by Alice Taylor
She lived alone in an old thatched house and her only companions were her dog Shep and a collection of cats. She managed her small farm herself, milking her few cows and her goat morning and evening; the neighbours who helped her with the harvest got no thanks and even encountered a great reluctance on Nell’s part to feed them on the day. She told them that it was their duty as Christians to help out a neighbour who had no husband to do the heavy work for her. My father would roll his eyes to heaven and tell her that there was not a man born who could put up with her and she would in return assure him that apart from doing the dirty work she had no need for men in her life.
Nell had her own way of dealing with her sooty chimney. One evening the previous week she had stuck the big yard brush up the chimney and brought down as much soot as she could get at. Then she put me on top of a rusty tar barrel and I climbed onto the roof, clinging on to the old brown thatch. She handed me up a furze bush and I crawled along the thatch, avoiding the sagging bits and dragging the bush after me. When I reached the chimney I stood up shakily beside it, almost afraid to look down in case I would get a reeling in my head and take a nosedive. When I had got my balance I held on to the chimney top and peered down inside. It was a black, black world down there. I dragged the furze bush over the edge of the chimney and pushed it down as far as I could and then let go, hoping that it would continue on its journey. But Nell’s sooty chimney defied the laws of gravity and the furze got stuck halfway between Nell and me. She stood below looking up at the furze bush and I stood above looking down, but neither of us could reach it.
“What are we going to do now?” I called down the hollow chimney.
“Let me alone, child, I’m thinking,” she shouted back at me, her voice muffled in the black interior of the chimney.
While Nell was thinking I sat on the thatch beside her chimney and picked the furze thorns out of my fingers. Then I began to appreciate my roof-top surroundings. At home I would never have been allowed to do interesting jobs like this one, and even though I was a bit scared on top of the roof, I was still thrilled to bits to be up there. Danger never crossed Nell’s mind and that was one of the reasons why doing things with Nell was so exciting. I was amazed at how far across the countryside I could see from this vantage point. The school looked small away across the valley, and I could see the little stone bridge with the river disappearing beneath it and then glinting again in the distance before it crept into the wood.
“Are you still up there?” Nell’s voice came through like a spirit from a dungeon. I stood up and peered down the chimney. Away below me, beneath the branches of the furze bush, I could detect movement. Because Nell’s hair was black and her face a matching tone, there was no colour contrast to outline her in the sooty interior of the chimney. From where I stood everything, including Nell, was varying shades of black, and in the midst of all this valley of mourning the thorny bush was wedged.
“Stay where you are,” she called up to me, and I wondered where did she think I was going to go.
“Why don’t you light the fire and burn out the bush?” I shouted down at her.
“Child, you haven’t a splink of sense,” she told me and I did not like to tell her that my father often said the same about herself. “I’ll bring in the tar barrel,” she continued, “and stand on top of it and maybe I could reach the bush then.”
She appeared out in the yard below. Though Nell’s appearance had never been Persil white, she was now covered in loose soot that fell like a black shower around her as she bent to roll the barrel into the kitchen. At this stage all Nell’s cats had decided that the fireplace was a danger zone and were stalking in protest around the yard, emitting loud wailing meows and waving their tails in the air. Her sheep dog, Shep, heavy in pup, sat with her snout along her outstretched paws, rolling the whites of her eyes, wondering what all the fuss was about. Nell had not wanted Shep to have pups and had guarded her with great vigilance, but she must have slipped up at some stage because Shep a few weeks previously had developed a pregnant appearance. Nell believed that it was Dan’s mongrel who had cracked her security net and vowed vengeance, but I was thrilled with the forthcoming event and every evening after school came across the fields to Nell’s house to check on Shep’s progress. I wanted the pups to arrive in time for Christmas.
Nell mounted the tar barrel, but still the bush could not be reached. Nell was not easily defeated and came up with another plan. She went into her stone cowhouse and came out with a ball of binder-twine.
“Catch this,” she instructed, sending the ball flying in my direction, expecting me to go up for it like a Kerry mid-fielder. As I was no Mick O’Connell with a high reach, the ball of twine sailed over the roof of the house into the bushes in the grove behind.
“Child,” she told me, “I’m crucified from you.”
To my mind it was hard to know who was being crucified.
She disappeared into the grove and emerged triumphant with the twine. “Now this time will you catch it,” she instructed.
“Don’t shoot it so high,” I told her, balancing myself in case I’d take a tumble down into the yard. This time her aim was so accurate that the ball hit the chimney top and before I could grasp it disappeared down the chimney. She had scored a hole in one.
