‘Really, Mamma, you should see a doctor.’
‘I’ll be fine, dearest.’
Elizabeth knew she could not afford a doctor. She was not even sure if there was still one in the district, as most of the well-to-do were leaving the country in droves. Lucy hurried from the room and quickly returned with a large measure of brandy.
‘Here, Mamma, drink this. It will ease the pain and help you get some sleep.’
Elizabeth took the glass and sipped at the pungent liquid. It tasted foul, but she could feel it warm her and she managed to drink almost half of it. Lucy brought her nightgown and helped her to slip it on.
‘Thank you, Lucy dear. I’m so sorry,’ murmured Elizabeth.
‘It’s not your fault, Mamma. It’s these terrible times and us being so poor.’
When she left Elizabeth had to bite her lip to keep from crying. She would have to do something soon to save her daughters; once Carey took over they would be in dire trouble. Around sixteen pounds remained in her savings and she had been keeping that for an emergency.
A plan had formed in her mind over the past few weeks. She had a cousin, Andrew, in America. He was doing well, and though married for many years, was childless. He would surely find it in his heart to take her in with the children. Like it or not she wasn’t going to give him the chance to refuse. This is it, she thought, as the effects of the brandy took hold, they would get passage on a ship and sail to America. Just as soon as her hip was healed, they would leave Maycroft Hall forever.
ELEVEN
Timmy woke up in a panic. He couldn’t breathe properly. Despite the freezing cold of the room he was sweating. His throat felt dry and sore and every bone in his body ached. It felt as though the skin at the back of his throat tore each time he tried to call out to this mother. His legs were unable to take his weight and he realised he would have to crawl. They had all taken to sleeping in the kitchen for the past few months, in the hope that the fire would keep them warm.
It must be almost morning, he thought, although it was hard to tell as the wooden shutters on the window had been closed tight. This didn’t stop the cold from seeping inside and icy patterns, like silver spider webs, had formed on each shutter. The fire was out and only the milky-white light that squeezed between the slats of wood lighted the room. Its ghostly glow seemed as thick as fog in places, and he felt he could reach out and touch it.
Sweat dripped down his face as he crawled and the freezing stones of the floor burned beneath his fingers. The room that had always seemed too small to accommodate the six of them, now felt as big as an acre field, and he was panting when he reached where she slept. Reaching out, he grasped her sleeve and shook her awake. She opened her eyes, looked at him and smiled. He tried again to speak, but it was too painful. Her smile disappeared as she sat up.
‘Sweet Mother of Jesus,’ she pulled him to her, ‘you’re burning up.’
His mother rose and wiped the sweat from his forehead before laying him in her place. She pulled the dress over her shift.
‘I’ll get some fresh water from the well. It’ll cool you and you’ll feel better.’ She looked down at him, wringing her hands and repeating the same thing over again like a prayer to still her pounding heart. ‘Yes, you’ll soon feel better.’
Timmy felt odd, hazy and dreamlike. Always sensitive to sights and sounds, his senses were now heightened even further. The snap of the door opening was a pistol shot. The icy blast that swept inside hovered around him, but he was not aware of its chill. He listened to spiders scurrying in the turf pile and, from somewhere close by, the scratching of a mouse. His father’s thunderous snores shook the bed.
His head was lifted and he felt the cold cup against his lips, but he had not the strength to drink from it. He wanted to sleep; he was falling, falling, warmth engulfing him. He wanted to surrender to its folds, to sink into its softness, but instead he was shaken towards wakefulness as something was pushed between his teeth. A trickle of cold water ran over his parched tongue and burned the back of his throat. He spluttered and tried to protest, but the spoon was refilled again as his mother allowed it to drip between his lips. His mother lay next to him and held him. She was singing and he felt a dampness on his face, but it didn’t bother him as he relaxed to the lullaby from long ago. He was drifting deeper and soon could no longer feel his mother’s tears on his skin.
