Paupers Graveyard

by Gemma Mawdsley

  Elizabeth’s daughters were delighted that they were to visit their grandfather, as it was an excuse to get away from their books. They walked the two miles to his house.

  Her father’s farmyard was very busy, as heaps of tubers, the seed potatoes to be planted, filled cart after cart. She failed to recognise at least three of the casual labourers hired for the planting, but her father’s full-time men, Jim and Matt, saluted her and Mick called out to her as always, ‘Hello there, Miss Lizzy.’

  She smiled, the others had taken to calling her your ladyship, but she would always be Miss Lizzy to him.

  ‘Hello, Mick.’

  She hitched up her skirts and ordered the girls to do the same. While they carefully picked their way across the yard to the house, she went over to Mick.

  ‘How are you, Mick?’ She smiled into the familiar weather-beaten face.

  ‘Sad times for you, Miss Lizzy.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Mick, sad times.’

  ‘Himself is inside, and there’s no telling as to his humour.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll go right in. Say a prayer for me.’

  ‘Always, girl, always.’

  Mick watched as she walked towards the open door and was swallowed up by the darkness of the hallway. He knew she was there to ask for help, having seen it coming ever since he’d run into that Fitzwilliam in one of the local taverns.

  Elizabeth found her father at the kitchen table with his granddaughters sitting around him in silence. He looked up on Elizabeth’s arrival, but there was no word of welcome, no smile to soften the hardness in his eyes.

  ‘Hello, Father, I trust I find you in good health?’

  ‘Well enough, and too busy to receive visitors.’

  ‘I can see that, Father. I just wanted a word with you in private. It will only take a moment.’ She nodded to Lucy, who took this as her cue to take her sisters outside. When they were safely out of earshot she said, ‘I need your help.’

  He held up a hand.

  ‘If this help, as you call it, means taking you and your young ones in, you know where I stand. I’ve enough to do without having four more mouths to feed.’

  ‘But you’re doing well, Father. I saw three more labourers in the yard, and there’s a room lying empty at the top of the house. We won’t take up much space and I can help in the house.’

  ‘Mrs Riordan sees to all that.’ The daily help, if the rumours were to be believed, was far more than a housekeeper.

  ‘Then you could get rid of her. Save that wage.’

  ‘I’ll not get rid of her, indeed! I thought I was rid of you, and now you want to come back and with three more along with you! I’m not having you back here. Haven’t you a grand roof over your heads as it is? You don’t like your new master? Well, get used to it, my girl. There’s better than you have had to.’ He was red with anger.

  ‘He comes to my room at night, Father, tries to open the door.’ She felt so mortified at having to speak to her father of such things.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He tries to come in.’

  ‘Well let him in and maybe he’ll treat you better.’

  ‘Are you saying I should sell myself for a place to live, Father? Would you make a whore out of your only child?’

  ‘Enough,’ he banged the table with his fist. ‘You’ve said enough, madam.’

  ‘I’ve only started! My husband was good to you while he lived. It was he who gave you the horses that pull your plough.’

  ‘All that’s in the past; no good can come from bringing the dead into it. Your husband can’t help you now. Go on your way and don’t trouble me again.’

  ‘You have my word on that,’ she said, shaking with temper. ‘I’ll never see you again.’

  ‘Good.’

  The children were looking at the spring lambs when she called to them. Without waiting, she walked through the yard gate and out onto the track that would lead her back to Maycroft. Catching Mick’s eye, she shook her head and turned away, afraid he would see the tears.

  The children were breathless when they finally caught up with her.

  ‘Did it not go well with grandfather?’ Lucy asked.

  Elizabeth drew her close.

  ‘I asked if we could come and live with him, but he refused.’

  ‘Has Uncle Charles asked us to leave?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I’ve been unsettled since your father died. I’d prefer to find a place of our own, one without so many memories.’

  ‘You don’t like Uncle Charles do you, Mamma?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t like him,’ she lied. ‘We have different ideas and tastes and it is difficult to live with someone with whom you have nothing in common.’

