The Woman from Kerry (24 page)

‘I joined the Land League to help people who
had little to eat and no land of their own and no one to speak up for them. Yet those people, poor as they were, had fresh air and neighbours in the same boat. The same people now, in New York, live in one room in a tenement, bound to long hours of hard labour which they were never used to, just to pay the rent. They earn so little, once the rent is paid, they can’t afford to buy the food they need.’

He paused and sighed, his face grown lined and grim.

‘The death rate from consumption is higher among Irish immigrants than among any other group, even those living in the same filthy tenements, a family to a room.’

‘An’ they’re no better off, after all their hardship?’ asked John, his eyes wide, his brow furrowed with concentration.

‘Not one bit better, and more likely to die in a year or two, hungry and homesick, than they might have been where they were,’ he said sadly.

‘So you don’t recommend America, Sam?’ said John quietly, shuffling his boots on the edge of the hearth.

‘Oh I do, yes, I do,’ he said nodding vigorously. ‘But that’s the contradiction of it. Go up country, away from the cities, into the Alleghenies or deeper into Pennsylvania, and you’re in a different world. Great country, rivers and woods, small settlements, good land for cultivation and grants still available.
It’s a paradise compared to the city, sheer heaven for any poor people who can get that far. Plenty of work on the land, or in the settlements, a good climate and rich crops. But that’s not where you’ll find many Irish. Most of them arrive with nothing, and end up with nothing. More’s the pity,’ he said, picking up his teacup and drinking thirstily.

They sat silent, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. It was Rose who spoke first.

‘As always, Sam, it’s those who need help the most that get the least.’

‘Aye, and it’s the ones in most need that are most tempted by the advertising. You’ve only to read what the shipping offices put in their windows or in the newspapers. Three meals a day. Sounds wonderful if you’re only used to one. But it’s a different story when they’re onboard. I had men tell me about the rotten meat they threw overboard, the weevils that fell out of the biscuits when you broke them. Half-starved people went on starving at sea. Some of them died as soon as they arrived. And that’s still been going on through the 70s and 80s. Even the poorest of the poor can be exploited by men who have ships to fill,’ he said bitterly.

She looked at her brother closely. She read his distress and his need to share it, but she couldn’t understand why he was now painting such a dark picture, when he’d shown such enthusiasm when talking to the children.

‘I’m going back myself in the springtime to Pennsylvania,’ he said slowly, naming a small town, with such a strange name that Rose didn’t quite catch it. ‘I met a girl when I stayed there, both times I went.’ He paused and looked sheepish. ‘There’s a job waiting for me. Her father’s a government surveyor and they’re crying out for trained men. As soon as I arrive, we’re going to be married.’

He stopped abruptly and looked from one to the other, almost as if he expected them to protest. When there was only a gentle nodding of heads, he went on.

‘To tell you the truth, I feel guilty,’ he said unhappily. ‘Guilty for leaving the movement. Guilty for going away when there’s work to be done here. I was passionate about the Land League, you know that Rose, don’t you? But I’ve seen all sorts of corruption set in. People join up now for what they can get for themselves. And I don’t think Home Rule will solve anything even were it to come. There are too many people who are too selfish, too greedy, too full of their own way of thinking …’

He broke off, overcome with emotion. John looked across at Rose, not knowing what to do. She dropped her eyes, which told him to stay where he was, though she knew he was acutely uncomfortable. Expressing his own feelings was hard enough for him, but sharing someone else’s he found almost impossible.

‘Sam, there’s no point feeling guilty,’ Rose began. ‘What good is that going to do anyone? If you go and make a successful life out there, that could put you in a position to do more than you ever imagined for those in need. You’ve tried so hard, I know you have. But sometimes the way we choose first isn’t really the right way for us. Had you thought of that?’

‘No, I hadn’t. I’d always imagined that if you looked at the facts and you didn’t think what you saw was fair, you ought to try to change them. That’s just simple logic.’

‘Yes, I agree. But sometimes logic doesn’t work for individuals. You must hold to the good that you did,’ she said, looking at him directly. ‘There are many people have cause to be grateful for what Davitt achieved and you must take credit for your part in that. But maybe now you’re called on to tread a different path.’

‘It may be so,’ he said quietly, with a long look at both of them. ‘But I can’t stop feeling somehow I’m abandoning my fellow men. Running away to make myself comfortable.’

‘Yer not doing that at all, man dear,’ said John abruptly. ‘Sure you’re an educated man and who knows what’s in ye yet. Sure ye might be inventin’ some great idea. Ach, I’m not thinkin’ of steam ships and flyin’ machines an’ suchlike, that we were talkin’ about earlier. I’m thinkin’ of the likes of Tom Paine and Keir Hardie that have tried to make life
better for ordinary workin’ people. Sure who knows where ye’ll go inside yer head when yer not so close to the problem?’