Next came the jolting of a cart. Timmy was bundled up and lying on his mother’s shoulder as they trundled along. He tried to open his eyes and see whose cart it was, as they didn’t know anyone who owned one.
Unbeknown to him, it had started snowing before dawn. The glare of sun on snow was too much for his eyes, and mercifully he was forced to keep them shut. They were on their way to the infirmary in the funeral cart, their seats the empty coffins.
When Timmy woke again he was in a strange bed and the helpers told him he had slept for many days. He was barely able to lift his head and was tormented with a great thirst. He asked for jug upon jug of water and drifted from day to day, waking only to relieve himself into a pot beside the bed, or to drink more icy water that tasted sweet as honey. The moans and screams of his fellow sufferers were no more to him than vague, nightmarish sounds that disturbed his sleep. Slowly, the mist lifted, and he struggled to rejoin the world of the living.
When he was well enough to sit up Timmy realised, with horror, that the dreadful visions of his fevered dreams were real. The tortured creatures, whose cries and smells permeated his sleep, surrounded him. He hugged the foul-smelling blanket as he gazed in terror around the large room, counting some thirty beds, with two or three people in each. He thought how lucky it was that he had a bed all to himself, but it was too small to fit anyone else. No one stopped to answer his questions, as he huddled beneath the blanket trying not to cry. A sound beside his bed made him look up and he caught the eye of a woman who was emptying his urine pot into a large bucket. The stench was sickening, and he held the blanket over his nose and tried not to breathe too deeply.
‘Well, you’re back with us, are you?’ she asked, dropping the pot back into its place. She moved to the end of his bed before pausing to look back at him. The smell was not as bad now that she had moved away. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones, God knows,’ she continued. ‘There’s not many recover. Most only leave this place like that poor soul,’ she gestured to where a body was being lifted onto a makeshift stretcher. Timmy watched wide-eyed as the thing that had once been a man was carried by. Its chin hung down almost to its chest and the mouth stretched open in a manic leer. Eyes were only hollows in a face that was swollen and misshapen. They watched the small procession as the body, accompanied by a praying priest, left the room.
‘Ah, sure, he’s better off out of this,’ the woman said. ‘His suffering is over, and here we are still awaiting our fate. God know it’s the dead that are the lucky ones.’ She bent once again to pick up her putrid cargo.
‘Please, missus.’
She looked quizzically at him ‘Well, what do you want, boy? I haven’t all day to be chatting. There’s plenty more besides you that need seeing to,’ she placed her hands on her hips and painfully straightened up.
‘What day is it?’ asked Timmy.
‘Well, b’God is that all you want to know? What day it is?’
‘No,’ he stammered.
‘It’s a Thursday, boy. The month is March and the year, God help us, is 1846. Is that enough information for you?’
March! He couldn’t believe it. He had gone to sleep in mid December! Could he really have been ill all that time? She could see how puzzled he was, and although there had been many times over the past few months, when she believed she could no longer feel compassion for anyone, his plight moved her. Walking around the bed, she dropped wearily onto it.
‘Has my mother been here in all that time?’
‘There’s no one allowed to visit here, boy. It’s the sickness you see; it’s easily caught. Like you, I’ve had it and got
over it. For some reason God, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t take me. He took my husband though, with our two sweet children, and left me, Maggie, all alone.’
Timmy reached out his hand and placed it on top of hers. She stroked the skin that felt soft beneath her calluses.
‘I’ve nothing left, boy, that’s why I stay here. That and the bit of food they throw me from time to time. In truth I’m waiting for death, and when it comes I’ll welcome it with open arms. That’s the way ’tis, I’ll not lie to you, but enough of my old guff. What about you, eh? Tell me about your mother and family.’
