The Girl from Ballymor

by Kathleen McGurl

  CHAPTER 14

  Kitty

  The brooch! Kitty remembered it with a start as she awoke the following morning. She put a hand to her breast where she had pinned it to her dress the night before, and there it was, still securely attached. Michael was already awake and preparing himself for the day’s work. There would be no breakfast – nothing to eat until the evening. Unless, of course, she sold the brooch quickly in which case she would buy food and fetch Michael from the worksite.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mammy,’ Michael said, as she arose from the bed and straightened her clothing. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did, thank you, love. I feel a little better today.’ She gave him a small smile, and picked up her shawl.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to the brooch.

  ‘Ah, ’tis an old brooch that was Mother Heaney’s. Gracie must have found it and hidden it away in the mattress.’ She hadn’t wanted him to see it. He would only insist that she bought food with the proceeds of its sale. But her plan was to buy a ticket for his passage to America and present it to him, so he had no choice but to go. The timing couldn’t be better – she’d heard the Columbus was sailing from Cork in five days’ time. James O’Dowell, Patrick’s old foreman, was due to sail on it along with his family. So Michael would not be alone on his journey.

  ‘It’s pretty, so it is.’

  She nodded and knotted her shawl around her shoulders, covering the brooch. She did not trust herself to say anything more. ‘There’s nothing for breakfast, Michael. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We’ll be paid today. We’ll buy food on our way home. Come on, ’tis time we left.’

  She dared not look him in the eye. ‘You go. I might be along later. There is something I must see to first.’

  He gave her a quizzical look, then shrugged as if he was too weary to question her further, kissed her cheek and left.

  She felt guilty for deceiving him but if her plan worked, and there was money left over, she’d be bringing home food, and he’d understand. She’d buy beef, if she could get it. Bacon, eggs, bread, potatoes, milk. A new chicken or two.

  Her stomach rumbled, as it always did in the mornings, and her mouth watered at the thought of what they might be able to eat. Food such as they’d not had since before the first failure of the potato crop. Food such as they’d never had, not since the early days of her marriage to Patrick, when they’d always kept chickens and pigs and a goat.

  *

  Despite her hunger Kitty felt full of energy as she walked down the track into town, a half-hour after Michael had left for the worksite. It was amazing what hope could do to a person. Before she’d left she’d put Michael’s sketch of Thomas Waterman on his horse in her pocket. It would serve as a reminder of what could be gained – a future for Michael as an artist amongst the rich. The day was cold, overcast with a chill wind and a light drizzle, but to Kitty it felt as though the sun was shining inside her. By the end of the day their troubles would be over. Michael would have his ticket and she would have food, and maybe some money to spare. If the brooch fetched enough money for two tickets . . . she stopped short in her thoughts. Would she go to America too? Could she leave this place, leave the home she’d shared with Patrick, leave the graves of all their children? No, she decided. She could not. She would have to stay and look after the graves, make sure they were not forgotten, commission a decent stone memorial for them. It was enough that Michael would be able to leave and have his chance in life. That she should live while the children had all died was hard enough to bear, without adding to the guilt by leaving their graves untended.

  In the centre of town, she looked about her. She prayed that she would not come across Thomas Waterman today, after ignoring his request that she go to Ballymor House to see him. Now, where would a person go to try to sell jewellery? It was not a situation she’d ever found herself in before. Ballymor was a small town, and there were few rich people living in the area, other than Waterman and a few other landowners and their agents. She decided to ask at O’Sullivan’s pub. As a precaution, she unpinned the brooch and re-pinned it on the inside of her dress, knotting her shawl tightly around her shoulders over it. People were desperate these days. Who knew what they’d do to get money for food?

  She was in luck. James O’Dowell himself was in O’Sullivan’s, settling up his bar bill. He had been luckier than most during these terrible famine years – he owned his own house, and had kept a good job as a foreman at Waterman’s copper mines. He’d been able to save enough to buy a passage to America for himself, his wife and three of his children. He’d lost two children to disease rather than hunger, and that had made him decide to go.