  ‘I don’t like him either. I know you think I’m still a child, but I’m not really. I hate the way he looks at me. I always feel he’s going to bite me.’

  Becky and Charlotte came running past, shouting at their sister to play with them.

  ‘We must look out for one another from now on,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Yes, Mamma.’

  They walked back to the Hall an arm around each other’s waist, and for the first time in weeks, Elizabeth did not feel quite so alone.

  ****

  It was well into May and as yet there was no sign of summer. It rained for days on end and the children had begun to behave like caged animals, fighting and arguing all the time. Their noise brought Charles bellowing from his study on a number of occasions. Elizabeth was spending most of her time in the nursery and was unaware of his many visits to the stables. She was thankful that he stayed out each night until almost dawn and returned too tired to pay her any unwelcome visits.

  ****

  For Charles the past few weeks of gambling were beginning to tell financially as well as physically. Carey and his fellow players might be having a run of luck, but he assured himself, it was only a matter of time until his turn came. In the meantime his coffers needed replenishing. With an estate the size of Maycroft, there must be many ways of doing this. He would send for Ryan, the estate manager and set him the task. Feeling very sorry for himself, he drank almost a decanter of whiskey.

  SIX

  Endless days of rain were bad enough, but it was the cold and damp that bothered Timmy’s mother most. She needed to keep a fire going constantly and this used up most of the turf. Since her husband was working in the fields and Timmy in the stables, it was up to her to cut more in the bog. Turf-cutting mostly depended on the weather. In dry weather the turf was at least clean. Now, with the constant rain, it was proving to be a nightmare.

  Her back had been bad since the birth of Rose, a breech that had almost cost her life. She had paid a high price for her labour, taking weeks to recover. Weeks when her husband shouted at her to get up from the bed, berating her for what he saw as laziness. It was loss of blood that kept her there, and the pain that shot like fire along her lower back. Even afterwards, when he turned to her at night and she begged to be left alone, he paid no heed. Four children to feed and he still only cared for his own needs. The priests were worse for filling men’s heads with their nonsense. Increase and multiply, fill the earth. Aye, the men took them at their word.

  She had gone to see Father O’Reilly once, begged him to speak to Pat for the sake of her health and that of the children. Instead, he berated her and sent her away with her head bowed in what he though was disgrace, but was, in fact, despair.

  ‘Where there’s life there’s hope, woman. Go home and do your duty as a wife and, if that means you’re to bear more children, then so be it. It’s God’s will, and he will see you through.’

  See her through, she thought, as she heaved the old wicker basket over her shoulder. He was taking his time.

  Peter carried the spade as he walked beside her. They would have to make at least ten trips before there was enough turf to last the week. The rain had turned the bog into a soggy, puddle-dotted, swamp. The spade sliced
through easily enough, but it was hoisting the waterlogged peat that hurt the most. Each sod seemed to weigh a ton as she tore it from the earth, and her sweat mingled with the rain, so that she was soaked through within minutes. Twice during the day, she slipped and fell in the mud, wrenching and pulling her back. She had to lie breathless and allow waves of pain to wash over her until, finally, she was once again able to stand. Peter tried to do as much of the digging as possible, but the spade was too big for his hands and he was more of a hindrance than a help.

  It was late evening when they collected the last load and she was glad of the pelting rain. At least the child could not see the tears that ran down her cheeks, making tracks through the dirt on her face. She knew that there would be four hungry mouths waiting at the cabin when they got there. Despite three of them working, there was little left to spend each week on food. They put aside a large amount for rent, more for seeds, and Pat drank what she didn’t manage to get from him. It was only by going through his pockets when he fell into a drunken stupor, that she got the odd shilling or sixpence. He never mentioned its loss to her, imagining that it had fallen from his pocket in the tavern.

