Mother’s Only Child (2 page)

‘I mind the day Sam’s brothers left as if it were yesterday,’ Sarah said to Bella as they drank their tea. ‘We hadn’t been in Moville more than a day or so and we went down to the pier to see them off. Sam had told me that the liners crossing the Atlantic had to be moored out in the deeper waters of Lough Foyle. Passengers were taken out to the ships in small tenders from Moville Pier. There was always a collection of people waiting and that day was no different.

‘Sam’s brothers seemed sorrowful yet, for all their sadness at the parting, they still left. When they climbed into that boat, Sam’s mother’s eyes were so bleak and bereft, I could hardly bear to look at her. The father was holding her fast, or I think she may have thrown herself into the boat after her sons. We waited at the pier side until we saw the small boat bump alongside the liner. The boys gave one last wave and we turned for home. Sam’s mother was crying gulping sobs of
such sadness I felt my heart turn over. I thought I understood how she was feeling; I remember thinking I’d die if one of mine was to go such a distance away.’

She sighed and went on, ‘I tell you, Bella, children would tear the very heart out of you.’

However, more tragedy was to hit Sarah. She’d been married just six months when her mother and sisters, Peggy and Mary, took sick with TB. They were all dead before October drew to a close, before Sarah had been able to arrange to go and see them. She’d not even had the chance to bid them goodbye and she spoke of this now to Bella.

‘D’you mind that time?’

Bella remembered it well. Sarah’s grief had been so deep and profound, Sam had worried for her sanity. They travelled down for the funerals. Seeing everyone there so mournful and sorrow-laden had made Sarah worse.

‘Daddy was so sad it near broke my heart to see him,’ Sarah said to Bella. ‘He didn’t seem to see anything around him and it was up to my brother Sean to keep the farm ticking over.’

It was arranged that a widowed aunt called Agatha, whose children were grown and married, would see to things in the house and Sam and Sarah returned to Moville.

‘I never thought I’d be happy again in the whole of my life,’ Maria reminded Bella. ‘And then I found I was expecting. A little life would be dependent on me, something to go on for.’ She grasped Bella’s hand and went on, ‘You showed what a true friend you were then, for you showed not a trace of envy and yet I know how you had always longed for a child of your own.’

That brought the tears to Bella’s own eyes, for it was a burden she carried with her always.

‘When Maria was born, in 1925, I thought her the most beautiful baby in all the world,’ Sarah said, ‘and for sixteen years she has been at the forefront of my mind all the time. I love her so much, Bella, and I really can’t bear the pain of losing her. Once Maria leaves this village I know she will never come back to live.’

‘You will get through this, you know,’ Bella said. ‘It will take time, but it will get easier. I thought when my man died I’d never recover from it.’

‘That was a tragic time, right enough,’ Sarah agreed. It had been a tragic time for both of them. Sarah had just has the disastrous fall that rendered her sterile and was in the hospital. Bella was looking after the toddling Maria, when her husband, a fine, strapping man, who’d never had a day’s illness in his life, suddenly keeled over as he was getting up from his dinner, and was dead before he reached the floor.

‘We supported each other then,’ Bella said.

‘Aye, and wasn’t it wee Maria who was the salvation of us both?’

‘She was indeed,’ Bella agreed. ‘Then Mammy said she couldn’t manage the shop on her own and asked me in with her. I don’t know whether she really couldn’t manage, or did it for me, but I know the occupation of it was a good thing.’

‘I know it,’ Sarah said. ‘But what occupation could I take up that will chase the heartache from me?’

Bella had no answer to this and Sarah went on, ‘I knew that Maria was good at sewing and all. I mean, I taught her to sew, darn, embroider, that sort of thing,
and in time she was better than me—far neater, and faster too. I knew she had an eye for colour, the things that go together. Whenever we went in the draper’s shops in Derry, she’d be fascinated by the array of fabrics. She’d feel them between her fingers and be amazed by the different things you could sew on to decorate clothes. She’d prowl around the haberdashery counter like another child might do around a cake shop.

