Brigid the Girl from County Clare

by Vicky Adin

  “Get out of the way, you big oaf,” snarled an Ulster voice, as a hand pushed the middle of his back. “You’re taking up too much space.”

  Jamie’s fist clenched and he spun around with arm raised, only just pulling up short when he saw the two little girls in tow.

  “There’s no need for violence, is there?” said a well-dressed young maid to his right.

  Jamie found himself gazing into eyes as blue and dark as his own, and at the same level.

  “Michael was only trying to make space for me and the girls. You can’t mind that, surely?” When she smiled her whole face lit up.

  Jamie’s clenched fist relaxed. He whipped his cap off and held it against his chest as he flattened himself against the rail. The man forged on past, laden with bags.

  “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean no harm. I didn’t see you there, that’s all. There’re so many people, ain’t there?” He turned crimson at his foolish attempt at conversation with a total stranger, especially one who made his heart thump a little louder; he looked down at his dirty, scuffed work boots, convinced she would move on by.

  “What’s your name?” Her voice sounded soft and gentle.

  He raised his head and their eyes met again. “Jamie. That is, James O’Brien, miss.”

  “I’m Maggie O’Neill. I’m sure I’ll see you again before we reach Australia.”

  Michael reappeared and scowled at Jamie. “What’s the hold up ’ere, Maggie? Get below and see to the girls.”

  “Don’t boss me around, Michael. I know what needs doing. You go look after yourself and leave me to me own.” She turned to Jamie. “And these two are my nieces. Laura is ten and Jane nearly nine. Say hello, girls.” The two girls remained silent and peered shyly at him from behind Maggie’s skirts. “Don’t mind Michael. Too often my brother thinks he owns me.”

  Jamie stood with his back against the rail, gawping as she disappeared in the crowd, and mulled over what had just happened. He needed to see Breeda.

  He pushed his way through the crowds to the aft companionway. A woman who’d not been there earlier stopped him.

  “You’re not allowed down there, I’m sorry. That’s for single ladies only.” She stood barring his way and carried on directing people where they needed to go.

  He tried to peer over her shoulder and called down to Brigid. “Breeda. Breeda. Are you there, Breeda?”

  “Stop that shouting at once, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am ...” Jamie looked sheepish. “Um, who might you be, please? Can ye help me?”

  “I’m Miss O’Reilly, the matron responsible for the girls’ welfare. And yes, I’ll send a message to this Breeda you want to see so badly. Give me her name.”

  “It’s Brigid O’Brien, ma’am. She’s my cousin and I’d be grateful to see her. That I would. Thank’ee.”

  To ease his restlessness while he waited, he paced to and fro, and round and round, until he saw Brigid emerge from below.

  “Watch where you’re going, yer bleedin’ eejit,” an Irish voice yelled after him as he crashed into people in his haste to get past, but he didn’t pay any heed.

  “Breeda, Breeda. You’ll never believe it, but I just saw an angel.”

  “What you blathering about now, Jamie? Angel, what angel?”

  “She’s as tall as me, wi’ pure white skin, and she’s going to Australia ... with her brother and his two little girls.”

  “Ah, well, that’s nice, for sure it is. But where else did you think she’d be going if she’s on this ship an’ all?”

  “Ah, don’t go teasing me now. You know what I mean.”

  “Does this angel have a name then?”

  “Maggie. Her name’s Maggie.”

  “I’ll be happy to look out for this Maggie and be sure to speak nicely when we meet, that I will. Just for you, Jamie. Now, tell me are you settled in your bunk room and have you met any of the other fellas?”

  For the whole of his life, Brigid had been the caring one, the mother hen, with a cure-all kiss for a scratch or bruise, and a dock leaf for the stings. She was known as the lucky one because of her gifts, and the plucky one because of her spirit. Jamie settled into telling her what little he’d seen of the ship’s quarters, and how he’d not really spoken to anyone, being keen to stay out of trouble.