  ‘Kitty McCarthy!’ he exclaimed, as she entered the pub. ‘It’s been a long time since I rested my eyes on your fair face. I heard about your little girl. I’m so sorry.’

  She shook his hand. His grip was warm and firm. ‘Thank you. These are terrible times, to be sure.’

  ‘And how’s that son of yours? A good lad, he is.’

  She remembered that O’Dowell had given Michael the sketchbook and pencils. ‘He’s surviving. Working on the new road. Not so much time for drawing these days. But look, here’s something he drew.’ She pulled out the sketch of Waterman.

  O’Dowell studied it. ‘’Tis a good likeness, indeed. Talented lad, so he is.’ He handed it back and regarded her with concern in his eyes. ‘And you, are you getting enough to eat?’

  ‘Barely, but we are managing. Mr O’Dowell, I hear you are away to America on the Columbus soon?’

  ‘I am that. I’ll be sorry to leave the old country, but after losing our two young ’uns I think it’s time to go, see if those streets of New York are truly paved with gold like they say they are. I’m away to Killarney today, to say farewell to my sister before we leave.’ He paused, as if remembering that she’d lost a lot more than two young ones. ‘Kitty, I’m sorry. If I could help you I would, but I only barely managed to buy the tickets for the five of us. I’ll let you have any food we have left when we go. ’Tis all I can do for you.’

  ‘Maybe not all,’ she said. ‘I’m after some advice. I’ve something I might be able to sell.’ She dropped her voice. There were a couple of skeletal-looking men in the corner of the pub, not drinking, just sheltering from the cold of the day. The publican turned a blind eye to those who wished to use his premises as a temporary home, rather than walk miles back to cold, empty cottages. ‘I’ve a piece of jewellery. Tell me, Mr O’Dowell, where might I get the best price for it?’

  ‘Not here, for sure,’ he said. ‘Unless you take it to Mr Waterman, up at the big house. Perhaps he’d buy it from you.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I’ll not go to him.’

  O’Dowell frowned. ‘He’d be your best chance in Ballymor. They say he’s beginning to realise the plight of his workers, at long last, after three years of the Hunger. He’s finally wanting to do something to help.’

  Kitty gave a hollow laugh and shook her head. ‘I’d no more believe that, Mr O’Dowell, than I’d believe in the man in the moon. ’Tis not in the man’s nature to show any kindness.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Kitty, the word is he’s beginning to open his eyes to the people dying all about him. One of his grooms didn’t turn up for work one day, and when Waterman went to find the man he was with his parents, nursing them in their final hours. Skeletons, they were. Waterman’s own staff have always been well fed, and it seems he didn’t realise how bad things were. I heard he went out to the road-building site yesterday, to see for himself.’

  ‘He did, that. I saw him there.’ Kitty nodded.

  ‘And now he wants to help. Too late for so many, of course. Still, your best hope to sell the brooch is to go to him.’

  Crawling to that monster would have to be her last hope, she thought. ‘But Mr Waterman has no wife and no daughters. What would he be wanting with a trinket like this? Is there nowhere else I could sell it?’

  He rubbed h
is chin, thoughtfully. ‘You could take it to Cork. There are a few jewellers on St Patrick’s Street. I’d try there, if I were you. If you hurry now, I think old Jimmy Maguire will be going that way soon. He’ll give you a lift in his cart. Come on, I’ll take you to him.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. And, when I’ve sold it, where do I go to buy a passage on the Columbus?’

  He stopped and stared at her. ‘So you’re after wanting to come too?’

  ‘Not me. Michael. I’m hoping you’d perhaps keep an eye on him, just till he finds his feet.’

  ‘Gladly I will. He’s a good lad, like his father.’

  She did not respond to that. O’Dowell, like most people around here, assumed that Patrick had been Michael’s father.

