The Killing Snows

by Charles Egan

  ‘I’m sorry. I never knew.’

  ‘She’s terrified of Murty losing the school. She reckons the new schools will close him down. What do you think?’

  Luke picked up a stone and threw it again at the handle. This time he missed by only three inches. ‘I think she’s right.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Michael said.

  The rain had softened into a light drizzle. Michael got up, pulling Luke up after him, and they went back to smashing rock. Hours later, they walked back towards the house, their sledgehammers over their shoulders.

  ‘So what do you think of Nessy?’ Michael asked. ‘How did she seem this morning?’

  ‘She’s alright. Like you said, it’s Aileen is taking it worse.’

  ‘Aye, Nessy is a strong girl,’ his father replied. ‘And she’ll have to be strong when the secret is out. Once Flynn finds out, there’ll be bloody hell to pay.’

  ‘You mean Father Flynn?’

  Michael stopped. ‘Look, let’s get one thing straight. There’s many things that damned man might be, but a priest he is not.’

  Michael expected to be called to County Galway to renew the lease, but since there were a number of other leases coming up for renewal in Carrigard in 1846 the land agent, Edmond White, came up from Galway city instead. A legal clerk arrived from Castlebar. They visited the Ryan household first – as the largest farm, it was the most important. For both Michael and Luke it was a vital meeting.

  White was dressed well, though Luke knew his neatness decried the rough edges of a tough man well able to deal with tenants and collect arrears of rent. He had always been courteous with the Ryans though.

  The clerk seemed a more fastidious type, thin in body and thin in face, well used to deferring to his betters. White had never deferred to anyone.

  The four men sat around the table. Eleanor continued washing and cleaning, pretending not to be listening.

  ‘I understand you will be extending for twenty-one years,’ the clerk said. ‘If I could be so bold as to ask, what age are you now, Mr. Ryan?’

  ‘Sixty three.’

  ‘We would presume you wouldn’t finish out the twenty-one years yourself.’

  ‘No. We’re doing this for my son, Luke, here. He’s the one who’ll finish out the lease.’

  ‘Either way,’ the clerk said, ‘we will have continuity. That is most important to Mr. Burke.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael said. ‘We had already agreed with Mr. White that the lease was to be extended on the condition Luke signed it with me.’

  The clerk glanced to White, who nodded. ‘Now, Mr. Ryan, if you’d be so good as to check through this contract. If you wish, I can read it to you.’

  ‘No, there’s no need for that,’ Michael said. ‘Luke, you read it out to us.’ He passed the document across the table.

  Luke started to read – ‘Lease of part of the lands of Carrigard, Second division in the County of Mayo. Dated the twentieth of April 1846, Dominick Anthony Burke to Michael Ryan and his son Luke Ryan, as co-lessee. Yearly rents eight pounds and ten shillings for twenty one years…’

  Michael stopped him. ‘Eight pounds ten, Mr. White?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was only seven pounds fifteen.’

  ‘True,’ White answered, ‘but Mr. Dawson here is of the opinion that the value of money has slipped over the past twenty three years. It’s a long time.’

  Luke read on. Eleanor had stopped scrubbing and was listening more intently than ever. There were many more clauses: no sub-letting; no cutting of turf for fuel beyond that needed by the Ryans; duty of cleaning and repairing walls, drains and ditches; providing ten days duty labour per year; providing five days with horse and cart; and many other lesser items.

  ‘The duty labour and the horse and cart will be for the quarry?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Indeed, Mr. Ryan. Mr. Burke is most anxious to maintain the contract on the upkeep of the roads.’

  There was also a condition for building a ‘commodious and substantial dwelling house on said premises with stone, lime and sand together.’

  Luke stopped. ‘What’s this? We’re supposed to build a new house.’

  ‘I would have thought this house enough,’ Michael said.

  ‘Indeed it is, Mr. Ryan,’ White said.

  ‘Sorry, my mistake,’ Dawson said. ‘It’s standard on all our contracts. I should have spotted it.’ He reached across and took the contract from Luke. Carefully he crossed out the clause and initialled the change.

  When all was finished, Michael stood, leaving the contract with Luke. He ordered him to read it closely a second time and then to check the ‘fair copy’ against the original.

  Since witnesses were needed, Michael sent Luke to find two younger men of legal age who were able to sign their names. Then both copies were signed, and one was left with the Ryans.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure dealing with you, Mr. Ryan,’ White said. ‘Mr. Burke was most particular that you, of all people, should sign again.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll have any problem getting others to sign here either. There’s not enough farms for the men who want them.’

  ‘True. But it’s not a matter of wanting. It’s a matter of paying the rent.’

  When the two men had left, Eleanor came over and hugged her husband. ‘Another twenty-one years.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Michael. ‘All the way to 1867. Did you see that? 1867. I’ll be dead and gone by then. It’ll be up to Luke to take care of ye.’

  ‘Would you go on out of that,’ Eleanor said. ‘The Ryans live forever.’

