The Girl from Ballymor

by Kathleen McGurl

  ‘It’s gone up. You’re in arrears for the last month. Pay that now, and then the next month’s is due next week. Do you have the money?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t. I will have the rent I’m expecting to pay next week though, as per the agreement I signed. I’ve had no notice of a rent increase.’ She held her head high as she said this, but knew she would not win any argument with William Smith. The Englishman was known for his ruthlessness. Hadn’t he just sacked Michael only three days before?

  ‘I’m giving you your notice now, Mrs McCarthy. So if you’ve no money, I’ll have to take something else in lieu of the rent. That goat, perhaps. She’ll do.’

  ‘No! Please, sir, not the goat. We need her milk, so we do.’

  Smith sneered at her. ‘Goats’ milk? The peasants drink goats’ milk, do they? I was thinking we’d carve her up as dog meat. The hunting hounds are hungry.’

  Thomas Waterman turned to stare at her as Smith said this, and she felt cold shivers run through her body. She’d managed to keep away, out of his notice, for so many years, but now here he was, outside her cottage, his cold blue eyes on her. ‘I know you, don’t I? Ah ha, yes, I do know you. Pretty thing you were, when you were young.’

  ‘Please, sir, leave us the goat. I’ll have the money for you next week.’ God only knew how she’d find the money, but somehow she’d have to.

  Smith looked at his master, but Waterman said nothing, and continued staring at her.

  Grace came out of the cottage at that moment, and stood behind Kitty. ‘They’re not taking Nana Goat, are they?’ she whispered, using the nickname she’d given the animal.

  ‘I think they might,’ Kitty whispered back.

  ‘You, child. Stand out here where I can see you,’ Waterman commanded.

  Grace took a step away from Kitty, and stood quaking before the great horse.

  ‘Pretty, like your mother was.’ Waterman was staring at her, an odd look in his eyes. He had no children of his own, Kitty knew. She’d heard rumours he had married in England, but then lost his wife in childbirth. The baby had not survived either.

  ‘Grace, go back inside. Now.’ Kitty was shaking with fear. She must keep Gracie away from this monster. He would not do to Grace what he had done to Kitty, all those years ago. She would not allow that, ever, no matter what it cost her.

  Smith was untying the goat. ‘Well, that’s settled. Your rent’s paid now, until next week. Make sure you have the cash.’

  Kitty felt something snap inside. ‘And how am I going to do that, now that you’ve sacked my Michael and taken my goat? Maybe I could have sold some goats’ cheese. Or sold the goat herself. Will you give Michael a job? That’s my only hope of being able to pay you next week. My only hope of keeping the hunger from the door, or that colleen in there won’t live to grow up.’ This last part she said quietly, for fear of Gracie hearing it.

  Smith laughed, and Waterman sat impassive on his horse. Kitty shook her head. There was nothing she could say or do. They’d come up here today in the hope of harrying her out of her cottage, that was clear. She did not know why. But hers was the last inhabited cottage and perhaps Waterman had other plans for the village.

  Smith remounted his horse, tying the goat to his saddle, and, without another word, the two men rode off back towards Ballymor House, with the goat bleating plaintively as it trotted along behind them. Waterman glanced once over his shoulder at her, his mouth open, as though there was something more he wanted to say. But he said nothing, and instead spurred his horse into a canter, ahead of Smith and the goat.

  Kitty let out a roar of frustration, which brought Gracie running outside. The little girl put her arms around Kitty. ‘It’s all right, Mammy. It’ll be all right. I didn’t like those men, so I didn’t, and I know it was one of them that’s after taking away Michael’s job. But they’ve gone now.’

  ‘Ah, you’re such a comfort, my love.’ Kitty bent down and hugged her daughter. But she was wrong. They were not all right. In seven days’ time they had the rent to pay, but no means of paying it. It’d be the workhouse for them, if Michael couldn’t find a job, regardless of the state of the potato harvest.

