Virginia Henley

Little Kitty Rooney sat contemplating two potatoes and half a turnip with disgust. Sighing, she cut the rot out of them and chopped them up into the black iron pot. She glanced apprehensively at the hearth where the meager fire threatened to go out any minute. Her grandfather, an old Gypsy called Swaddy by almost everyone, sat in the chimney corner, his gold earring reflecting the last dying flame. The door to the little cottage was flung open, letting in the wind and rain. “Terrance, God be praised!” she cried, “the fire’s in its death throes.”

She jumped down from her stool and helped her brother put some fresh peat, which he had been out to cut, on the fire.

“Faith, yer soaked again, Terrance.”

“Aye, when will this bloody rain cease and desist?” wondered Terrance aloud.

“When pigs fly,” laughed Kitty. “Hutch up, Grandada, and let Terrance get warm. He’s drenched to the skin.”

“Kitty, I can’t wear these bloody boots much longer. They’ve such great holes in the bottom, they give me blisters.”

“I’ll mend ’em for ye, boyo; I’m right handy at mending boots,” Swaddy bragged.

“With what, pray tell?” asked Kitty pointedly.

Terry shook his head, “Ah, well, I shouldn’t complain about boots while you go barefoot, Kitty.”

“Sure an’ I’m used to it. Besides, ’tis summertime,” she said and twinkled.

“Summer! When’s the last time you saw the sun? Tell me
that, Kitty Rooney. The crops are ruined again, you know. The fields are so black and sodden, every vegetable is rotten,” he said bitterly, sounding as if he were an old man rather than a child of eleven.

“Well, one good thing about the rain, I don’t have to carry water from the River Liffey to cook with, although there’s little enough left to cook,” she said with resignation as she lifted the black pot onto a hook over the fire. “There will be a bit o’ broth for dinner, but by the grace of God I don’t know what we’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Something will turn up, lass, don’t worry your pretty head,” said Swaddy from his corner. The brother and sister exchanged significant glances and Kitty rolled her eyes heavenward.

Terry wiped his nose on his sleeve. “They was getting the carriage ready at the big house.” Kitty’s head shot up. “They must be going into Dublin. I wonder what’s up?”

“Himself must be comin’, I suppose,” he said and shrugged.

Kitty took down her shawl from behind the door and put it over her head. “Wait here, I won’t be long,” and she dashed out into the downpour, oblivious of her bare feet.

Kitty had lived her whole life on the one-hundred-acre estate of Squire O’Reilly, which was in County Kildare, about thirty miles from Dublin. The O’Reilly mansion was called Castle Hill, with its herd of Charolais cattle and sleek Thoroughbred horses. Jonathan O’Reilly was a wealthy Lancashire millowner over in England and only came to his Irish estate in the summertime. Castle Hill had live-in, year-round servants and its farm cottages were filled with his herdsmen and gardeners who planted crops and tried to make it a self-supporting estate. The Rooneys were not servants of the O’Reillys, but Gypsies who had settled on the land and had been allowed to stay. Kitty’s mother hadn’t survived Terrance’s
birth. Their Gypsy father in his grief hadn’t been able to provide a stable existence for them and he wandered off one night, leaving their grandfather with the problem of their survival. They had been camping beside the River Liffey that night and ten years later they were still there.

Kitty crouched beside the stable wall in the downpour. She was still as a mouse, quite prepared to wait all day if necessary. The doors to the carriage house stood open and the coach had been wheeled outside. The men were harnessing the horses inside the stables because of the rain. Kitty waited. The stableman led out two horses and harnessed them to the coach, then went back for the other two horses. He said, “I’ll get their feed.” The driver said, “I’d better get four horse blankets, Tim. You know what the squire’s like about his horses.”

The men disappeared inside again, then Kitty saw two feed bags appear at the stable door and once again Tim went back for the other two bags. Kitty whipped one of the bags across her back and ran like the wind. She flung open the front door and said, “Here, milado, take this, it’s pretty heavy.”

With a grin Terry hoisted the feed bag onto the table. “All those oats! We’ll have porridge for a week!”

Swaddy said, “Maybe you can make us some of them little oat cakes.” Kitty shook out her wet shawl and hung it by the fire. “I’ll put some of these oats to soak, but the best part is the leather feed bag. Now Grandada can mend your boots!”

Late in the afternoon the rain stopped for a short while.

Kitty said, “Come on, our Terrance, now’s our chance for some milk.”

“Will I keep him busy while you milk a cow?”

“No. I’ll do the talking. You nip down to the bottom of the pasture; there’s sure to be one or two cows down there now that the rain’s stopped.”

She climbed over the stone wall and shouted, “Hallo there, Jack Kenny!”

“Hallo, lass. I’ve to get the cows up before the rain comes on again.”

“Hold there, Jack Kenny. I had a dream about you last night. Such a vivid dream, so lifelike. I believe you could call it prophetic!”

He stopped and listened, interested now. She was using the old Gypsy formula: Get your hook in to hold their interest immediately, then you could tell them any yarn. People never tired of hearing about themselves. “I saw you on a boat. You were going on a journey to another country. Then I saw a magnificent house, bigger even than Castle Hill. You made a great fortune and beautiful ladies admired you,” she said with great enthusiasm.

He chuckled at the picture she had painted. “Sure now, lass, ’twas only a dream.”

“Perhaps not, Jack Kenny. It all seemed as real as if I were seeing your future. Who knows what lies beyond the horizon?” she asked breathlessly. He laughed, pleased with the fantasy.

“Well, I must be off,” said Kitty lightly. She skipped away and was halfway over the wall when he called, “Wait! Tell me more, Kitty.”