The Girl from Ballymor

I felt guilty, as if I should apologise on behalf of all English people. ‘Did the landowners not realise what was going on, or how bad it was?’

He gave a small shrug. ‘Some did, some didn’t. Many were absentee landlords who hardly ever set foot on their Irish estates. Others were well aware of what was happening. To be fair, some tried to help by donating food. But some people were too proud to accept charity, preferring to work for their money. And there was the option of workhouses, but those of course were the last resort.’

I shook my head. ‘You’d think if your children were starving you’d do anything to save them.’ As I said it I wondered if that would be true for me – would I do anything to save my child? Was I capable of self-sacrifice? To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure. It was presumably something that came with maternal instincts, and I did not believe I had those. I wondered if my own mother had ever considered this question. I could not imagine her sacrificing herself to save me. She’d never really given up anything for me.

Declan was looking at me oddly. ‘Are you all right there, Maria? You look as though you’re fretting about something. If you want to talk . . .’

‘No, it’s all right. I was just thinking about these poor people, what they had to go through. You’re very knowledgeable on it, Declan. Thank you for explaining things; it’s very helpful.’

‘Ah, to be sure we’re all taught about the famine in history lessons in Ireland. It’s one of the big events that defines our nation. That and the 1916 uprising and fight for independence.’

I made a mental note to buy myself a book on the history of Ireland. It’d all be good background information for my biography of Michael McCarthy. From my thesis I knew plenty about his painting techniques, his style and his subjects, and his later life in London, but so little about his early life and the land of his birth.

We sat and chatted a while longer, then walked back to Ballymor together. He pointed out where the potato fields would have been, part-way down the hill, beside the track. I must admit I could not see much evidence, but maybe the heather was kind of growing in rows, following the lines of old potato ridges.

Declan left me in the centre of town. I wanted to start making some notes for my book, and had a long list of questions to research on the internet. Declan had told me about a good bookshop in the town, where I might find some local history books, and the prospect of a light lunch in a coffee shop followed by an hour or so browsing the bookshop felt like a good plan for the rest of the day.

I found a pleasant-looking café which overlooked the town square and ordered a sandwich and a pot of tea, then pulled out my phone. There was a text from Dan, which I opened nervously. Any decision yet? I still love you. xxx

Tears pricked at my eyes as I read the text. I’d been such a rubbish girlfriend to him and felt so guilty. As I ate my lunch, I recalled the events of last Sunday night, two days before I’d left for Ireland and one day before I’d booked my tickets.

Dan had surprised me by taking me out to eat at a swanky restaurant. It wasn’t one we often went to – only on very special occasions. He’d even reserved us one of the best tables – by the window, overlooking the river. At this time of year, it would be light till almost ten o’clock, so we’d be able to watch the sunset over the water as we lingered over our meal.

I’d made an effort and put on a floaty summer dress, some strappy sandals and a bit of make-up. It made a change from my usual jeans and paint-spattered t-shirt combinations that I wore when teaching art.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Dan said, as I came downstairs ready to go out to the restaurant. ‘Really pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, giving him a kiss.

We walked to the restaurant – it was only about twenty minutes away and the evening was warm and still. Dan insisted on holding my hand the whole time. I felt as though we were teenagers on our first date. There was a slight tenseness about him which was unusual. He was normally so easy-going and relaxed. I wondered if he had problems at work. He worked in IT, and I knew he was under pressure to bring forward delivery dates on his current project.

But it wasn’t that at all that was making him tense and preoccupied during our walk to the restaurant. As we were shown to our table, and took our seats each facing the window at an angle, he ordered two glasses of champagne. The waiter brought them, along with the menus, almost immediately.

It wasn’t really what I wanted to drink – I’d have preferred a refreshing glass of sparkling water – but I lifted my glass to clink against his anyway. ‘Champagne, how lovely! Well, cheers then!’

He shook his head gently. ‘Not yet, Maria. There’s something I need to ask you first.’ He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside was a ring – white gold, diamond and ruby. Delicate, pretty, modern, and perfect. Exactly what I would have picked myself. He knew me so well. ‘Marry me?’ he said.

I was lost for words, and gaped for a moment.

His nervousness made him fill the empty silence. ‘Registry office or church. Or hotel. I honestly don’t mind – whatever you want. All I want is you.’ He smiled and reached for my hand.

I found myself blinking at him while a thousand images raced through my mind – us standing at an altar exchanging vows while my mother, Jackie, watched disapprovingly (she disapproved of everything I did); Dan and I pushing a pram through a park together with another dozen children hanging off our arms; us aged ninety sitting opposite each other with nothing to say, in an old people’s home. Was this my future flashing before me? Was it the future I wanted? I loved Dan, with all my heart, but the whole marriage and children thing felt far too terrifyingly grown-up for me to contemplate. I loved him, no question, but could I agree to all this, right now, just like that?