  Was it a wonder so many men drank, working all the hours God sent and for what? A cabin that is no more than a hovel, hoards of hungry children to feed and growing old before their time. And if they did manage to scrimp and save, what could they ever hope to buy, to own? The gentry made sure that land was out of their reach. A Catholic owning land, and maybe doing as well as them!

  But, to hear the priests tell it, they were blessed; theirs was the One True Faith. Hungry men, women and children filled the pews each week and listened to the words that kept them downtrodden. Work hard, they preached, have more children, honour God, but fear him more. Fear him more? She almost laughed. She feared everything. She feared the coming of each day, feared the look of want in her children and the knowledge that it would only get worse. It was lucky that the women of Ireland did not take to the bottle, for then the country would surely collapse.

  Once inside she dropped the heavy basket and got Peter out of his wet clothes. She took the blanket off one of the beds and wrapped it around his shivering body. She wiped at his hair with a piece of cloth to remove as much of the rainwater as she could, unaware of the sodden skirt clinging to her legs. Peter, as usual, was ravenous and wolfed down the four potatoes Timmy put in front of him, along with a bowl of buttermilk.

  Her husband sat coldly watching without saying a word. It was only when Timmy took the last basket of turf to the pile in the corner and upended it onto the growing mound that he finally spoke.

  ‘That stuff is so wet, you’ll be lucky if it dries enough to burn.’

  Peter stopped eating for a minute to stare at his father, Timmy stood with one leg on the turf pile in stony silence, and their mother, who was holding out her steaming skirt in front of the fire, just glared at him. It was probably the hatred in her eyes that sent him away to bed without another word.

  She had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself crying again. What would it cost him to say something kind? Even one small word could help to lighten the darkness for her and the children.

  Timmy laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Ma, sit down. I’ll make you some tea. That’ll warm you up in no time.’

  She allowed him to lead her to the chair and watched as he set about mashing the old tea-leaves, trying to beat some flavour from the damp, black clump, before pouring steaming water over them.

  ‘There’s to be a killing up at the Hall tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘The herdsman said I should bring a sack, and maybe there’ll be some offal and bones left over.’ He hadn’t meant to tell her, wanting it to be a surprise, but he was glad that he did, when the sadness faded from her eyes. Bones meant beef broth and nourishment for them all, especially the younger ones. He handed her the cup and she gazed down into the weak, amber liquid, sighing.

  ‘Aye that would be grand, lad, a sup of beef tea would drive the cold from all our bones.’

  Peter’s head drooped as he nodded off from the heat of the fire. She motioned to Timmy to help him to bed. After he had done so he came back and knelt before her. ‘Will you try and eat something, Ma, just a bit of bread?’

  ‘No, son, I’m tired out, and I don’t want to waste it. You can take some of it to work with you tomorrow. Lord, but I’m tired,’ she whispered into the flames.

  Timmy reached up and felt her forehead.

  ‘Ah, I’m all right, son,’ she stroked his cheek. ‘Just old and tired, that’s all.’

  But Timmy was worried. He knew that his mother wasn’t old. She was about the same age as Martin’s mother, a plump and jolly woman.

  His mother was thin and sick-looking, and rarely smiled. He wanted to ask her so many questions. Why, with the three of them working, was there so little to eat? Perhaps he already knew the answer. Wasn’t it plain to see in the fine trap and horses that Mick Dwyer, the local tavern owner, drove? Profiting from the weakness of the men, many said, and Timmy knew it was true in their case. Sometimes he wished his family were like Martin’s. There were many times, when he called in to see his friend on the way home from work, that he was greeted with a cup of tea and a hot bit of griddlecake with the butter dripping off it. He’d sit around the table with Martin and his mother, and tell them all the latest gossip from the Hall. They would listen wide-eyed in wonder to the stories about the gentry and Martin’s mother would refill his cup and cut him another slice of cake, as she urged him to tell her more. His favourite time of all was being there when Martin’s father came home. Tired from a day of casual toiling he would still come smiling through the door.