  She could not get the image of Waterman, aloof and uncaring, out of her head as she walked down the track towards their potato plot, to meet Michael. After all that she and her family had suffered at his hands, anyone would think he might have now taken pity on them, and left them the goat, waived the rent, and reinstated Michael in work. It was all within his power. Instead, he had allowed his agent Smith to ride roughshod over them. He was like his father had been – uncaring, harsh and callous. She ground her teeth as she remembered that it was Waterman’s cost-cutting that led to the disaster in the copper mine which had taken her Patrick’s life. And now his cost-cutting had put Michael out of a job and quite possibly would put them all in the workhouse.

  *

  When she was young she’d thought perhaps Thomas Waterman was different to his father. Perhaps he had some good in him – someone so handsome could not possibly be all bad. She’d been fifteen when she first saw him, working in the small plot of land leased to Mother Heaney. It was June, and she’d been bent double pulling up the early crop of new potatoes, shaking the soil off them, putting them into a basket, and throwing the stems onto a pile for composting. A man had come by on horseback, picking his way through the potato plots, occasionally stopping to speak to the labourers.

  When she caught sight of him, she stood upright, arching her back to stretch her aching muscles. He was tall, dark-haired, extremely handsome with dark eyes and a strong jaw, aged somewhere in his mid-twenties. A fine young man. She guessed he was Master Thomas, the son and heir of William Waterman, the English landowner to whom they paid rent for the cottage and potato plot, and for whom every able-bodied person in the area worked. William Waterman was usually absent, preferring to spend his time at his estate in England, leaving his Irish farms to be run by stewards, as long as they were making money for him. Kitty had only seen him once or twice, years before, and she had never set eyes on his son, although she’d heard tell of a good-looking, arrogant young man who one day would be their landlord and master. And here he was, sitting proud and aloof on a fine bay horse. She couldn’t help but stare at him. She’d never seen a man quite so handsome before, and it made her insides feel funny, and her head feel light.

  He was looking directly at her, she realised, and then he pulled his horse’s head around and approached her, the animal’s hooves trampling over two of her as yet unharvested potato ridges, containing the autumn crop. She could not believe that he had noticed her, and was coming her way. No matter that he was damaging the ridges – she could repair them when he’d gone. Hopefully none of the precious roots beneath the soil would be damaged.

  ‘You’re a pretty young thing. What’s your name?’ he said, his voice imperious, as though he was accustomed to being instantly obeyed.

  ‘Kitty Tooley, sir,’ she replied, dipping her head in a slight bow. She wondered if she should curtsey, but wasn’t sure how.

  ‘Loosen your hair, Kitty Tooley,’ he commanded, smiling slightly at her.

  She was confused. Her hair was tucked away under a headscarf, tied under her chin, as usual when she was working in the fields, to keep it out of her way. ‘My hair, sir?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Let it loose. I wish to see it hanging about your shoulders.’

  She did as he asked, pulling the headscarf off and giving her head a shake, so that her long tresses swished over her shoulders. Despite his brusque manner there was something about Thomas that excited her. She should confess her feelings to the priest on Sunday – but as soon as that thought crossed her mind she dismissed it. The way she felt when looking up at Thomas on his horse was something she wanted to keep secret, even from the priest. Even from God. Even though she knew it was very wrong to feel like this.

  He was watching her closely, then suddenly he slipped down, off his horse, and stepped over to her. She
gasped as he reached for her, and clasped her chin in his hand. His fingers felt smooth on her face, as though he’d never done a day’s manual labour in his life. He was squeezing her cheeks, not too hard, but tightly enough that she couldn’t pull away, whether or not she’d wanted to. He was looking right into her eyes, and she gazed back, hoping it would not anger him. Close up he was even more handsome, and she felt a tingle of excitement. He had noticed her, of all the pretty young girls there must be on his estates!

  ‘You’re a pretty thing,’ he said again. ‘Yes, very pretty. Come to Ballymor House this evening at sundown. Wait for me behind the stables. I’ll have a gift for you. Something nice for you to wear, perhaps.’