Maggie listened as he told her about his brothers and sister and their cabin. He made it sound like a palace with its roaring fire and comfortable chairs. Most of all he talked about his mother, how beautiful she was, and how he would some day buy her a shop-bought dress and shawl. He spoke about the stream, his friend Martin, their games and stories. He realised that, as she listened, her eyes lost their anguish and a smile crept to her worn features. He told her all about his mother’s special dish with the blue flowers on it and then, because of the fever, or perhaps because of the feeling of happiness his old memories gave him, he told her about the reading lessons.
Maggie’s eyes grew wide at this information, and she held up a hand to silence him while furtively looking around to see if anyone had heard, ‘You can read, boy?’
‘Yes, and write too.’
She brought a hand to her mouth to still a cry. Wasn’t that exactly what she had been doing with her own children, teaching them to read and write? There were many more like her. Women, that in the dead of night and with the aid of a lone candle, taught their children to read, so that they might better themselves and not remain slaves like their parents. She had often wondered, if women the world over felt the same about words or if it were just the Irish. Her dreams had died with her family, until now. Here, amid the stench of urine and vomit, she had found a gem. A boy with a spark that rekindled the fire in her heart, and in such a place as this, where hope had long been abandoned.
With Maggie’s careful tending Timmy got better. She begged, stole, did whatever she had to, to get food. She did things she couldn’t bear to think about and had this been normal times she would have felt shame. But, these were not normal times, and if one need could feed another, then so be it. Her boy, her Timmy, was thriving. Although his body still showed the telltale signs of typhus and he still scratched at the angry red rash that covered him, the fever was gone.
Soon Timmy was up and about. The doctors wanted him to leave, as they feared a relapse. With a heavy heart Maggie sent him on his way with bread, meat and cheese from the kitchen bundled up in her shawl.
‘God speed you, child,’ she said, kissing his forehead. ‘Stay to the fields, avoid the roads.’
He understood what she meant. She had spent the last few days warning him about the new danger that stalked the land. More virulent than typhus, this disease was starvation.
Knowing he had many miles to go, Timmy walked slowly on in the morning sunshine. Something had been bothering him since he left the hospital, and it wasn’t until now that he realised what it was … the silence. Usually there would be cattle lowing and sheep bleating. He couldn’t hear anything of nature. Even birdsong was missing. It felt as though the whole world was holding its breath.
He shivered and pulled the neck of his jumper closer to his chin. He looked to his left and right, hoping to see or hear someone or something. There was nothing, other than a faint breeze stirring the grass and the sound of his breathing.
Timmy was relieved to finally find a laneway. This rough, dirt track meant he was bound to meet people. And it was not long before he did. But the people were not what he expected. Each one was more frightening than the last. Skeletons with gaping mouths and sunken cheeks passed by him, unseeing. They walked with outstretched hands, pleading for something, anything, to appease the terrible hunger. Most were naked, although others still had some rags hanging off their jutting bones. Briars, bushes and the elements made short work of their clothes. He thought these were monsters or some hideous undead things that had crawled from the bowels of the earth to invade his world. He hid in ditches when he saw them coming in the distance, and covered his ears to block out the horror of their moans and shuffling feet that raked the earth before them.
He saw the carcasses of many burnt cabins littering the landscape. Remnants of furniture or broken pots were the only proof that anyone had ever inhabited them. He walked over bridges and heard voices from beneath; the sound of women and children crying seeped through his toes. Makeshift shelters were everywhere, in ditches or under trees. The occupants crawled out as he passed and he shied back in horror. What little flesh remained on their bones was yellow or black.
Small black puddles stained the road where the dead were piled. The smell of rotting meat made him retch and, moving closer, he saw that the puddles were large clots of blood. The worst sight of all awaited him as he rounded the last hill before home. A group of children huddled together around the fallen body of what he imagined was their mother.
‘Are you all right, can I help in any way?’ He touched the shoulder of the child nearest to him. It turned, snarling, and he stared in dis-belief at the bloodstained mouth. They were feeding off the corpse.
