Not the Same Sky (3 page)

The speaker who introduced the tables read them out. The numbers sounded arbitrary, this very reason making them indisputable. The member of parliament who had frowned so much on the steps was silent. In the face of such organisation, what could he say? Another member of parliament two seats behind him had digested the numbers quickly, and in order to stop any accompanying images that might have come into his head, whispered, ‘I don’t think I’d fancy sailing on the
Inconstant
.’ Everyone around him laughed, except the member who maintained his frown.

In total there would be over 4000 girls aged between fourteen and twenty—seventy-two per cent aged between sixteen and eighteen—dispatched within two years. There would be a Government Dispatch Reel number for each ship.

There was no more time for debate. There had been debates on what to do about this problem before, and these had an infuriating habit of coming up repeatedly in the London
News
. There were two strongly opposing views as to what should be done—that which said we cannot interfere with the market, and that which said we must.

People on both sides aired their positions loudly because they meant them, while others gave spirited addresses because they loved the polish and history of this oratory, this fine form of speaking practised in Ancient Greece.

‘Surely you don’t believe that?’

‘Perhaps not in its entirety, but how did I put it forward do you think?’

There were others in between these opposing views who looked to the proponents of either to convince them. Debates also took place closer to the actual disaster. In halls in Ireland, men turned up to shout their anger while they still had it, to whisper their despair when that was all they had left, and later to stay silent and merely observe.

But now there was an actual plan worked out on paper.

That was how Matt was reading this list, with the beautifully slanted hand. Some of the ships had already gone, but more girls were still needed, and it was his job to find the cargo for the
Thomas Arbuthnot
. It was suggested that he make his first visit to County Clare—there were plenty of girls there.

CHAPTER 3

Matt arrived by coach and put up in Ennis town for the night. He did not relish this part of the task. As he travelled down through the Midlands, past silent houses, over the Shannon River, he began to have doubts about the morality of the plan. But who was he to argue? And what difference would it make if he did? Matt knew that the sooner he met the matron of the Ennis workhouse and passed on the instructions, the sooner he could return to Dublin and on to other things. He found it best not to dwell too minutely on the present.

He slept passably well, and in the morning rode out to the workhouse carrying the list in a leather bag.

Matron welcomed him but seemed to have no time for small talk, so he got down to business immediately. She looked a little taken aback by what she read and by what he pointed out to her.

‘Well, it’s something. I’m not sure if it’s right, but it’s certainly something.’

Matron got up and moved towards a room that seemed to shrink into darkness. Matt didn’t follow, opting to stand just outside, where Matron’s voice sounded muffled until she began to name names.

‘Mary Traynor, Anne Sherry, it’s Australia for you. Honora Raftery, you too I think. And Julia Cuffe, maybe.’

‘What do you mean Australia?’ a small pale girl asked.

‘Not you. It doesn’t apply to you,’ Matron said. ‘No it wouldn’t apply to you. You’re too young.’

‘I’m old enough,’ the girl said, but Matron said, ‘No,’ again.

‘And you, Bridget Joyce, it’s Australia now for you.’

‘When?’ a voice dared.

‘Next month, yes, the sooner now the better,’ Matron added.

‘Can I go too?’ another voice asked tentatively.

‘No, Betsy Shannon, you’re too old.’

‘I’m young enough,’ she said. ‘Twenty-four.’

‘Duffy, you’re young enough, you’ll do. What’s your first name again?’

Matron continued to call out names and Matt strayed out of hearing.

‘And Anastasia Curran. That will be all, for now anyway. I’ll speak to those I’ve called out later today to see if they want to go.’

Matron left the room, the girls looking after her. Honora Raftery sneaked a look at Anne Sherry and Julia Cuffe. Others looked at the ground. It was a lot to take in. Staying alive was the job they were all involved in now.

Matron rubbed her hands down her front, as if wiping off the part she had just played in this scheme. She wasn’t sure what she thought of it. She did know that around the towns more and more people were flocking into workhouses—the state of living worse than the previous year. Disease was stalking now too, as if it was indeed a monster grown from hunger, wandering the roads looking for likely prey to overcome. People were beginning to take on a listless bewildered persona, unable to remember the neatness of their previous lives. They could not remember the rhythm of their past days. Nor could they remember that this life had not always been so. In places less terribly marked, people talked of the dying in whispers as if the act of raising their voices might bring them woe. People working in poorhouses or soup kitchens battled despair, urging officials to listen to them. Children looked at adults but didn’t know what questions to ask. The news of discussion for this or that plan provided a momentary answer for some. Any kind of half answer was better than none.

Anastasia Curran claimed to have learned of a letter sent by a girl already gone to Australia. Matron had heard her talk about it last week, which is why she added her to the list. But the story of the letter seemed ridiculously farfetched, especially in these rooms where girls thought of food and tried not to think of being sick or about the fright of the future. They wanted to live on a patch of land nearby, to grow potatoes, or turnips even, and other produce to pay the rent. They didn’t want to be talking about places with names like America, where aunts and uncles and cousins had gone, and now Australia, which some said was in the opposite direction, and further away. So far away that you needed several changes of clothes to go, more changes than for America.

Whispers had come about this plan and that plan, so this list, Matron thought, was proof that some of those whispers had teeth. Of course she did not know how the discussions that led to these whispers were actually conducted. Did a London man talk first to a Dublin man, like that Matt Dwyer, then to a regional man, maybe last night, and finally to her this morning? She now knew the specifications as to age, young enough to be able to fit into the scheme of things—under twenty—and old enough to be able to fit into the scheme of things—over fourteen. And orphaned in the main. The specifications about suitability were more difficult. Did it mean there would be no place for spirited girls, if such a thing still survived in these workhouses? Or did it mean previously spirited girls should be chosen, ones who had shown the capacity to withstand a journey too long to be imagined and a removal from all things familiar? If they had shown it once before maybe they could be depended upon to show it again? Matron did not know if there were small notes containing answers to such questions, and if there were, who had them.

Matron had seen no note, nor had she been given advice as to how to pick out the suitable ones other than the vague specifications she still held in her hand: suitable orphans with good English. They had not told her how this was to be put to the girls. They did not tell her how to point at girls and say their names out loud. What was she to say to them this afternoon? No one had told her how to do these things. She would have to see Matt Dwyer on his way back to Dublin. Perhaps he might have some ideas.

In the afternoon Matron called the named girls to the doorway and stood before them. ‘As you can see, things are not good here, look around you.’

Some did take a quick look around, trying not to see into the darker corners of the room.

‘Things will be better for you in Australia, there is plenty of food there.’

Honora Raftery’s sister, who had not been mentioned, stood behind Honora in the shadows and whispered, ‘You should go,’ implying they had a choice in the matter.

Matron continued, ‘And you’ll be able to get work. It will be for the best. But only if you’re fit and can get a reference.’