‘John’s right, Sam. Sometimes one has to get away from a problem to see it more clearly. You might manage far more for Ireland in America than you ever could in Dublin.’

‘I think that hope might reconcile me a bit. I’ll sleep on it and tell you tomorrow,’ he said, standing up. ‘I hate to admit it, but suddenly I’m so tired I could sleep on a wooden shelf,’ he added, yawning hugely.

‘Well, I’m glad to say we can offer you a little better than that,’ she said, as John went into the bedroom and returned with a borrowed mattress and she reached for a bundle of blankets she’d thrown over the arm of the settle to air in the heat of the fire.

‘I’ll only be an hour, John. Is that all right,’ Rose said, as Sam put on his coat and closed up his bag.

‘As long as you like, love. But are you sure you don’t mind comin’ back in the dark?’

‘Not a bit. I know the road like the back of my hand, as the saying is. Anyway the moon’s nearly full. It’ll be well up by the time Sam’s on the train.’

The goodbyes were said. Sam kissed Sarah and Hannah, who had gone very quiet, then shook hands with the boys in a very grown-up way. He hugged John and said nothing at all.

‘Good luck, Sam,’ John said, as he left them at the end of the lane, having lit their way through the scattered debris in front of the forge.

The night was still, the sky pierced with myriads of stars. Their breath rose on the cold air.

‘A bit different from last time,’ he said, falling into step beside her in the middle of the deserted road.

‘Very different, indeed, Sam,’ she said, remembering the pleasant summer evening when they’d last walked to the six o’clock train.

‘Do you remember Ma ever saying to you that we like to think change comes gradually, building up quietly to the point where we recognise that something is different. But it’s not like that at all. Sometimes life can change in a moment,’ she said, as they strode out.

‘Yes, she did say that to me. But I didn’t grasp it at the time. It’s true, nevertheless. It happened to me one night in a club in Dublin when I first heard Davitt speak. Then it happened again at a barn dance in Pennsylvania. I’d only gone because it would have seemed rude not to when I’d had such generous hospitality.’

‘And you met Eva?’

‘Yes,’ he said, laughing. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Well, it wasn’t very hard. Something had to have happened very quickly to have you going back to get married. It wasn’t much different with me and John.’

‘He’s a good man, Rose. I think I understand him better now than I did a year ago. Maybe I’ve changed.’

‘I think you have. But then, I think he has too. A lot has happened.’

They walked on steadily, their journey punctuated with the tiny lights from the few cottages on their way. They talked of Sam’s wife to be, American born, from a family of Bavarian immigrants, most of whom still spoke only German. And they talked about the long future, hoping they would meet again. They promised each other they’d take up their old way of writing now there’d be nothing of which they might not speak freely.

‘Do you think John is happy in the new job, Rose?’ Sam asked as they passed Drumcairn, the solid black mass of the mill outlined against the starry sky.

‘I’m not sure, Sam. I’m biding my time. Even if he’s happy enough, I’m not sure I am. It could just be that in the end, we’ll follow where someone we trust has led. You’d give us advice, wouldn’t you?’

‘Rose dear, I’d give a lot more than advice if I thought I could have my big sister on the same continent. You’d only have to say the word.’

Four months later, on a mild April morning, Rose beamed at the postman as he handed over an envelope covered with brightly coloured stamps. She took it indoors and sat down at the kitchen table. It was all she could do to stop herself ripping open Sam’s first letter from America, but she knew the boys would want to save the stamps. By the time she’d extracted the closely written sheets, she was so excited and agitated it was all she could do to hold the paper steady enough to read.

Rose put the letter down and stared out of the window.

‘A grant of land,’ she said aloud, as she focused on the path from the forge to Thomas’s house.

The tall pear tree almost opposite was already showing grey points as the buds grew thicker in the mild air. The year was moving upwards, the confinement of winter’s dark and cold would soon be ended. She longed for the warmth and light of summer days when she could sit outside with her sewing, when the washing dried in a long morning and going to the well was a pleasure.

‘A grant of land,’ she repeated.

She smiled to herself. Yes, the phrase had something quite magical about it. A promise of openness, of space and light.

She drew back sharply from the window as she
caught a glimpse of movement under the archway of Thomas’s house. A moment later, her Bible under her arm, Mary-Anne tramped down the path, looking neither to the right or to the left. Nor did she pause a moment at the forge to say a word to Thomas.