  He described to her where in the city the office was for the shipping line, then took her arm and led her out of the pub and through the town, to a storehouse near the Cork road. A man was in the yard, harnessing a sorry-looking horse, its ribs poking through its mangy hide, to a cart which contained a pile of empty sacks. ‘Jimmy! Just the man. Will you take this lady here to Cork? She’s got some business there. Bring her back again after. She’ll be able to pay you, then.’ He winked at Kitty.

  The man looked at her suspiciously, but then nodded. ‘Climb up, then. Sit on them sacks, you’ll be all right there. I’m coming back at three, but the cart’ll be full then of sacks of cornmeal. You’ll have to sit atop of it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, as she climbed up, helped by James O’Dowell.

  Maguire smirked at being called ‘sir’, and hauled himself up. He flicked the reins and the old nag reluctantly began to plod out of the yard and along the road.

  ‘Good luck,’ O’Dowell called after her, and she waved in reply.

  Jimmy Maguire was a taciturn man, who spoke not a word to her for the entire journey to Cork. It took them a couple of hours. Kitty had only been to the big city once before, just after she and Patrick had married. They’d gone to buy furniture, pots and plates for their cottage. They’d hired a cart not unlike this one, leaving Michael with Mother Heaney, and had brought it back crammed with items to set up home with. It had been a joyous occasion. She could remember feeling overwhelmed by the number of buildings, the crowds, the shops and pubs, the magnificent churches. She’d been so happy then – with her man at her side, her future secured and so much to look forward to in life.

  There was nothing now for her to look forward to. If today was successful, it would mean she would say goodbye to her only remaining child in just a few days’ time. She would be left all alone. But Michael would be saved from the famine.

  *

  Cork city was as big as she remembered, but not as busy or vibrant. The famine had struck here too. The people they passed in the streets were as thin and gaunt as those in Ballymor, with the same look of desperation on their faces. Shops and pubs in the poorer parts of town were closed and boarded up. A crowd was gathered at the front of the storehouse where Maguire was to pick up his goods, so he drove around to the back entrance. The place was guarded by men with stout sticks. ‘The mob overturned my cart one time,’ Maguire grumbled. ‘Scrabbled at the sacks, filling their pockets, cramming uncooked cornmeal into their mouths, so they were.’

  He drew the cart to a halt in the back yard, and turned to her. ‘I’ll be leaving this place at three. If you’re wanting a lift back to Ballymor, be here by then. I’ll tell the guards to let you through the gates. Let’s hope the mob’s gone by then.’ He nodded, dismissing her, and she climbed down and made her way out of the yard and towards the city centre.

  Kitty wound her way through the narrow cobbled streets, crossed a river and eventually found her way to St Patrick’s Street, which she remembered from her previous trip as being one of the principal upmarket shopping streets. She walked along it until finally she found a cluster of goldsmith businesses – Greaves, Teulons and Jennings. She tried Greaves first, entering the premises hesitantly, knowing that she was hardly the sort of customer they would normally expect to serve, dressed as she was in her ragged dress and shawl. Nevertheless, she had something to sell and a right to be there. She took a deep breath and held her head high as she approached the counter in the shop’s dark interior.

  A thin but smartly dressed young man was standing behind the counter, writing something in a huge ledger. He looked up and wrinkled his nose as she approached.

  ‘No beggars in here. We have nothing for you. The soup kitchen is up the hill in Barrack Street.’ He glared at her expectantly, waiting for her to turn and leave.

  ‘Thank you, but I have business here,’ she said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. ‘I have something to sell.’

  He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  She untied her shawl, and extracted the brooch from where it was pinned inside her dress. With a shaking hand she held it out to him.

  He did not take it from her. He shook his head, sadly she thought, and then came out from behind the counter to hold the shop door open for her. ‘Ten minutes’ walk – along the street, cross the river on South Bridge and up Barrack Hill. They’ll feed you there.’

  ‘But – my brooch? Will you not even look at it?’

  He didn’t answer but remained standing there, holding the door open for her. She stared back at him for a moment and then left. There were two other jewellers in this street alone.