I must have looked unsure, because his face fell and he removed his hand from mine. ‘You don’t need to answer now, Maria. But don’t say no straight out – think about it, please.’

I nodded mutely. I could promise him to think about it at least. I felt so sorry for him. My reaction surely had not been what he’d have hoped and dreamed for, but it was at least an honest one. Finally, I managed to squeeze some words out. ‘Dan, darling, I love you, you know that. This has been a bit of a shock. We’ve never before talked of getting married. Of course I promise you I’ll think about it.’ I took his hand again, and stroked it with my thumb.

‘I know we’ve never spoken about it,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been together five years now, we’re so good together, and I suppose I always assumed we would marry, like it was some kind of unspoken agreement. Sorry to spring it on you.’

‘I guess I’ve never really thought much about the future. I’m just a bit scared of change, that’s all.’ There was more change going on than he knew about, but now was not the time to tell him. Or maybe it was the right time, and I was just being weak and feeble by not feeling able to do it.

He smiled, with relief that I hadn’t said no, but disappointment that I’d felt unable to say yes. My heart broke for him. What a rubbish girlfriend I was.

‘I love the ring, by the way,’ I said, by way of consolation. ‘You got that right.’

‘It’s yours, whenever you’re ready for it,’ he whispered. He snapped the ring box shut again and put it in his pocket, as though to signal the subject closed, for now.

And indeed it wasn’t mentioned again for the rest of the meal. Our conversation was a little stilted and awkward. I could see I’d upset Dan by not giving him the answer he wanted. But how could I say yes if I felt unsure and unready for such a big step? It was such a huge commitment. I needed time to think about his proposal. I needed space. I needed to get away. There was so much happening and I couldn’t cope with it all. I found myself switching off from his conversation and thinking instead about my planned book on Michael McCarthy.

The very next day I’d made a snap decision to go to Ireland, a trip I’d talked about for ages but not got around to planning. While Dan was at work, I’d booked flights and the room at O’Sullivan’s, but then Dan was out in the evening at a work colleague’s leaving do, and I was in bed by the time he returned, and somehow I didn’t get the chance to tell him about the trip until I was leaving for the airport the next morning. He’d been, understandably I supposed, pretty miffed.

‘You’re running away,’ he’d said, as I finished my hurried packing. ‘Getting as far away from me as you can so you don’t have to answer my question. I thought you loved me, and were happy with me?’

‘I do, and I am,’ I said. ‘But it’s all so sudden. So many changes . . .’

‘Not that big a change really. Just a couple of rings, to symbolise our commitment to each other.’ He pressed his hands to his temples and shook his head, sadly.

But he didn’t yet know the extent of the changes. And still I couldn’t tell him. ‘Dan, I’m so sorry. I just need some time alone. Please, give me that.’

That was when he’d given me that look of deep hurt and disappointment. I’d turned away, zipped up my suitcase and hooked my handbag strap over my shoulder.

‘So. I’ll see you when you get back, I suppose,’ he’d said, as he left for work, not catching my eye.

‘Yes. See you, then.’

And that was it. We’d parted, so much unsaid and unresolved, and now here I was, sitting alone in a coffee shop in a small town in the south-west of Ireland, wiping away a tear that had trickled down the side of my nose, trying to smile reassuringly at the waitress who’d given me a look of concern, and no nearer to being able to give him an answer, or be as honest with him as I ought to be.

CHAPTER 4

Kitty

The duck stew had lasted three days, and the sack of potatoes from Martin O’Shaughnessy would last a few weeks yet. And Michael had been paid, which meant Kitty had been able to walk to Ballymor and buy flour to make bread and a laying chicken which provided one or sometimes two eggs each day. She and the children had had full bellies for days. Grace had improved, and was able to get up and spend part of the day helping Kitty with chores. They had fended off starvation for a little longer. The weather had been mild too, and despite everything, Kitty was hopeful that this year’s early potatoes might be harvested blight-free. That early harvest was still three months away, however, and it’d be a struggle to find enough food to last until then. She prayed daily that somehow she’d manage, and that the potato harvest would be a good one.

She had baked two loaves of soda bread, and wrapped one in a cloth to take to Martin. He’d been so kind. Giving him small gifts whenever she had something to share was the only way she could repay him.

‘Grace, love, will you take this along to Mr O’Shaughnessy. He’ll like to see your bonny smile. Away with you, girl.’