Rose sighed. Perhaps she should be grateful that Mary-Anne had never again knocked on her door, since the morning after Sam brought the news of their mother’s death. But then again, she’d never spoken when they’d met in the lane or on the shortcut over to Robinson’s, choosing to lead her life behind closed doors. Nor was there any obvious softening of her resentment towards herself and her family. For all she knew, she was still referred to as ‘yer wuman from Kerry.’

When she was sure Mary-Anne was on her way, Rose moved back into the sunlight and read the rest of Sam’s letter. He wrote of the preparations being made for their wedding. In a small township like Eva’s, the real importance of a wedding was the opportunity for a huge celebration. Eva had warned him a special beer was always brewed and he’d be expected to prove his manhood, not by abducting the bride, but by lowering a very large tankard all at one go.

Rose laughed and let her thoughts move into this new world of Sam’s. A kinder climate, he said. Though there was often more snow in winter, the
cold that came with it was not so hard to bear. Often there was sunshine and there was less of the damp, misty weather she found so depressing.

Sometimes she wondered if it was the lack of space in their home and in their immediate surrounding that weighed down her spirits so. Other times, she felt it had to be the pervasive presence of Mary-Anne, her closed door, closed face and lack of joy.

Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she found herself walking round Sarah’s garden in Annacramp. A great longing overwhelmed her. She could see so vividly the tall stems of delphinium, their heavy blooms carefully supported with sticks hidden in their foliage, the prolific foxgloves which never needed planting, only thinning out. She saw the bright flame of geraniums in window boxes, their descendants in her own windows, tended and slipped each year, so that Sarah’s garden would never totally disappear.

After their move, she’d scolded herself whenever she’d caught herself longing to return to the old house, but now she let her mind move as it would. She thought of the field behind, the cow they’d bought when James was on the way, the chickens who’d earned her egg money. For all her years there, she’d been so happy.

And now? Could she say she was unhappy? Or was she just older and wiser? Yes, she was that, but
sadder also. Sarah once said the longer you lived the more there was of sadness and loss. You couldn’t avoid it, so you had to find what there was to set against it.

She and John had had their hard times, indeed they had, but there’d never been any hurt between them. She’d never regretted marrying him, or leaving behind her known world. The children were good children, even when they were cross, or upset. They’d never been hard to love, or hard to please. When she’d been in poor spirits herself, it was the stories they brought from school, the games they invented, the questions they asked, that brought her to herself again, ready to find some little treat, some small pleasure to share with them.

What would it be like for the children if they left all that was known and secure and set out on such an adventure? What would they gain in a new place, among such different people, to balance the loss?

She sat for a long time, letting the thoughts move back and forward, as if she sensed it was important to have a very clear picture of what was at stake. Only when the fire needed making up did she move for there’d be no bread if she didn’t. Even so, only a fraction of her mind was given to the familiar task.

A little later, the bread hardening on its stand,
her hands washed and well dried, ready to take up her sewing, she paused again, picked up the newspaper from the window sill and looked at the long list of advertisements for sailings to America. There were plenty to chose from and many from Belfast, both sail and steam. She went back to her sewing, her mind occupied with figures and calculations. All the while she sat, she could hear Sam’s words, ‘A grant of land,’ echoing in her mind. She really hadn’t the slightest idea why the phrase should have lodged there, teasing continually on the edge of consciousness, but sooner or later its meaning would emerge. As Sarah used to say: ‘If you wait long enough, time solves most of your puzzles.’

Rose didn’t have to wait long. A couple of weeks later the April weather turned bitterly cold right at the end of the month. There was no snow but heavy frost made the ground hard as stone and the road into Armagh icy and treacherous.

‘Mind yerself, won’t you,’ she said to John, as she gave him his piece.

‘Don’t worry love, the boots has a good grip,’ he said kissing her as she walked to the door with him, the children still asleep at this early hour.

John didn’t fall on the road, but three nights later, arriving home later than usual, he almost fell into the kitchen when he opened the door. His face
was ashen as he began to shake. A few minutes later he was violently sick.

‘James, help me get Da to the fire,’ she said, putting an arm round him and trying to steady him the short distance across to the settle.

‘Was it raining out there?’ she asked startled, for his clothes were wet through, the sodden fabric icy to the touch.

‘What?’ he said, screwing up his face.

She repeated the question, but he still didn’t hear her.

‘No, it’s not raining Ma,’ Hannah said sharply, her eyes grown round with shock. ‘It hasn’t rained all day.’

John was sick again and upset at the mess he made. A few minutes later, he began to waver back and forth on the settle, his face taking on a greenish hue. It was only the quick action of Rose and both boys that stopped him falling heavily when he passed out.