  She crossed the road to try the building opposite, upon which a painted sign swung in the breeze. Charles and Samuel Teulon – Gold & Silversmiths, it read. Feeling less confident after her reception in Greaves, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A grey-haired man was holding out a tray of rings for a well-dressed lady, who sat on a velvet-upholstered chair, to peruse. He looked up as Kitty entered, and turned a shade of puce.

  ‘Out, woman! You’ll get no charity here!’

  ‘Please, sir, I have something to sell,’ she begged. ‘Please look at it at least.’

  ‘Indulge the woman,’ said the lady in the chair. ‘Who knows, perhaps she does have some sweet little trinket that may be worth the cost of a meal to her.’ She smiled at Kitty, but the smile was false and did not reach her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Kitty said, dipping in what she hoped was an approximation of a curtsey. She held out the brooch to the grey-haired jeweller, who took it from her and inspected it through an eyeglass.

  ‘Pah. Worthless. A nice enough design, but made of nothing but copper.’ He handed it back.

  ‘But, sir, ’tis my belief the metal is rose gold! Please, look again!’ She thrust it back towards him, but he’d turned away.

  ‘It’s copper, woman. I know my trade. Rose gold does not tarnish black and green like copper does. Look for yourself!’

  She did look at it, and realised he was right. Mother Heaney must have fooled herself that the brooch was valuable. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks before she could stop them. All her dreams, her plans, evaporated like mist on a summer’s morning.

  ‘Charles, give her a shilling for it, would you? She looks like she needs to eat. She’s probably got a cottage full of starving children somewhere. Have a heart, Charles!’ The lady in the chair reached out to the jeweller and gave him a beseeching look.

  He returned to Kitty and held out his hand for the brooch. Turning it over he said, ‘Very well. I’ll give you one shilling for it, as an act of charity, to feed your children.’

  ‘Sir, my children are all dead, except for my eldest who is a grown man now.’ The words were out before she could stop herself.

  ‘Your children are all dead, but you still live and walk and only now try to sell your valuables to save yourself?’ gasped the lady.

  ‘I wish that I were dead instead of them,’ Kitty replied, her head bowed.

  ‘Well, I think the less of you now that I find you have let them die,’ the lady said, turning her face away.

  Kitty sighed, her head dipping still further in despair. Bu
t then the woman’s words sunk in, and she raised her head defiantly.

  ‘Madam, I did not let my children die. ’Tis the government that has done that.’

  The woman stood up in front of her and sniffed loudly. ‘I’ll have you know my husband is a member of that government you accuse.’

  ‘Then tell him about me,’ Kitty said. ‘Tell him there are thousands like me. Tell him about my children, wasting away one by one even though I went without food myself that they might have more. Tell him about the workhouses, crammed with four times as many people as they were built for, where disease spreads like a plague of rats, from where none come out except in a coffin. Tell him—’ she was crying openly now, her voice high and shrill ‘—to open soup kitchens in every town. To pay double on the work schemes. To import more food and ensure it gets to where it is needed. Your husband, madam, can make a difference and stop more children from dying. It’s too late for my own dear little ones.’

  The woman stared at her, speechless, then sat back down in her chair, facing the jeweller.

  ‘Charles, may we return to our business now? Send this creature out, with or without her shilling as you see fit.’

  ‘Without her shilling, I should think,’ said Mr Teulon, his tone stern and disapproving.

  Kitty turned on her heel and left without another word. She was exhausted, with no more fight left in her.

  There was one more goldsmith. Perhaps Mr Teulon had been wrong, and the brooch was rose gold after all. But in the third goldsmith’s shop, the reaction was the same – the brooch was valueless. In this shop – Jennings – she was served by a kind-faced elderly man. He shook his head sadly as he told her the brooch was nothing but copper, probably from local Cork mines.

  She tucked the brooch away inside the bodice of her dress and turned to go, but as she reached the door he called her back. ‘Take this, at least, for your journey home,’ he said, and passed her a bundle. Inside was a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese wrapped in paper. ‘It was to be my lunch, but your need is the greater, so it is.’