  “But, I t’ink I’ve got trouble already, our Brid. Maggie’s brother Michael hasn’t taken to me at all, that he hasn’t. Maggie said not to pay him any mind, but when she’s not around he might just stir something up. He’s littler than me, though, so he’ll be no bother.”

  “Jamie me boy, remember now, you promised. No fighting. This isn’t the lads from home now, and you could end up in the brig.”

  “Aye, I ken.” Jamie hung his head and turned his cap around in his hands, and considered how he could keep his promise if provoked.

  The loud clanging of bells nearby and the shuddering vibrations shook his body. Someone shouted, “We’re moving.”

  Jamie thrust Brigid in front of him and ushered her along through the crowd until they, too, were on the port side, pressed against the rails, wanting to catch a last glimpse of the home they were leaving. Sailors, braced against hawsers, began to untie the ship and scurried back and forth to loosen and tighten lines as the steam engines powered the ship along the Thames River. Black smoke belched against the grey sky, covering the passengers with smut while the engines roared.

  People waving farewell from the dockside shed many a tear, but on the ship there was an unusual calm. The decision to leave had been made a long time ago, along with the painful farewells. This was no time for tears and recrimination – or regrets. If anything, the future looked brighter than the life they had chosen to leave behind.

  Brigid stiffened her shoulders, shrugging off a shiver as the gap between the ship and shore widened. Jamie reached for her hand. They had talked about this moment, this point of no return and what to expect, but the tug of loneliness in the pit of his stomach was worse than he had prepared for. It would be harder still for soft-hearted Brigid, who feared the journey across the oceans. Brigid released his hand and bunched her skirt where she’d pinned her great-grandmother’s brooch.

  “Ah, Jamie.” Her voice quivered slightly. “Will you say a prayer with me for those we left behind.”

  He put his arms around her and nestled her against him while they stared at the receding coastline, and murmured a prayer together. Their life in Ireland was over and the future an unknown commodity only they could shape, without the backing of family and tradition.

  Despite promises the rest of the family would follow when the time was right, they both knew she would not see her mother or any of the family again.

  Brigid shivered. “Aye, well. Let’s look on the bright side. At least we don’t have to walk anywhere for quite some time.”

  He chortled, his moment of introspection passing as his natural exuberance reasserted itself. “’Tis true. But then, we didn’t walk as much as I thought we would when we left the village. Those new trains are wonderful t’ings. I liked the clackety-clack sound of the wheels going round, and seeing the countryside pass by faster than I’ve ever seen anything move before. It were like magic. Now we’re on a ship. Ah, Breeda. I’m that excited.”

  “Still a wee fella at heart, aren’t you, boyo?” she teased. “I’m excited too, Jamie, aye, I am, even if a bit on the jittery side.”

  “Well now, of course. But I’ll take care of ye. A poor young t’ing like you can get easily frightened.” His eyes sparkled, and while Brigid knew he was teasing, she pretended to be cross.

  “That’s enough of that talk now, boyo. You’re only a matter of months older than me.”

  “Whisht, now.” He looked around to see if anyone had overheard. “I don’t want people to know how old I am. I’m the man now.”

  “That you are, sweet cousin. That you are.” She put her hand up to his face and touched his cheek, glad of his company as the life they knew faded i
nto the past.

  * * *

  Sunday, 10th October 1886

  Right from the start of our journey Jamie had whooped and laughed, and waved to all the people who had come out to watch our departure. “I’m off to Australia,” he’d called. “I’m on an adventure.”

  The day after Da had dropped us, we walked south towards Limerick with our baggage getting heavier with every step, hitching a ride when we could, to pick up the train going north-east through Roscrea to Dublin. Jamie talked about the grass, the crops, the animals, the stone walls or the rivers and streams, all the time comparing them with those he’d grown up with. His eyes were full of wonder at the changing scenery the further we moved away from home.

  Our journey was not easy. We gave ourselves two weeks to reach London, since we didn’t have any idea how long it would take to get anywhere, and there were hours of waiting. Jamie and I slept rough overnight when we could, trying to save our pennies. We couldn’t afford a place to stay for both of us; we only had enough for the endless hours on the train, and I could never leave him on his own.