  ‘God bless all here,’ he’d call and be greeted by his wife and a flurry of children. On seeing Timmy, he’d ruffle his hair. ‘And how’s the big man? Still keeping that Hall in running order are you?’ Timmy would laugh and say he was only a stable boy, but Martin’s father would have none of it. ‘Go on with you, I heard you run that place single-handed. They say it would go to rack and ruin without you.’

  Before he sat, Martin’s father put what he had earned that day into an old china teapot on the mantelpiece. ‘That will see us through another day, Maisie,’ he’d wink at Martin’s mother, and Timmy would feel himself grow warm inside with the look she gave her husband. There was no hatred in her eyes, just the proud look of a woman well thought of by the man she loved. Now looking at his mother and remembering this, brought tears to Timmy’s eyes. His mother noticed and pulled him towards her. She smelt damp and the hand that stroked his face was rough and bumpy with calluses, but it was his mother’s hand.

  ‘I’m fine, son. You’re not to worry.’

  She had mistaken his tear-filled eyes for worry about her, and worried he was. No matter what it took, if it meant going down on his knees, he would get the unwanted offal and bones from the herdsman the next day. ‘You’ll have to get out of these wet clothes, Ma,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘I’ll do that, son, I’ve a shift hanging on the back of the door. I’ll put that on and hang these in front of the fire. They’ll be dry come morning.’

  ‘I’ll go to bed.’ He got up knowing she needed her privacy and sorry that, for the first time in over a year, there would be no reading that night. Just before he left the room, a thought crossed his mind, and he stopped and turned around. She thought he had gone and was peeling off the wet clothes. Her back was towards him and he was aghast at how thin she really was. He could have counted every bone in her back, and her once snow-white skin was covered with large yellow and black bruises. How had she come by these? His father hadn’t beaten her of late. She tugged at the piece of rag that tied up her hair and pulled it free. Her hair tumbled past her waist, reddish-brown in the light of the fire. Just for a moment, he was able to imagine how beautiful she had once been.

  Timmy crept into bed and lay down beside the others. Only then he remembered what he had meant to say to her … it was that the rain w
ould stop soon and the bushes and shrubs would be filled with wool. There had been so many new lambs born that year that, at times, it looked as though it had snowed on the fields. They could gather the wool in the evenings after work, and Martin’s mother would let her use the spinning wheel. They would have lots of wool and his mother could make them all new jumpers and a shawl for herself. That was what he had wanted to tell her and she would have smiled.

  SEVEN

  The rain did eventually stop, but it was a very poor summer that year. Things went from bad to worse at the Hall. Charles Fitzwilliam had been spending even more time in the company of Black Jack and his friends, losing heavily. His gambling debts were now in the thousands. Carey laughed it off, and let him sign ever more promissory notes. After all, he regularly assured Charles, what was a few thousand between friends?

  As his debts grew, Charles’ drinking increased, until the wine merchant’s account was outstanding to such an extent, that he refused to supply the Hall until it was settled. Charles had sold many fine paintings and priceless heirlooms were occasionally dispatched to Dublin for a few hundred pounds. The family silver shared this fate. He had descended to such a muddled state that he no longer knew what assets he had left.

  When Elizabeth realised this, though it went against all her beliefs, she started to steal little trinkets, silver snuffboxes and ivory miniatures that she knew he would not miss. On her rare trips to town, she sold these to a jeweller known for his discretion. She got only about a tenth of what they were worth, but she was saving as much as she could. Charles’ moods and outbursts were becoming worse, and twice she had to stop him from hitting the children. Lucy had grown out of almost all her dresses, but Charles refused to buy her more. Elizabeth spent days cutting and sewing some of her own things to fit the girl. The children’s education was suffering too, but she just didn’t have the heart to teach.

  ****

  August was almost out and the few fine days they had were heavy and humid. Faint breezes did nothing to dispel the stifling heat that hung about the rooms like heavy curtains. The place had been in an uproar all day. Ger Ryan, the farm manager, had been in to complain that things were not as they should be.