‘Ma, let me do it.’
The earth released the first group of potatoes almost gladly, and he watched as she leapt upon them and rubbed away the soil. The first one she picked did not please her and she moved on to the next. It was the same with this; it was cast aside, as she scrabbled in the dirt for another one. Timmy didn’t know what to think. He reached for the potato she was holding. She was staring at it as though it was a foreign object. He almost had to prise it from her hand, and gasped in disgust, as he felt his fingers sink into its slimy, stinking softness. Standing up, he looked at the sodden mass, and for the first time realised what had happened.
‘Is this it, Ma? Is this what you felt?’
‘Yes, child, this is what I felt, though I never in all my life thought it would be this bad. I imagined some loss of life, but this is death for all of us.’
A shadow blocked the sun. His father was standing over them. Usually he would berate them for slacking and Timmy waited for the chastisement. But instead of his fearsome father, there was a broken human being, holding a fistful of decaying potatoes in front of him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at his wife for words of comfort, anything that could appease the terror he was feeling.
She got up, and for the first time, Timmy saw his mother take his father in her arms. ‘I know, Pat, I know,’ she murmured.
The potatoes were bad, but did that really matter so much? Two-thirds had already been dug up, and were still stored in the deep pits, until needed. What did it matter if some had died? More would grow next year. They could plant the good ones, and the following harvest would surely yield a better crop.
He became aware of the sounds coming from the other fields. At first it seemed like a low keening, which he had heard many times before at wakes, when the women cried for the loss of a loved one. Then it intensified in volume until it filled the air. Timmy gathered his siblings closer to him and they huddled together, listening. The keening gave way to screaming, and little Rose tried to burrow beneath his jumper in fright. His mother hurried them from the field.
Once inside the cabin, she started to light the fire, although she usually did this only when it was cold or to cook. Timmy went over to the turf pile, took some sods from it and carried them back to the fireside. She was kneeling on the hearth blowing the kindling to help it catch fire, and his hand brushed against hers as he laid the turf beside her. She felt cold and her skin was whiter than usual. His father sat in his chair and said nothing, but his eyes had a faraway, haunted look. The children were mute; they knew there was something wrong, but had no idea what it was. Placing the sods carefully on top of the kindling, she watched until she was sure they would light. Then she went to the pile of potatoes in the corner and picked out enough to feed them, carefully looking at each one as though weighing and measuring it to assess its value. She scrubbed them free of dirt, before sending Timmy to the well. He took the bucket and ran off, glad to be free of the overpowering silence. He returned quickly and his mother emptied half of the water into the large black pot. She laid the potatoes inside before finally hanging the pot on the blackened firearm and swinging it over the blaze. They all listened to the crackling of the fire and watched as flames reached up and caressed the pot’s sooty bottom. His mother also watched from her chair, mesmerised by an action she had seen countless times before.
If Timmy had closed his eyes, this could be any normal day and the events of the past hours only a dream. But there was a fire lighting, when there should not have been and they were going to eat at a time when they never did. The meal was eaten in silence. When they had finished, Timmy got up and started to clear the table, but his mother stopped him.
‘Be a good boy and take your brothers and sister for a walk.’
His brothers were up in a flash, but Rose was cranky. She wanted to sleep; the unexpected meal had made her content and drowsy, and she wanted to cuddle up with her mother.
‘Come on, lazybones,’ he teased her. ‘We can go to the stream and see if there are any fish there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
She looked up at him doubtfully.
‘Listen,’ he draped an old scarf around her shoulders and knotted it beneath her chin, ‘we might even see a fairy fish with golden scales and a silver tail. Wouldn’t you like that?’
She smiled happily. Timmy led her outside and they started across the fields towards the stream. He made up stories about fairies and imps and faraway lands as they walked. His father said that Timmy did too much dreaming, and that he could not imagine how he found his way home at times with his head so far up in the clouds. His mother insisted there was nothing wrong with dreaming, and that some of the best things ever had started with a dream.
It seemed that many of the other parents had the same idea, as Martin called out to him to wait. He had his six siblings in tow, and Timmy could see other children walking towards them across the fields.
‘So,’ Martin caught up with him, ‘they sent you out too?’
‘Yes, they seem to be very upset by the loss of the potatoes.’
‘By God,’ Martin snorted, ‘you’d think the world was coming to an end.’
‘Did you save most of your crop?’
‘Yes, that was done over a month ago. That’s why I can’t understand it.’
Reaching their favourite spot on the bank, they sat down. The smaller children threw stones or trailed branches in the water, while the bigger ones climbed trees and swung upside down from the branches. The older ones came and sat beside Timmy and Martin and all the questions were the same. What was going on? How did it happen? Where did it come from? They frightened each other with stories of potato rot and famine. Many had heard these words bandied about by parents, who were so out of their mind with worry, they no longer cared if the children had overheard. They all thought Timmy would have the answer. Wasn’t it he who calmed their fears when they first heard the fearsome tale of the headless coachman? The dark coach, it was said, that roamed the roads by night in search of the dying. Some of the smaller ones had snivelled in fear and even the bigger ones gulped loudly.