  ‘Sir, is it right I should meet you? My great-aunt’s after saying—’

  He held up a hand. ‘I don’t give a fig what your great-aunt says. You’re a grown girl. Do you want my gift or not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’re very kind, sir, but I—’

  ‘Then come.’ He smiled at her once more, and she smiled broadly back at him. This fine young man, heir to a huge fortune and all the land around, had singled her out and was paying her so much attention!

  With that he let go of her, mounted his horse and spurred it into a canter, its hooves demolishing yet more of her potato ridges.

  She set about repairing the damage with vigour, her thoughts on Thomas Waterman. He considered her to be pretty. He seemed to like her. What gift would he have for her? Her thoughts ran to fantasies in which he kissed her, proposed to her, scooped her up and onto his horse behind him, and galloped away across the moors to a castle where she would be mistress and never have to dig a potato plot again. Now those dreams really should be confessed on Sunday.

  *

  Kitty shook her head at the memory. How young and foolish she had been – a naive fifteen-year-old who’d known nothing of the ways of men, especially the ways of arrogant, rich landowners’ sons. How different her life would have been if Waterman had never stopped to talk to her on that fateful day, or if she’d refused to go to meet him as he’d asked. She set off towards their potato plot, to tell Michael the bad news about the goat.

  Michael was standing, hands on hips, in the middle of their field. As Kitty approached, she could see that the soil had dried enough to be able to bring in the harvest – it would not cling too much to their boots and spades. She gazed out to the west – clear skies, no wind. They’d lift a few potatoes by hand today, and then bring sacks and spades in the morning to complete the harvest. She smiled. No matter what Waterman did, he could not take from her the pleasure of harvesting her own crops, laying down the stores that would feed her children throughout the winter. Michael would find other work. Something would happen to change their luck.

  ‘Weather looks good. I think we should lift a few today, and the rest tomorrow,’ she said to Michael, when she came within earshot.

  His face looked drawn and worried. ‘I lifted some. Look.’ He showed her his hands. He was holding three small potatoes, which all had ominous veins of black running through them.

  Kitty felt her heart sink. ‘No! Oh, no, please God, no. Not again.’ She sank to her knees and scrabbled at the soil under the nearest plant, raking it with her fingers, reaching into the earth to find the tubers beneath. She found one, pulled it up, and stared at it. It was undersized and discoloured, just like the others. She stared at Michael in horror. He wordlessly pulled a small knife from his pocket and handed it to her. She cut the potato in half. The flesh should have been smooth and white, but was mottled black, brown and grey. ‘No! No, no, no!’ She scrabbled again in the earth, digging the roots of another plant in a different ridge. This one was worse – the potatoes were completely rotted and inedible.

  ‘Oh my God, Michael, it has happened again! What will we do? We’ll starve for sure this winter, just like the little ones before us. What have I done to deserve this? What have any of us done? This—’ she stared down at the ruined potato ‘—this is Ireland’s tragedy, so it is. Ireland’s ruin. Ireland’s end!’ She threw the potato across the field, as hard as she could.

  ‘Mammy, Mammy, be calm there, now!’ Michael put his arms around her and held her as she sobbed, huge, racking sobs on his shoulder. ‘I’ll find other work, so I will,’ he went on. ‘There’s talk of a public works scheme starting up. Road building. I’ll apply for that. The government won’t let us starve this time, not after what happened last winter. There’ll be work, there’ll be money and food to buy in the shops. We’ll be all right. We still have the chicken, and the goat, and the rest of Martin O’Shaughnessy’s potatoes.’

  Only half a sack left, she thought, and he didn’t yet know the goat was gone. They faced yet another winter of starvation. How could they possibly survive?

  CHAPTER 9

  Maria

  I woke up with red-rimmed eyes and a lead weight in my heart. Before I so much as opened my eyes I was reaching for my phone to call Dan. But it went straight to voicemail. Damn it. Right when I really needed to talk to him, and explain things. I couldn’t let him go on for a moment thinking it wasn’t his child. How painful that must be for him.

  There wasn’t much I could do about it though, other than try to take my mind off things before I went mad, and try to call him again later. Or maybe he’d call me with any luck.