‘I took it as a good, wifely attribute, especially when she mastered that old treadle machine. I told her she’d be a catch for any man, for you know she could make something out of nothing, and I encouraged her to go to evening classes for dressmaking. People say you can’t make a silk purse out of sow’s ear—well, I think Maria probably could.

‘She’s a tidy cook too—we all know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach—and she’s helped me with the laundry this past year or so. She can poss the clothes, starch and iron with the best of them.’

She looked at Bella with mournful eyes and said, ‘She’ll make a good wife for someone in a year or two, when she is fully grown. That’s what I want for her—to marry a boy here so I can still see her and help her rear any children she might have. It’s all I’ve wanted since the first moment I held her in my arms, and if it hadn’t been for this damned war it would have happened like that. Whatever Philomena Clarke wanted, without the war, Maria going to the Academy would have been impossible.’

Bella knew that was true. By the time Maria finally left school at Easter 1939, everyone knew Britain, and therefore Derry and the other counties across the Foyle,
was perched on the brink of war, despite Chamberlain’s claim that there’d be ‘peace for our time’, the previous September.

As soon as Easter was over, Maria had got a job in the shop with Bella and her mother, Dora, and began at her evening classes, but wasn’t in the house when Philomena went to see her mother and told her about the Grafton Academy in Dublin where the gifted Maria could learn Dress and Fabric Design, which would fit her for a fine and well-paid job in a Dublin fashion house later. ‘I am sure she will win a scholarship,’ she’d said. ‘The girl has an amazing talent. I’ve never seen or taught someone so good before.’

‘But she’s so young,’ Sarah had said. ‘Little more than a child.’

‘We’re not talking about now,’ Miss Clarke said gently. ‘But of two years’ time. Maria will be sixteen then.’

‘But where would she stay?’

‘Well,’ Philomena said, ‘I have been making enquiries and the college has a hostel nearby. I believe the rates are very reasonable.’

And there the discussion had ended, for times had been hard for years. Often Sam had repaired a boat for a neighbour, knowing that if he insisted on payment the man and his wife and children would not eat. How could he do that? Sometimes he took his payment in fish, sometimes in instalments, and sometimes he’d get nothing at all. He was glad his parents, who’d died within a month of one another in 1935, were no longer there to provide for from a yard that paid so little. In those lean pre-war years Sam often thanked God that he had just the one child to rear, though he would have loved a son.

When England finally made the declaration of war with Germany in the autumn of 1939, life became harder still. There was no longer any fishing at all, for Lough Foyle was commandeered by the navy, and so were the docks in Derry, which were renamed HMS
Ferret.
Lough Foyle was quickly filled with naval warships, destroyers, frigates, corvettes and converted trawlers.

The open sea, full of mines and German submarines, was no place for fishermen either, so they hung up their nets and many younger men enlisted in the armed forces, despite the neutrality pact.

Sam too had little work, although there was a small fishing fleet still operating in Lough Swilly on the other side of the peninsular. There he was able to pick up a bit of repair and maintenance work. Sometimes, though, he had so little to bring home at the end of the week, he was ashamed.

Many of the women took themselves off to Derry to work in the shirt factories, most now converted to making uniforms for the armed forces. In a good few homes it was the women who put the food on the table. Sam knew himself how it cut into a man’s pride to see his wife provide for the family while he was idle. He was embarrassed that he was often dependent on the money that Maria would tip up on the table every Friday evening and the big bag of groceries that Bella would pack for her. They got by, like many others, but there was no money to spare and certainly none to send a daughter off to Dublin to train in some fancy academy. Sarah told Philomena Clarke that firmly. Maria never knew of her visit.

In June 1940, the rescue of the British from the beaches of Dunkirk was heroic, but while the operation was a magnificent achievement, it was still a defeat, a fact that couldn’t be disguised. Most of mainland Europe was under Nazi control and only a small strip of water separated Britain from the German Armies, massing ready for invasion on the French coast.

A smartly dressed man called in to see Sam in the boatyard just a few days after the fall of France. He was so unlike Sam’s usual customers that he was intrigued. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Yes, I hope so,’ the man said. ‘My name is Robert Dawlish and I work for the Government in London. Word has it that you are the best around here at repairing boats.’

‘I do all right.’