Grace took the bread and skipped out of the door and up the street. Kitty smiled to see her go. She was a different child to how she’d been a week ago, when Kitty had feared she was near death. She was still horribly thin – they all were – but she had some life and energy in her. It was good to see, and gave Kitty hope for the future. Maybe they were through the worst.

If only her dear Patrick was still here. He’d have been another pair of hands to work. He’d been a trained copper miner, and although the mines were gradually closing, being unprofitable, he’d surely still have been able to get work. That would have brought in money, and perhaps they’d have been able to afford food when the potatoes went bad. Perhaps the little ones, Nuala, Jimmy and tiny Éamonn, might have survived those terrible winters with no food. She sighed as she remembered her beloved husband. Her thoughts began to run on that awful day when she’d heard the news of his accident, but not now, she did not want to dwell on that now. Instead, she forced herself to bring to mind the happy times. Their first meeting.

*

It had been at the Ballymor midsummer fair that Kitty saw Patrick for the first time. She was then nineteen years old, and old Mother Heaney had taken Michael for the afternoon, so that Kitty could go to the fair. If her own mother had been alive, she’d no doubt have helped out with little Michael, but then again, she’d have been mortified at the idea of her daughter having a child out of wedlock. No matter what the origins of that child. But dear old Mother Heaney, who’d brought her up, helped out with Michael and Kitty was eternally grateful for it.

Kitty had longed to go to the fair that year. She had not been since she was fifteen, before Michael was born. The year when she was sixteen she’d been big with Michael; indeed, he was born just two days after it. The following two years she’d wanted to hide away from people, and had kept at home, raising Michael and tending their potato patch. But Mother Heaney had been nagging at her to get out more, meet people, find herself a husband, for she would need someone to provide for her and the bairn in the long term.

And so it was that on the day of the fair, which dawned bright and clear, a hot sun in a glorious blue sky, Kitty left Michael with Mother Heaney and set off along the road to Ballymor. The fair was held in a field on the other side of town and, as she got near, she caught up with crowds of excited people, all heading the same way. As she walked, occasionally skipping with the sheer joy of being alive on such a day, she found herself alongside a tall and well-built young man with sandy hair and a wide smile, who kept looking sideways at her and grinning. She liked the look of him, and couldn’t stop herself from smiling back.

‘Will you be entering the Queen of the Fair competition?’ he asked, blushing to the roots of his hair.

‘No, I will not!’ she replied.

‘Ah, but there you’re wrong. You’d win, for sure, with your beautiful red hair and your lovely smile. I think you should enter. I’ll cheer you on, so I will.’

Now it was Kitty’s turn to blush. ‘Away with you! I’d never win. I’d no more win that than fly to the moon.’ Still, she was flattered that he thought she might, and couldn’t help but smile. She wondered what his name was and where he was from, but was too shy to ask. If he would ask her name, she could ask his in return. But he seemed too shy as well, and they walked in silence until they reached the fair and he was swallowed up in the crowds.

Kitty took her time wandering around the fair, looking at the horses being traded by gypsies, the pens of sheep and cattle on show, the stalls selling pies, hot potatoes and flagons of stout, the sideshows where magicians made handkerchiefs and pennies disappear or fortune-tellers told your future. At the far side of the field, a number of young women were gathered, and a man in a bright red jacket was pinning numbered badges to their dresses. As she watched, he beckoned to her.

‘Ah, now there’s a pretty thing! Come here, bonny colleen, and let me pin a number to you. You’ll stand a good chance of winning the Queen of the Fair, so you will.’

The other girls scowled at her, except for one who smiled and nodded. ‘He’s right, you’re prettier than any of us. There’s a good prize for the winner. You might as well.’

Well why not? Kitty thought. That was three people now who thought she could win. She didn’t so much as own a mirror, but if they all thought she was pretty then perhaps she was. Only one person had praised her looks before, and that was Thomas Waterman and she did not want to think about him.

She stepped forward. ‘All right, I’ll enter. What do I need to do?’

‘Good girl!’ the man in the red jacket said. ‘Let me give you a number and write down your name. You have to walk around the arena, and the girl who gets the loudest cheer and is thought the bonniest by our judge will win the prize. We start in half an hour, so wait here with the others till then.’

It was a nerve-racking half-hour, but Kitty made friends with the girl who’d spoken to her, and the time passed reasonably quickly. She worried no one would cheer for her. The others all seemed to have friends and relatives at the show to support them, but she had no one. But when it was her turn, and she was walking round the fenced-off ring in the centre of the field, a huge cheer went up from people on the left of the arena. Looking over, she saw the sandy-haired boy she’d met on the way to the fair. He was encouraging everyone around him to cheer for her, and it made her smile with delight, her confidence boosted. She resolved to look for him afterwards and thank him. He’d never be interested in her, of course, shackled as she was with a small child.

