Well, that’s something. Such a bonny little thing, she is, with her copper hair and her sunny smile,’ Martin said. He looked at her expectantly.
Kitty suddenly felt uneasy, now that she was here on Martin’s doorstep. How could she ask him for charity? It wasn’t in her nature – she was too proud. But if she didn’t, they’d go hungry tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. An image of Grace’s big, trusting eyes came to her. She couldn’t fail her little girl, her only remaining daughter. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy, it pains me so to ask, but I have no choice. Could you see your way to sparing a few potatoes for us? We’re completely running out. It’s not for myself I’m asking, you understand. It’s for the children. For Gracie.’
She stopped talking and stood quietly, watching him, waiting for him to reply. She had a sudden intuition that their fortunes depended on his response. If he turned her away that would be the beginning of the end for all of them. They’d be joining Patrick and the children in the life beyond. ‘Mr O’Shaughnessy, as soon as Michael is paid I can repay you, buy you some corn perhaps.’
But he was shaking his head. ‘No, no. I won’t be taking young Michael’s wages. Wait here.’ He went inside his cottage and reappeared a moment later hauling a bulging sack. ‘Here. Take these. I have enough.’
Kitty couldn’t believe it. He was giving her a whole sack of potatoes! Enough to last, if she was careful, a month or more. She peeked in the top. They didn’t look to be blighted, either. ‘I can’t take so many, Mr O’Shaughnessy. You’ll need them. It’s a long while till the next harvest.’ She tried to push the sack back to him, but he refused.
‘You’ll take it, Kitty McCarthy. Your need is the greater – you and those bairns of yours. I haven’t forgotten your kindness when my Niamh was dying.’ He coughed, a harsh, rasping rattle that came from deep in his chest. ‘I still have enough to last the winter, though I think the good Lord will be wanting my company before next harvest. When I’m gone, you can take all that’s left. For your little colleen.’
‘Ah, thank you, thank you, Mr O’Shaughnessy. God will spare you for your kind heart. If there is anything I can do for you, you must ask me.’
He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing. Maybe I’ll need a spot of nursing at the end, but until then, I’m grand. Away with you, now, back to your little girl who needs you.’
He made a shooing action with his hands, and closed the door.
Kitty offered up a silent prayer of thanks for good neighbours, and resolved to check on him every day. If he was as sick as he thought he was then certainly she would nurse him and make his last days as comfortable as possible. It was the least she could do for him. She hauled the sack back to her own cottage, and stored most of the potatoes, unblighted, fat and white, in the loft space, while little Gracie slept on in the corner.
She kept out three large potatoes, and put them in the pot ready to cook. There’d be a meal awaiting Grace when she woke, and ready for Michael when he returned from work. The sky outside was beginning to darken; he’d be home soon.
*
But Michael did not return until an hour after dark, when Kitty was just beginning to worry about what might have happened to him. He was carrying something wrapped in a piece of sackcloth, which he put down upon the scarred table in the middle of the room.
‘What’s that?’ Kitty asked, her curiosity greater than her wish to tell him of Mr O’Shaughnessy’s kindness.
‘A duck,’ Michael said, with pride.
Kitty looked at him with equal pride. He was tall and strong, too thin of course, but handsome, with his black hair and blue eyes. So unlike her own copper hair and milky freckled skin, which Grace had inherited. ‘Where from?’
‘Waterman’s ornamental pond,’ he replied, with a sideways look at her. ‘So we will eat well tonight.’
He was aware, she knew, that she objected to poaching, even from Thomas Waterman, who had more than enough. ‘Ah, Michael,’ she said, shaking her head but unable to stop the beginnings of a smile at the corners of her mouth. ‘What if you were caught? What if the steward saw you? If you get taken away and locked up for thievery that’ll be the end of us, so it will.’
But Michael wasn’t listening. He’d crossed the room to the pile of straw and blankets, and was kneeling beside Gracie, stroking her hair and whispering. Kitty went closer to hear what he was saying.
‘You’ll eat like a princess tonight, Gracie. Duck breast, fried with a little rosemary and sage, cut into succulent thick slices. And duck broth tomorrow. Meat, Gracie! Meat such as Mr Waterman has every day. And when this duck has gone, I know where I can get more. We’ll have duck every week, so we will. Awake now. We’ll be eating in an hour or less.’
‘There’s potatoes as well. Good ones. Enough for a month,’ Kitty said.
Michael turned to her with wide eyes as she told him how she’d come by the sack of potatoes. ‘He’s a good man and a true friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll take him a leg of this duck, will I, in return?’
‘But he will ask where it came from,’ Kitty said, frowning. She wanted to repay Martin’s kindness but feared what would happen if people heard Michael was poaching from Waterman.
‘Sure, and I’ll make him up a story. He’ll guess the truth but he won’t tell, sure he won’t.’ Michael unwrapped the duck and pulled out his knife. He swiftly removed a leg, including the thigh, and wrapped that in a smaller cloth. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Mammy. Get that duck and some potatoes in the pot!’
I woke up early