‘No!’ he screamed, ‘no, this is not happening!’
The children watched him as he took the food from the shawl and broke it into chunks. These he scattered on the road as though he were feeding hens, and watched as the children dived on the food. They grabbed and tore at one another as they crammed the morsels into their mouths. They behaved and looked like wild beasts with dirty, limp hair hanging around their faces and nails as long as talons. When they had finished they turned to him for more, and he held up his hands to show he had nothing. They didn’t seem to believe him and advanced until they circled him.
‘Look,’ he held up the shawl. ‘This is all I have left and you can’t eat that.’
The smallest child reached out to take it from him and he drew back, hugging it to his chest. This was all he had left of Maggie, and he wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. If, however, they decided to attack he would be finished. A sound from behind him drew their attention away. One of them was vomiting. The food had been too rich for its stomach and the child was spewing onto the ground. The others ran over and for an instant he thought there was some streak of humanity left in them. That they were hurrying to the aid of a sibling. Instead they fought one another for the vomit. So bad was the hunger that even the child who had been sick, tried to push it back into its mouth.
Timmy started to run away from this awful scene. Sobbing and blinded by tears, he tripped and fell onto the grass verge. Empty retching shook his body and he realised, to his shame, that he had wet himself. When the retching stopped he lay face down upon the grass and waited for his head to clear. He was nearly home, he reminded himself. He was in hell now, but soon he would be home. There was a movement beside him and he sat up quickly, afraid that the wild children had followed him. It was a man, holding something out to him.
‘What do you want?’ he asked the creature who stood before him, head drooping.
There was no reply. Instead it held out its hand and offered what was in it. Timmy moved closer, puzzled, the bony fingers were closed over whatever it held. Grass, it was just grass!
‘I don’t understand. What do you want me to do with this?’
The man tried to lift his head; it was taking what little strength he had left to do so. Slowly a face emerged from out of the hair and Timmy gasped at the green-stained mouth.
‘I can’t,’ he said, starting to back away from the hand. How could he be expected to eat grass? It was for animals and sick dogs, not for people.
He must get home, he reminded himself, taking to the road again.
At last the cabin came into view. He was relieved to find it still standing and with a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. He ra
n towards it. The pig was no longer furrowing in the yard, the cabin door was locked and not a sound came from within.
‘Ma,’ he called, banging against the door. ‘Ma, it’s me, Timmy, I’ve come home.’
The shutter on the kitchen opened slightly and he recognised his father’s voice.
‘Go away, be off with you now. You’re no longer welcome here.’
‘Da, it’s me Timmy! Look!’
‘You heard what I said, boy, be off with you.’
He was frightened by the words from the disembodied voice, but before he could say any more the shutter slammed shut. He tried to peer through the wooden slats, but it was impossible to see anything in the gloom.
‘Pat!’ Inside, his mother was on her knees. ‘In the love and honour of God, Pat, let the boy come in.’
‘He has the fever, woman, do you want him to kill us all?’
‘He’s cured, Pat. Why else would the doctor have sent him home?’
‘Please, Da,’ the children begged, ‘let Timmy come in.’
‘He’ll not enter this house, not while I still have breath in my body.’
Their father picked up the stick and waved it at them, but it was no longer a threat. He could barely lift it; in place of the once strong man, stood a bony skeleton. Most of his teeth had fallen out from the scurvy and the rags that he wore were hanging from his body.
‘He’ll die if you leave him outside,’ cried his wife.
‘Then he’ll die. It’s coming to all of us soon.’
‘I’ll go to him,’ she said, but her husband caught her and held on.
‘Look around you, woman. Look at your children and think.’
She turned to her two sons and small daughter who stood huddled together by the fire. They, like their father, were no more than skeletons.
‘If you go out, catch the fever and die, what’ll become of them? I’m not long for this world myself, and then what, who will fend for them?’
Paupers Graveyard Page 9