‘Comes to collect you when you’re dying?’ Timmy had scoffed. ‘How can he see where he is going when he has no head?’ He had laughed loudly at the idea, and that had shattered the tension. From then on, if something was wrong, Timmy was expected to provide the answers. But on this day he had nothing to say, he was as much in the dark as anyone. They played and talked for hours until hunger and cold sent them hurrying home.
They were greeted by the delicious smell of newly made potato cakes. There was no sign of their father, and Timmy guessed that he had gone to the tavern. Whenever there was trouble, be it sickness or shortage of money, his father always seemed to have enough for a pint and found great consolation in its depths. Their mother greeted them warmly, although her eyes still had that frightened look. She tutted and fussed over the baby, taking her to be changed in the other room. Timmy washed his hands and had to bully his brothers into doing the same. They had set the table and were sitting expectantly when she came back and placed the baby on the bench next to Timmy.
The smell of this favourite food made their stomachs rumble. Their mother smiled and cut into the first one. They could see that it was more flour than potato, but it smelled lovely. She cut it into four triangles and placed a slice before each of them. Small pieces were broken off and stuffed into impatient mouths. This was washed down with buttermilk, and when all were finished, they began to get up from the table.
‘Would you like another bit?’ their mother asked.
They looked at one another before sitting back down, and watched in awe as she brought the second cake and shared it out in the same way. Rose had already had enough and her second slice lay untouched when the boys had finished eating. Before his mother could offer it to them, Timmy spoke.
‘Have some yourself, Ma. We’re full up and it will only go to waste.’ He glared at his brothers, who eyed the slice like hawks.
‘Well, maybe I’ll eat it later.’
‘Have it now, Ma, while it’s still hot,’ insisted Timmy. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea to go along with it.’
He swung the kettle over the fire. Rose’s head was drooping, so he motioned to Tom to take her to bed and for Peter to follow. The kettle was soon boiling and he used fresh leaves to make the tea. He could hear the sound of Peter singing softly to the children, who were probably already asleep. The lullaby drifted in from the next room and his mother joined in humming. Taking the cup, he left it beside her on the hearth and placed the slice of potato cake on her lap.
‘Eat it, Ma, please.’
She broke off a piece and placed it in her mouth. She just let it sit there for a while, too tired to chew and swallow.
‘Come on, Ma, have another bite.’
She picked up the cup with shaking hands and brought it to her lips. Timmy noticed a crumb on her cheek and reached over to brush it away. His gentle touch opened the floodgates.
‘Is it that bad, Ma?’ His mother was crying for the second time in two days!
‘It’s worse than you could ever imagine,’ she gulped between sobs. ‘We’re in terrible trouble. Only a miracle can help us now.’
‘But, Ma, we’ve saved most of the potatoes. We can replant the good tubers in the spring.’
‘Listen, child, you’re too young to understand how bad this is, but I’ll have to try and make you see.’ She took a deep breath. ‘What was left in the ground was meant to see us through next spring and summer, with enough left over for planting. The potatoes stored in the pits will last only until Christmas and then what? There’s nothing. Nothing, but hunger awaits us.’
‘What about, Nelly?’ His thoughts went to the fat pig in the yard. ‘We can eat her, and then there’s our wages.’
‘Most of the wages go on rent,’ she explained, reaching out and stroking his cheek. ‘There’s little left over for food. Nelly will be our last resort, for your father was planning on selling her and buying two calves. He said we’d at least have some milk and cheese from them when they were older. So she’ll be the last to go, you can be sure of that. But there’s other families will be worse off than us, God knows.’
It sounded bad, much more serious than he had imagined. Finally he asked, ‘What will happen when the potatoes run out?’
‘We’ll starve, child.’
He knew his mother was speaking the truth. She never lied to him and she wasn’t the kind that found pleasure in frightening him. ‘There’ll be rabbits, Ma, and fish. There are pheasants and wild duck. Some families have chickens and geese.’
‘Yes, but for how long? There won’t be many birds around in the thick of winter and what rabbits there are will soon disappear. Anyway it would mean jail or worse if we were caught poaching. I dare say there will be many of the richer families that will survive, aye, and there’ll be many that prosper by what misery is yet to come. But for us, child, and our kind, there’ll be nothing but want.’
‘It’s not fair, Ma,’ his eyes filled with tears. He thought of his brothers and little sister in the next room. He was big and could muddle though somehow; they were so small and already hungry at times. And his precious mother was only skin and bone as it was … how would she survive?
Walking to the table, he stood with his back to her, hands pressed firmly on the rough wood. His mother must not see him like this, weak and childlike in his fear. He tried to stifle the tears that were building up inside him, but it was no use, they came anyway. Loud angry sobs racked his thin frame until he thought he would be sick.