‘James, go and see if Thomas is still working,’ she said quickly. ‘If he’s not, you may go to the house. If it’s Mrs Scott, say you’ve a message for Thomas. Ask him would he come over.’

Rose and Hannah prised off the sodden jacket and found his shirt was just as saturated.

‘Get me a towel, love,’ she said to Hannah, who had put her warm hands on her father’s icy chest. ‘Sam, put more turf on the fire, please. Small pieces
at a time to keep it hot. Sarah, sit well back in case the sparks fly. Don’t worry now,’ she added, seeing Sarah’s eyes large and bright, firmly fixed on John’s crumpled figure. ‘Da’ll be better soon.’

‘Ach, dear a dear, what’s happened at all,’ said Thomas, crossing the room in a couple of strides and dropping down on his knees beside her.

‘Could we get him to bed, Thomas. His clothes are soaked through and he’s been very sick.’

Thomas felt John’s head, which burnt with fever, while his naked chest remained icy cold, despite the warm fire so close to where he lay.

‘Come on now, man, up ye come,’ said Thomas, his arm firmly round John’s waist.

To Rose’s surprise and amazement, he lifted John to his feet and held him there till John opened his eyes and looked at him bemused.

‘Come on till yer bed, man. Ye’ve wrought too hard,’ he said reassuringly, as he half marched, half carried him across the floor, Hannah darting in front of them to open the bedroom door.

They stripped off his clothes and got him into bed, rubbing him vigorously with dry towels, then wrapping him in the blankets Hannah and Sarah had warmed in front of the fire.

‘Do you think I should send for the Doctor, Thomas? Would he come out at this hour?’

‘He might. It’s not that late. I’ll see if George has the mare in the stable. If he hasn’t, I’d be as
quick walkin’ into town as fetchin’ her up from the meadow and harnessin’ her. Do yer best to get him warmed up in the body. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Thomas was as good as his word. He arrived back in less than an hour, but the Doctor couldn’t come. He was out with a woman in labour and daren’t leave her until the situation was resolved one way or another. He’d be sure to come first thing in the morning.

Rose would never forget that night. Like the night when she and Sophie had sat up with Sarah, she didn’t know whether or not she was going to lose the love of her life. Thomas tried to reassure her, but John was so sick he couldn’t even keep water in his stomach. His head was wet with perspiration, but his body remained chill for all their efforts to warm him.

‘I wish I had a few good bricks I could heat in the fire,’ said Thomas, as they wrapped him again in warm blankets. ‘Have ye anythin’ like old stone bottles or maybe a flower pot?’

‘Yes, I think I have. They’re only small though.’

‘No matter. They’re better than nothin.”

She took a candle to the wash house and poked around at the back door, found the flowerpots and two old ginger beer bottles. They were clean for she’d used them for bunches of flowers, but the pots were still full of soil. Hurriedly, she scraped them
out with a knife and rubbed at them with a wet cloth, feeling the weight of every passing minute, so anxious was she to get back to John, lying inert as if he would never move again. At last they were clean and she ran back into the house.

‘Great girl. You sit here now and we’ll see what we can do,’ he said, as he took them from her and went out into the kitchen.

He came back after a very short time, towels wrapped round the bottles he’d heated with boiling water and the pots he’d cooked up in the fire. They kept replacing them with fresh ones, until finally John’s body lost it’s deadly chill. Only then did Thomas speak of going.

‘Get in beside him, Rose. Sure wouldn’t that bring any man back from the dead,’ he said, gently as they went to the door and she tried to find words to thank him. ‘I’ll be over in the mornin’ as soon as I see your smoke.’

The Doctor arrived shortly after Thomas’s visit. He looked older and more tired than when she’d last seen him, but he’d lost nothing of his sharpness nor his kindliness.

‘Not often I see you, Mrs Hamilton,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I congratulate you on your healthy children. It’s years since I was last here. Now what’s this about your good man?’ he added kindly.

John had woken at the sound of voices, but made
no move. His ghastly pallor had been replaced by a slightly yellow look. When the doctor asked him to sit up, to sound out his chest, he had to let Rose help him.

‘How long have you been in the mill now, John?’ Doctor Lindsay asked casually.

John looked quickly at Rose, who repeated the question.

‘About nine months,’ he replied, very weakly.

‘And when did you move to the spinning rooms?’

John screwed up his face, opened his mouth slightly and waited. Doctor Lindsay repeated the question.

‘I’m not in the spinnin’ rooms, not usually that is,’ John began. ‘I’m mostly in the workshop. But there was new looms went in this week. The heat in them rooms is desperate,’ he said, shaking his head.