  We had a sad farewell to our homeland. For days on end it rained. Drizzle, rain, squalls, and back to drizzle that would rot the crops in the ground. Even when it didn’t rain, the sky was grey with heavy cloud. We hadn’t seen the sun for days. Every year we hoped the weather would be better, and every year it wasn’t.

  Not that Jamie cared. He marched along in his tweed jacket and cap, his well-worn leather boots and homespun scarf, whistling all the tunes he could remember with nary a care. Even the weight of the trunk he carried didn’t seem to bother him. Sometimes I hummed along with him, but mostly I listened. I had our canvas carry bags on my back – ’twas no more than I usually carried – but I was ever so grateful for the wool coat that reached my knees. I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders, drew my bonnet down over my eyes and tried to keep pace with Jamie.

  The train to Dublin gave us shelter and eased the burden of carrying the luggage all the time, but the sitting for hours on end troubled us and we often itched to be on the move. We weren’t used to waiting. We were used to walking and working the land, always on our feet and able to sleep well, tired out by the day’s work. But we were that restless we couldn’t sleep much – well, I couldn’t. Jamie didn’t do so badly, but everything was so strange. Even our travelling companions were not like the folk at home.

  Long after everyone else had gone inside, Brigid remained to watch the scenery change as the ship steamed its way along the River Thames. The buildings grew fewer and less grand, and the villages further apart. Birds screeched overhead looking for dinner in the wake of the ship’s propellers, and the air seemed fresher, cleaner – more like Ireland. But once they’d slipped into the Channel, the wind picked up and Brigid felt in need of her shawl.

  She squinted into the darkness below deck and shivered, surprised the air was no warmer inside than out – and it stank of unwashed bodies, urine and musty clothes. After the fresh air, the foul odours were nauseating. Some smells were sharp and acidy, smells she couldn’t quite identify, that made the back of her jaw ache and her eyes itch.

  A few steps along the passageway she realised her mistake. She had come down the wrong ladder into the midsection where family groups sat huddled together. Harried mothers cuddled fractious children and soothed screaming babies, while the men looked forlorn and churlish as they went about the settling. Her appearance raised a head or two amongst the men, and someone shouted something she didn’t quite catch, but the laughter that followed gave her an idea of what it might have been. Her heart sank as her stomach churned; instinctively she knew the next fifty-odd days would be a challenge. She made a hasty retreat and headed to the single women’s quarters further aft.

  As she descended the right ladder this time, Brigid sighed with relief to see Sally chatting to some women nearby.

  “Ye look right chilled, lass,” said Sally, coming towards her. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

  “Up on deck, thinking ... But I got lost and ended up where the families are. And by the look on some of the faces, there are some mightily unhappy folk aboard.”

  “I’m no’ surprised.” Sally linked her arm with Brigid’s. “It’s no’ much better in here. I reckoned we’d seen off the worst, but ye should see the two what have taken the berths on the other side of us – not Annie and Lettie – on t’other side.” She screwed up her nose and lowered her voice. “Both foreigners. One’s a German, fat slob of a woman with nay much English and t’other one’s from Denmark. Want a tot? It’ll warm ye up.”

  Amazingly, Sally fished a bottle of gin from within the folds of her skirts and offered it to Brigid, who shook her head.

  “Please yourself. But what’cha going to do to fill in time then?” Sally slugged back a mouthful, put the stopper in and pushed the bottle deep into her pocket.

  “Hadn’t really thought about it,” Brigid shrugged, unsure whether to admit she kept a diary or that she had lacework to keep her fingers busy.

  “Well, I have. Gotta keep busy or we’ll go nuts and end up a-fighting. Someone said there’d be entertainment on deck once we get in open sea. Quoits and draughts, and such. Aye, and music and dancing.”

  “That’ll be fun.” Brigid liked to dance. “My sisters and I dance all the reels and jigs.”

  “That’s nice for you.” Sally looked sideways at Brigid, but whatever her thoughts, she chose not to voice them. She sat on the lower bunk with her back against the outer wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. “How about you sit ’ere and tell me ’bout yourself.” She patted the blanket.