“What kind of hands have you, child?” she demanded. “You wouldn’t catch my donkey if he decided to fly.”
I looked down the chimney and there below I could see the ball of twine tucked into the furze bush like a bird’s nest. Nell, I decided, had the makings of a great full-forward – her aim was deadly.
“Now, child,” she called up from below, waving another ball of twine that she had collected from the cowhouse, “this is our last chance because I’ve no more hay twine.”
This time I was ready for her and caught it in full flight but in my anxiety to capture the ball I forgot my precarious position and nearly overbalanced off the roof.
“Child,” Nell admonished from below, “will you straighten up and not be doing the fool.”
“Nell,” I protested, “I could have fallen down and broken my neck.”
“What would you be doing that for?” she asked in annoyance.
With the ball of twine grasped firmly in my hand I held on to the side of the chimney and awaited further instructions.
“Let one end of the twine down the chimney,” I was instructed, “and try to angle it in an open space in the bush,” Nell shouted up at me before turning into the house. I did as I was told and passed the end of the twine down the chimney; mercifully it continued to descend until I felt a tug and Nell called with satisfaction: “I have it! Now unroll the twine and let down the other end through a different bit of the bush.” This was easier said than done and it took much angling and swaying back and forth to get it where we wanted it. Even then it got stuck going down and had to be hauled back up again several times before we finally made it to the bottom. The rest was up to Nell. She now had the two ends in her hands and as she exerted pressure the bush gradually came away, carrying the soot before it.
I heard muffled grunts from the lower regions and called down to Nell: “Are you all right?”
“My tonsils and eyeballs are covered in soot,” she croaked up at me.
I crawled down along the roof, holding on for dear life, and felt the wet thatch soaking up through the knees of my heavy, black, ribbed stockings. I aimed for the general direction of where I thought the tar barrel was and then slid down holding firmly on to the end of the thatch and swinging my legs, feeling for a foothold. But there was no tar barrel. I had miscalculated and now my legs were dangling in mid air.
“Nell!” I screamed. “Nell, Nell!”
After a few minutes she came around the corner of the house rolling the tar barrel. I had forgotten that she had taken it into the kitchen. “Why the dickens didn’t you wait to come down on the tar barrel?” she demanded, rolling it in under my feet.
“Nell, I couldn’t see from above that
the barrel was not there,” I told her.
“How could it be out here when I had it inside?” she complained.
“I forgot that,” I said.
“Aren’t I the lucky woman not to be cursed with children,” she told me.
When we went back into the kitchen I came to a standstill at the doorway in amazement. “Nell, it’s like the hobs of hell,” I said in delight.
“Will you make yourself useful,” she told me, “and start brushing it out so that the cats can come in.”
We spent the rest of the evening getting rid of the soot, and by the time darkness fell we were back in action with a huge fire roaring up the chimney. So even though my father did not know it, Nell’s chimney had very little need of Black Ned.
Now, a week later, as I arrived into Nell’s yard with the holly, there was no trace of Shep, which was unusual, but I was so intent on my mission to decorate her house that I forgot to pursue the matter. Nell was not overenthusiastic about having her house decorated, but because I promised that I would remove everything after Christmas I gave her no grounds for opposition.
“Christmas is only for children and fools,” she told me, and then she chuckled and added: “Maybe for that reason we both qualify.”
The highlight of Nell’s Christmas as far as I was concerned was the parcel she got from relatives in America, and it amazed me that Nell’s relations could be so out of touch with her requirements. They sent her things that were beautiful and useless, but because Nell never parted with anything they were all put to some use. The previous Christmas a low-cut, white nightdress had arrived, wrapped in soft white tissue papers and smelling of exotic perfume. Nell had put the nightdress around the top of the milk churn and used it for straining the milk.
As I put up the holly I spotted strange wrapping on top of the settle, empty of whatever it had contained.
“Nell,” I said gleefully, “it’s after coming.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“You know what,” I protested; “the parcel.”
“Oh, that,” she said dismissively; “full of old rubbish.”
“But what was in it?” I demanded, even though I doubted that she would tell me.
An amused smile covered her face and she laughed out loud. “You won’t believe it,” she chuckled.
“Believe what?” I demanded.
“What came in the parcel.”
“What, what?” I demanded, jumping with excitement. Nell rarely told what came in the parcel so it had to be something very different.
“A fur coat,” she gasped between splutters.