  Next day, Michael sent Luke to get Sorcha, while he continued breaking stones. Sorcha was an old woman who lived with her demented husband. Their holding was only half an acre, sublet from Michael with payment through labour. Many years before, her husband had built a tiny mud cabin which was enough to keep out the rain and cold. He had worked the days of labour for the Ryans then, but that was before his mind had gone. Sorcha worked the labour now. Luke had no idea what age she was, but she was a hard worker, reckoned to be able to out-work any man. She had no knowledge whatever of English.

  When he arrived, she was feeding her hens with mashed scraps of potato skins. He could see nothing had changed since he had gone to England. The old cabin still had no chimney. Smoke from the fire was coming out through the gap between the door and the rough sawn, bog-oak lintel. The walls had no windows. There was a thatched roof on top, green with moss. The cabin was barely ten feet in length.

  As he approached, she looked up at him, almost in alarm.

  Her hair was all white now, falling down the full length of her back. Her face was red, puckered with age and decades of Mayo rain and wind. She was a small woman, thinner than before, but still powerful from years of harsh labour. She wore a grey blouse and a stained grey skirt, torn, and frayed.

  The sight of her brought back memories. He thought of the years when he was too young to even work on the farm, and Eleanor would bring him down to Sorcha to keep him out of the kitchen while she was cooking. He remembered those days, playing in front of the cabin as she fed her few hens, or sitting beside the fire inside the cabin as she cooked potatoes and cabbage. He could not have been more than three or four, but it was as if she had been part of the family then, a second mother.

  ‘God with you, Sorcha.’

  ‘God and Mary to you, stranger. Have you come from far?’

  ‘Only from the last house back. Do you not know me?’

  ‘Indeed and I don’t. Why would I?’

  ‘It’s Luke that I am. Luke.’

  ‘Luke?’ She grasped him by the arm and stared up at his face. ‘Oh saints above, I never knew you. You’ve become a giant of a man.’

  ‘No giant. But a bit longer than when I left.’

  She hugged him. ‘Back from England, are
you?

  ‘I am. And staying too.’

  ‘Hard work, was it?’

  ‘Hard is right. But sure that’s no harm to any man.’

  ‘Nor a woman neither. Is that the reason you came?

  ‘Well, one of them perhaps.’

  ‘Your father is looking for me?’

  ‘He is.’

  She bolted the door with her husband inside, and she and Luke walked back the road together. They started working.

  Luke was surprised to see that the old woman could still load and offload the cart as fast as he could. They filled it at the quarry, then swung the cart out on the road and filled the ruts on the hill running down to the ford. This marked off the end of the contract that the Ryans and Mr. Burke held with the county.

  On the other side, Luke noticed a mixed group of ten or twelve men, women and children breaking stones. The work was proceeding at a grindingly slow pace. They were thin and pale. They all wore the same uniform, patched and faded over many years of use.

  ‘I wonder who they are?’ Luke asked.

  Sorcha followed his gaze to the other side of the ford. ‘Oh, the poor people.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘They’ll be the ones from Knockanure. From the new Workhouse. The Union.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard tell of that. It wasn’t there when I left.’

  ‘It was after the last hunger that they started it. For the ones who could not feed themselves. Poor souls.’

  He worked on for a while. He was still puzzled. ‘Wasn’t it Bensons used to have the work on that part over the ford,’ he asked.

  ‘It was. But sure the Union is cheaper than Bensons.’

  ‘Cheaper!’

  ‘Of course they are. They don’t have to pay their people at all. Food and lodging, that’s all they get. How could they not be cheaper?’

  That evening, he discussed it with Michael. ‘Oh, I know they’re cheaper,’ Michael said. ‘They could undercut any contract of ours.’

  ‘Why don’t they?’

  ‘We’ve got a three year contract. That’s why.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh yes, and we’re not half way run yet. But it’s after that that worries me. They’ve far too many beggars in the Workhouse and not enough work for them. They can underbid us any time they want once our contract is finished.’

  When the rest of the family had turned in that night, Michael stayed sitting on one of the stools beside the fire. Idly he watched the dying embers, sometimes drawing lines and circles in the dead ash with the poker. His mind ranged back to other gangs breaking stones on other roads for no pay at all, their feet in chains. The look of joy on his father’s face every week when he arrived with the package of smoked bacon, not forgetting the package for the overseer to look the other way.

  He wondered if Claremorris Gaol still bid for contracts on the roads, or whether they would have enough prisoners to take contracts as far as Kilduff if they did. He doubted it. If there was to be any competition in stone-breaking it would be from Knockanure, not Claremorris; the Workhouse, not the Prison.

  Chapter Four

  Telegraph or Connaught Ranger, April 1846:

  The wretched inhabitants are now subsisting on half diseased potatoes, and those, I fear, will not long remain. Really it is shocking to see a family of ten or twelve persons sit down, and strive to eat a basket of lumpers, and those half or two thirds rotten.

  Luke was walking home from Kilduff when he heard a cart behind. He stood aside to let it pass.

  ‘Snubbing me again?’

  ‘Kitty? For God’s sake, I never even saw you.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? Anyhow, I was going to offer you a ride home, whether you deserve it or not.’