  Brigid smiled, glad to find the companionship she longed for in her small corner of this strange new world. Even with Jamie’s cheerfulness, she’d missed the friendly chatter of her mother and sisters, or the local women as they crossed to and fro through the village. Back home, there was always gossip to be shared and a story to be told.

  She sat at the other end of Sally’s bunk. “There’s not much to tell,” she began. “I come from a little village in the west of County Clare near Miltown Malbay and the Cliffs of Moher.”

  “I dunno where that is. Never been to Ireland.”

  “Aye, well. Cloonanaha’s a low-lying village, not six miles from the coast. The wind that blows off the Atlantic in wintertime can fair cut through you, like a knife through butter, but it’s grand, aye. Green as far as the eye can see, even if the ground’s a bit on the stony side. It makes for hard farming, I can tell ye, but there are myths and stories to gladden the heart. I’m the eldest. I have one brother, John, and five younger sisters. Máire’s fourteen now, then there’s Norah and Nellie, they’re still at school. Susan’s only three, and the new babby.”

  “Cor. That’s a handful for your mother.”

  “I know, especially since wee Katie came. But I did my best.”

  From an early age, when not busy making lace, Brigid had shared the responsibilities of the household with her mother, or helped in the potato fields at harvest time. When she could, she sold her lacework to add some coin to her father’s meagre savings.

  John, eighteen months her junior, was expected to do as much as any man and worked beside his father, Patrick, on the farm. But times were tough. Most of the crops went to England, leaving little for the locals to put food on the table. There was no more this year than there had been last season, or the season before that, if the truth be told.

  “Well, that’s no peasant dress you’re wearing.” Sally fingered the fabric of Brigid’s skirt. “That’s a right smart outfit. Who taught you to sew?”

  Brigid flushed at the compliment. Even though her outfit was at least five years out of date, and without the new-style bustle, which had recently reappeared on the latest fashions, she knew the cut flattered her figure.

  “The nuns. I learnt lacemaking and needlework at the convent, and reading and writing, and numbers, at the National School.” In fact, she’d shone at school, and the nuns considered her
the most skilled traditional lacemaker of all their students. “And Ma’s always spinning and weaving and knitting. It’s in me blood, I t’ink. I’m hoping to sell my pieces to the ladies in the salon for a shilling or two.”

  “Well, good luck to ye wi’ that one.” Sally looked wistful, regretful. She sighed. “What sort of place is this village of yours? Tell me, hen.”

  Time disappeared as Brigid described her home – or rather what it had once looked like before the bailiffs came. She didn’t want to think about that time, right now. Their home had been a large, two-room, whitewashed mud-brick cottage with a flagstone floor and thatched roof. The windows along the front were barely large enough for a man’s head, and everyone had to duck to go through the low door. She could still see her mother bent over the peat fire trying to get it to burn properly while the cottage filled with smoke. “Aye, I loved the smell of the broth bubbling away in the big iron kettles that hung above the fire. Putting up wi’ the smoke was worth it.”

  Once she’d started, Brigid happily launched into stories about the constant stream of people who stopped to chat, barter goods or gossip about another neighbour. No occasion was ever too small for a party – one respite in a mountain of gloom – but emigrating ... now that was a big occasion. They’d had a grand going-away party, they had.

  “Granda Michael O’Brien and Granny Bridget, that’s Ma’s side, they’d come over from Mooghana four mile away, bringing most of Ma’s uncles and aunts and cousins with them. Jamie’s one of the cousins from Mooghana. Grandpa John O’Brien and Grandma Mary – Da’s parents – and his brothers and sisters all live in our village. We’re a merry crowd when we get together.

  “Ma and me, and the womenfolk cooked up masses of colcannon – mashed potato and cabbage with salt and homemade butter – while the menfolk set out their home-brewed poteen. Powerful strong stuff it can be, too, and as soon as someone pulled out a tin whistle, people were up dancing and jigging till they could dance no more.”