‘There now, child,’ he felt her arms go around him. ‘Don’t take on so. Many will survive, I’ll swear to that this very night. We’ll find a way. Between us, we’ll keep you and your brothers and sister alive. Come, child, sit by me and listen well.’ He let her guide him back to the fire. She pulled his father’s chair over beside hers.
‘As in all such times,’ she continued, ‘it’s the strongest who survive, and that is what we must do – make you all strong enough to fight the hunger when it comes.’
He understood the second slice of cake now.
‘Take everything that is offered to you from now on, child. Don’t turn down one morsel of food, no matter what it is.’
He thought of Martin’s mother and her offer to him to call any time he was passing. Well, she would have little to give him now.
‘What about da?’
‘What about him?’
‘Will he still go to the tavern?’
‘You be respectful when you speak of your father.’
‘I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’
‘Ah, I know you didn’t,’ she said, taking his hand again. ‘There will be many changes from now on, we’ll just have to wait and see. Now off to bed with you before your father gets home and keeps us up all night with his talk of rebellion.’
Timmy got up smiling. They knew his father was very brave when he was drunk. He laid awake thinking that sleep would never come, and wondering what tales his friends would have when they all met the next evening. He thought of how God sent down manna to His people when they were starving, and how He could turn one loaf of bread into thousands. Perhaps tomorrow there would be ten pigs in the garden instead of one and ten more the day after that. After all, God did lots of miracles. Maybe He would do one for them. It didn’t have to be a big one, just enough food to stay alive.
NINE
August 2003
The murder of the dog had upset the children far more than Elizabeth could have imagined. They had become terrified of Black Jack, and the slightest look from him sent them running to her for protection. They had taken to spending more time beneath the earth, hiding. Black Jack, on the other hand, was growing stronger and bolder by the day.
The last of the houses were almost completed. Most of the builders had finished and been replaced by plumbers, electricians and landscapers. A stream of security men came and went, but no one stayed for long. Most did not last the night and the boss was completely frustrated trying to coax men into taking the job.
When the latest recruit arrived, Timmy and the others went to see what he was like. They watched him hang up his coat and unpack his bag. He placed a container and cup on the desk along with a paper-wrapped bundle. Turning to the bag, he took another parcel from it and a hammer. With this, he fixed a nail high on the wall opposite the desk. Soon a sad-eyed Christ gazed down at them. The light from inside was dazzling, and it was only when he put his coat on and came outside to do his hourly inspection that they were able to get a proper look at him. He stood in the doorway, pulling on gloves, and was almost frightened senseless to hear his name whispered.
‘Paddy!’
Timmy was amazed to see it was the man called Paddy. The same man who had tried to stop the digging.
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Paddy.
Timmy walked slowly towards him followed by the others.
Paddy had lowered himself onto the doorstep. His first instinct had been flight, but he was not sure that his legs were capable of it. He watched the advancing group, eyes darting from the crucifix on the wall to the only weapon available, the hammer. The children stopped just feet from him and eyed him warily. For the hundredth time that night he cursed his decision to take this job. He had known of the boy-thing’s existence. Had heard the stories going around about the site and yet he had felt compelled to come. As if some magnetic force was drawing him to this place, to his destiny. He wasn’t a coward, far from it, but looking at the ragged group of skeletons standing before him made him quiver in terror. Raising his hand to his forehead he began to make the sign of the cross, and watched fascinated as the assembled group did the same. As suddenly as it had come, the fear left.
‘There’s more than one of you, then?’
The children looked at one another in wonder and the whisper went about, ‘he can see us’. A girl pushed her way from the centre of the group and face
d him. ‘My name is Katie.’
Paddy had to remind himself again not to scream, as he looked into the sunken eyes of the dead child. From inside the cordoned-off section of the graveyard he could hear someone calling and the children reacted at once.
‘Katie, come on!’ the boy-thing came forward and pulled her back. They turned as one and started to walk away.
‘I mean you no harm,’ Paddy called after the retreating figures. He watched as they walked towards the boundary, wondered if there was a small gap in the thicket where they could get through. The light was fading and it was difficult to see, but he held his breath as he watched them disappear, one by one. Only the boy turned and looked back at him, before he too blended into the greenery.
Elizabeth listened in awe to their stories about the man who could see them. She looked at Timmy for confirmation of this and he nodded. The children lay down in the grass and cuddled together. Timmy and Elizabeth stood listening until the chattering and laughter faded away and the earth and its darkness once again welcomed them.
‘So,’ she put her arm around his shoulders, ‘tell me about this man.’
He told her the man’s name and about how he had seen Timmy on that first day.
‘Will you talk to him?’ she smiled, already knowing the answer to this.
He laughed in reply.
‘I thought as much. But do take care. There is still so much we don’t understand.’
Paupers Graveyard Page 7