  He pulled himself up and sat in beside her. But the seat on the cart was too narrow, and he was pushed tightly in against her, hips and knees touching. She flicked the reins as he eased himself around to look at her.

  ‘You’ve not changed since I left,’ he said. That was untrue. She had changed. Even sitting, she carried herself with a conscious sensuality, though she was very thin. Her face had the same high cheekbones that all the Cunnanes had. Wisps of hair hung loose by her ears. Her eyes were blue – acute and penetrating.

  ‘I can’t say the same for you,’ she answered him. ‘If I hadn’t heard you were back, I wouldn’t have known you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You know, the last time I saw you, you were just a blushing young lad, not able to put two words together. Such a shy gossoon, you were.’

  The wheel of the cart dropped into a rut, and they were shaken together. Her thigh was warm against his. He could feel his face turning red. He was becoming aroused. ‘So what have you been doing in Kilduff this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Selling eggs and butter, what else would I be doing? Saturday’s market day.’

  ‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Forgotten what? Forgotten it’s Saturday?’

  ‘No. It’s just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  She flicked her hair back. Again the cart hit a rut. Again his thigh rubbed against hers. He was more aroused now. He looked straight ahead, trying not to catch her glance.

  At the side of the road, a family with five ragged children was sitting under the stone wall. The man’s head was between his knees. The woman looked up as the cart passed, and caught Luke’s eye. He looked away.

  ‘How’s Fergus lately?’ he asked Kitty.

  ‘He seemed well enough last week.’

  ‘Before that, I meant.’

  ‘Ah, Luke, stop the pretending.’

  ‘Pretending what?’

  ‘Pretending you care. There he is, off to England, and not a thought for the rest of us. What would you make of that?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not his wife.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not, but you know him well enough. A great fellow with the ladies, my Fergus. Now he’s away on the harvest, getting to know wee girls, a long way from his wife and other prying eyes.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be laughing. Wouldn’t it be an awful lot worse if he wasn’t on the harvest, and you’d all go hungry?’

  ‘Standing up for him now, are you?’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  And that’s a fine way to be, he thought. Defending Fergus from his own wife, even if it is in jest. And Fergus is away for how long? Four months? Five maybe. What am I thinking? Why am I thinking this? He was sweating now and could feel the hotness of her leg through the damp of his trousers. He was more aroused than ever. He tried to think of something to say, but every jerk of the cart distracted him. They had arrived at Carrigard.

  ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ she said. ‘Anytime.’

  He jumped out and crossed in front of the donkey, trying to walk sideways to hide his arousal, his face burning.

  ‘You know,’ she said, looking him up and down, ‘I was wrong. You haven’t changed at all.’

  Damn her, he thought, as he walked into the cowshed. Damn her, damn her, damn her.

  The next Saturday, Michael and Luke were in the quarry. They had been working since dawn. Eleanor had left the house before them to be with Nessa and Aileen as Nessa’s time approached. The men had heard that the birth might be difficult, but they left these matters to the women. By midday, it had become warm and dry, far warmer than would be normal for this time of the year. ‘It’d be a good day for turf,’ Luke said.

  Michael stopped for a moment, looking at the blue sky. ‘Aye, it would.’

  ‘I might go down to the low bog and start the cutting. I reckon you won’t need me here.’

  His father only nodded. Luke went back to the house, took
out his sleán and walked towards the bog. He started digging turf, always watching the road.

  Over the next hour many carts passed, but not the one he watched for. He started to feel angry, even though he knew it was stupid. She had not said anything, so why should he expect anything. Yet he wanted to see her cart passing, and he could not admit why. He saw many women going past. Some were on carts, some were carrying sacks. Then he realised that if he could see them, they could see him. He started digging in a different part of the bog where he could not be seen, but he was close enough to a blackthorn hedge to see through it to the road. Time passed. He was disappointed. He reckoned all the other women had passed by. She would not come past now. He felt bitter.

  ‘Still ignoring me.’ He spun around, startled.

  ‘Kitty! Where the devil did you come from?’

  ‘I just came over the back way by your uncle’s.’

  ‘I thought you’d come by cart.’

  ‘Looking out for me, were you?’

  He turned back to his digging. ‘Maybe.’

  She grasped his sleán to stop him. ‘Fergus’ father came with me, but he took the cart home. That’s why you didn’t see me.’

  ‘But why did you come this way?’

  ‘I had to see Nessy. Had you forgotten?’

  He looked at her, half giddy, half ashamed. She was right. He had forgotten. He could only think about her. Nessa had disappeared from his mind.

  ‘Did you see her? How is she? Will she…’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s in terrible pain. It isn’t right.’ Her eyes were wet.

  He thought of Kitty so many years ago. How long was it. Yes, he could remember her, but how she had changed. He had never seen her so vulnerable. The same face, perhaps. And the same grey shawl – he was sure of it now. Whatever Fergus was spending on her could not be much.

  ‘She’s going to die,’ she said. ‘She won’t live through this. Aileen knows it, your mother knows it, all the women do.’ Her lips were quivering.

  ‘Hush there,’ he said. ‘She’ll be fine. She’s a strong girl.’