The man stood gazing at the very few boats bobbing in the small harbour. He knew the navy commandeering Lough Foyle had sounded the death knell for the fishermen that had operated from here and, because of that, this man’s business too. But winning the war held precedent and everyone had to be expected to make sacrifices. He asked the question he already knew the answer to. ‘Is the boatyard profitable?’

‘Is that any of your business?’ Sam snapped.

‘It could be and I have a reason for asking.’

‘I have no reason to reply.’

‘Don’t be so pig-headed, man.’ Dawlish snapped. ‘You haven’t even heard what I have to say yet. I may be able to offer you something more lucrative.’

Then Sam knew he probably couldn’t afford to be too rude. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘State your business.’

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Dawlish said. ‘With Ireland determined to be neutral in this war, Derry is Britain’s most westerly point. It will be needed as an escort base, to try and protect the merchant ships. We intend to establish a large repair workshop on Strand Road, alongside the present graving dock, and use Derry as a refuelling depot too.’

Sam nodded. He could see the sense of it. ‘How do I come in?’

‘I’d like you to be part of the repair team,’ the man said.

‘Working for the British Government?’ Sam said, bristling.

‘Indirectly, but if that offends you, think of it as working for a freer Europe,’ the man said, adding more harshly, ‘Do you think for one moment your neutrality will matter a jot to the Germans if they invade Britain? Norway tried that, to no avail. If Britain is invaded, Ireland will fall too. Mark my words.’

Sam was no fool and he knew the few men the Irish Government had stationed at Buncrana would be no match for the highly disciplined German Army if they were intent on invasion and so he said to the man, ‘All right then, say I agree to this, how is it to be arranged?’

The man sighed inwardly in relief. He hadn’t been sure he’d get this Sam Foley to agree. The word was he could be stiff-necked, and he was no lover of the English. Dawlish went on, choosing his words with care, ‘You would work for the Admiralty, but in a civilian capacity, and as the foreman you could choose your own team, men you know and can trust.’

Sam knew he was being given a chance, certainly
while the war lasted, to lift the standard of living for all the men involved. Pride was a fine thing to have, when you had enough to eat, warm clothes to wear and a good fire to sit beside. ‘When would you want us to start?’ he asked.

‘Time is of an essence,’ Dawlish said. ‘We have a war to win. Shall we say Monday week? Is that time enough to get people together?’

‘Plenty of time, but how are we to get to the docks? The first bus from Moville doesn’t get to Derry till eight twenty. Presumably you’d want us to start work before then.’

‘Don’t worry about that. We’ll send a military truck to pick you up at half-past seven. How many men can you round up?’

Sam did a swift calculation. ‘Sixteen, maybe seventeen at the outside. Would that be all right?’

‘Splendid.’

‘And wages. They’ll need to know. I’ll need to know.’

‘This will have to be agreed upon officially,’ the civil servant said, ‘but it will be in the region of twelve pounds ten shillings for yourself as foreman, and ten pounds for the men you bring with you.’

Twelve pounds ten shillings—the figure floated in Sam’s mind. It was riches. It would be riches for them all. He extended his hand to Dawlish and they shook warmly.

‘It’s a deal.’

Sam went out visiting the neighbours he wanted in his new team that night, even routing a few from Rafferty’s pub. Eventually he had his chosen men around him.
His special mate, Conrad Milligan, was to be his second in command.

The men all went back to Rafferty’s to seal their future in pints of Guinness. There they met Barney McPhearson, who listened to the talk of the men and then approached Sam and asked if he could be part of the team.

Sam had little time for Barney. The McPhearsons had always been known as a bad lot and Barney’s brother was the worst of all. He had never had a real job of work, though he didn’t seem short of money. Sam didn’t want the responsibility of taking Barney on. Every man was hand-picked and he could vouch for their diligence and honesty. He could not do that with Barney McPhearson.

‘I have all the men I need,’ he said shortly.

Barney’s face fell. ‘I’m real sorry about that, Mr Foley,’ he said respectfully enough. ‘There’s sod all doing in Moville just now.’

Sam suddenly felt sorry for the lad. Maybe Barney could be turned around yet, he thought. After all, he was just twenty. Maybe all he needed was a helping hand.