  I spent a few minutes after breakfast writing a list of things I wanted to do while in Ireland, and research angles I should follow up. It was a long list. That sketch I’d seen in the museum, which looked like an example of Michael McCarthy juvenilia, had intrigued me. Why had it hung on display at Ballymor House for years? What was the connection between the then owners of the house and Michael? Who was the man on the horse in the sketch? I added an item to my list to research who’d owned Ballymor House from the famine years onwards. And then go out to take a look at what was left of it.

  But first, I wanted to have a look around the various graveyards and cemeteries in the area. Maybe there was a McCarthy grave. I knew Michael himself was buried in Highgate Cemetery in London, and I had been to see his grave, with its ornate carving and Celtic cross, when I wrote my thesis, but maybe other McCarthys were here in Ballymor. I called first at the tourist office to pick up a map of the town and find out where the cemeteries were. There was a small graveyard behind the church, a larger one up the hill beyond the tourist office, and a famine graveyard three miles out of town where, the tourist office lady told me, a mass grave contained an estimated 1,500 people who’d died during the winter of 1848–9. I shuddered to think of so many people in one pit, all unmarked. Whole families buried together with no one left to mourn them. I didn’t know whether Michael had any siblings, but most Irish families of that time would have had several children, so I assumed he had. As I perused the map and set off towards the first graveyard – the one nearest the tourist office – I wondered whether any of his family had died during the famine.

  This graveyard was well tended, with neatly mown lawns surrounding scrubbed and polished headstones. I wandered among them reading the inscriptions, but realised they were mostly quite recent graves, with dates from the 1950s onwards. Many stones had more than one name on them. It seemed to be traditional for families to buy big plots to accommodate several of their members over two or three decades. The cemetery was moving but not what I was looking for, so I quickly left it and walked back towards O’Sullivan’s and the church opposite, guessing that the graveyard nearer the church would be the town’s first one, containing earlier graves.

  It certainly looked older. A rusty iron gate separated it from the well-maintained gardens and car park immediately around the church, which I realised I had not yet set foot inside. The graveyard itself was unkempt, with waist-high thistles jostling for space with nettles and grass. A couple of paths had been mown through it all, and I followed these, once again reading the inscriptions if possible. Many were too weathered and worn to be able to make much out, but I found a few with dates in the 1840s – O’Dow
ells, Ryans, McDaniels and O’Shaughnessys. Encouraged by this, I began a more systematic search, going up and down each row, pushing aside the thistles and treading down the nettles, glad I had worn trainers and not sandals, trying not to think about Dan and last night’s phone call.

  I was so engrossed in this I did not notice Declan until he stood right in front of me. ‘Would you be looking for a McCarthy grave?’ he said, making me jump out of my skin.

  ‘What? Oh! Hi,’ I said, and was annoyed to find myself blushing furiously. ‘Didn’t see you there. Yes, I thought I’d have a poke around to see if there were any McCarthy graves here. There are certainly some that go back to the time of Michael’s parents.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, there are many. The McCarthys are over here. Not sure if they are actually buried here, but there’s a memorial stone against the wall over there.’ He gestured further up the cemetery, near the boundary wall.

  ‘I should have guessed you’d know,’ I said, grinning at him, and we both made our way over to the grave he’d pointed out. He held back a couple of brambles for me – the perfect gentleman.

  ‘I should really get this place tidied up,’ he muttered. I wondered what his job was, if the graveyard was his responsibility, but did not comment as he’d said it more or less to himself.

  The McCarthy gravestone was easily legible and I was almost disappointed that Declan had pointed it out to me. I would have found it myself in time, and that might have been more satisfying. But he’d certainly saved me time and doubtless saved me from some scratches. This headstone was made of white marble rather than the softish grey stone of the others that had weathered so badly. The lettering was still perfectly clear, once I’d pushed aside a couple of nettles with my foot.

  In loving memory of

  Patrick McCarthy – died 1844

  And his beloved children

  Patrick 1835–1846

  Grace 1837–1849