As she turned at the end of the arena to walk back, she saw a man sitting on horseback, watching the parade. Her stomach lurched. She hadn’t thought for a moment that Thomas Waterman might be here. She’d assumed he’d be in England. Surely he was too high and mighty to attend the fair? He was watching her closely, then he leaned down to say something to the man in the red jacket who stood beside him. Kitty was shaken to the core. It was the first time she’d set eyes on Waterman since that terrible day, nearly four years ago. She hurried through the last of her walk, and ducked underneath the ropes on the opposite side from Waterman. The sandy-haired boy ran round to meet her.

‘You were the prettiest by far, and got the loudest cheer – I made sure of that! You’ll win, wait and see!’

‘Ah, but it depends on what the judge thinks. And I don’t even know who is the judge,’ she replied.

‘’Tis Mr Thomas Waterman, of course,’ the boy said, pointing him out on his huge bay horse. ‘Old William Waterman usually does it, but they say he is sick this year so the duty has fallen to his son.’

Kitty did not turn to look. She felt as though Waterman was still watching her, his eyes burning a hole in her back. If he was the judge she wouldn’t win, that was for sure. And if by some strange twist he did pick her, she would not accept her prize, not if it meant approaching him. She tore the number from her dress and walked away from the arena. It was time she left the fair and went home.

‘Wait! Don’t you want to see if you’ve won?’ the boy called, as he ran to catch up with her.

‘No. I shouldn’t have entered. I want to go home now,’ she said.

‘Let me walk you home,’ he said, falling into step alongside him.

She smiled in response. She still didn’t know his name. ‘I’m Kitty Tooley,’ she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

‘And I’m Patrick McCarthy.’ He grinned at her, his cheeks dimpling deeply.

‘Pleased to meet you, Patrick, and thank you for getting people to cheer for me.’

‘You are welcome. I still think you are the winner. You’re the winner for me, anyways.’

He walked all the way home with her that day, and by the time they reached her home they were firm friends. He’d told her of his job working in the copper mines and his home in the hills above Ballymor, in a small miners’ village called Kildoolin. She knew all about his family – his mother who’d died some years back, his aged father, his older brother in Limerick, his younger brothers who’d moved into the town, his sisters all married and moved away. She’d told him too of her parents, who’d both died when she was a child, and her mother’s aunt, Mother Heaney, who’d brought her up, and whom she still lived with although these days Kitty looked after her rather than the other way around: Ma Heaney being lame after a broken leg set badly some years before.

‘Is it just you and your great-aunt in your cottage?’ he asked.

She took a deep breath. Now was the time she needed to tell him about Michael, and that would mean he would lose interest, leave her to walk the rest of the way alone, and never want to see her again. But she could not lie to him, this kind, sweet boy with his dimpled cheeks and twinkling eyes. ‘There’s Mother Heaney, me and little Michael,’ she said.

‘Michael? Is he your brother, or cousin?’

‘He’s only three. And, well, no he’s not my brother or cousin. He’s my son.’ There. She’d said it. He’d turn tail now, sure he would. She was only too used to being judged harshly for having had a child out of wedlock.

‘What happened to his father?’ he asked, tentatively.

‘Michael doesn’t have a father,’ she replied, the same reply she’d always given to anyone who asked that question.

He nodded, as if that explained everything, and they walked in silence for a time. All the while Kitty expected Patrick to make his excuses and leave. But instead, suddenly and unexpectedly, he said, ‘I’d love to meet your little fellow. Will you let me meet him, some day?’

‘I will, that,’ she had said, grinning broadly.

*

It was a good memory. Kitty smiled as she picked up the water bucket. She then climbed the hill behind her cottage, to a pool in the stream where the villagers fetched water. She could recall every second of that day when she had met her wonderful husband, her saviour and best friend.

But, as she dunked the bucket in the stream to fill it, she sighed sadly. When Patrick was lost she had cursed her bad fortune, railed against God who had punished her so, and for why? She had not thought anything so bad could happen to her again. But then, the year after Patrick’s death was the first winter that the potato crop failed. They had struggled through it, but the crop failed again the next autumn. Eleven-year old Little Pat had collapsed from exhaustion in the fields, and never recovered. She had felt his loss like a limb being torn from her body. It had left a scar that would never heal. In the second winter of the famine – a terribly cold and harsh one, which only added to their suffering – 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.