“A fur coat!” I exclaimed, flabbergasted. Nobody in our corner of the world owned a fur coat except visiting “Yanks” and the doctor’s wife. Fur coats were regarded as the ultimate in high-class living. If you had a fur coat you had it made as far as we were concerned.
“Nell, what are you going to do with it?” I wanted to know.
“I’ll wear it going to bed on cold nights,” she told me. “You’re only codding me,” I protested. “Well,” she admitted, “I found another use for it in the meanwhile.” “Where is it?” I demanded.
“You’ll find out in due course,” was all the information I could get out of her. When Nell decided to close down communications it was useless to persist, so I gave up and concentrated on the holly while Nell went out to feed the hens. Usually when she did this Shep came back in with her but that evening there was no sign of her.
“Where is Shep?” I asked.
“You nearly forgot her with the holly and the parcel,”she accused. “I did nearly,” I admitted.
“There is a surprise for you in the duck-house,” Nell said.
“She’s had the pups!” I yelled in delight and made for the door. I ran across the yard to the duck-house, a tiny lean-to attached to the cow-house. Even I had to stoop slightly to get in. There inside was Shep, thumping her tail in welcome and surrounded by her new puppies. At first I thought that there were dozens of them, but once my eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness of the house I realised that not all the surrounding fur was alive. Under Shep and her six puppies was Nell’s new fur coat and they were stretched out enjoying its warmth and comfort. They were ready for Christmas, paw-deep in real fur.
In From the Fields
WHEN THE NIGHTS turned cold and mornings arrived wearing frosty coats, it was time to bring the heifers up from the river where they had run free for the entire summer. They had forgotten the barriers of house life and were now in a semi-wild condition, so it was all hands on deck for this major undertaking. With my father and Martin leading the way, we headed down the fields to the river valley.
Martin, who worked with us on the farm, was not much older than my brother and was full of good humour and fun. He loved singing and dancing and played the melodeon like a bird. He was a great asset when we were bringing the heifers up from the river as he calmed the situation when temperatures started to rise. When my father lost his cool it never bothered Martin and sometimes he even got a fit of laughing in the middle of one of my father’s rampages. Slow-moving, morose people got on my father’s nerves, but because Martin was light-hearted and quick-thinking my father was very fond of him.
My mother alone was allowed to opt out of the undertaking, pleading that she was not able to run fast enough, and we could not argue with that excuse. The ability to outrun these long-legged, fit young heifers was essential; sometimes we were convinced that several of them had Grand National possibilities. At first we formed a large semi-circle around them and edged them gently towards the first gap and they came along demurely enough, but as they were gradually eased out of familiar territory into strange fields they closed ranks into an uneasy pack, sensing trouble ahead. We held our distance to avoid exciting them, but still guided them in the right direction by waving our hands if they made a wrong turning.
Gradually they gathered speed and huddled together in a head-to-tail line, and we knew from experience that they were watching the chance for one of them to make a break for freedom. Sometimes it would be the leader of the pack, but it might be any one of them back along the line, so we had to be prepared for flight from any angle, for if one of them broke ranks there would be no holding the rest of them. My father believed that family history had to be taken into consideration when anticipating trouble.
“Watch that small black bitch – her grandmother always had her head up looking for trouble,” he shouted.
Two of us ran ahead to block off possible avenues of escape and all went well until we reached the field below the house and they saw the farmyard. Some instinct warned them that they were losing their freedom and they decided that this far and no further would they go. Instead of one of them making a drive for freedom as we had anticipated, three of them made a bid for it simultaneously.
“Stop that bloody rip!” my father shouted at me when a heifer, rolling the whites of her eyes, tried to trample me underfoot. “Don’t let her get away,” he yelled, impervious to the fact that he might wind up minus one daughter. I stood my ground, waving a branch desperately under her nose, trying to convince her that I would not be moved. She backed off at the last minute, just when I was beginning to think that she was going to give me a free ride on her horns.
We succeeded in holding two of them, but the small black one, as my father had warned, had generations of revolutionary blood in her veins. She broke through and headed back down to the river with her tail flying high. She was called the Blackbird after her mother and a line of grandmothers, and watching her in full flight one could only conclude that she was well named. My father sent such a litany of curses after her that if they had had the power to ignite she would have been cremated on the spot.
“Follow her,” he called to my brother, the proud owner of many medals for being fleet of foot, who now tested his athletic skill against the Blackbird. She had a head start but he had more brains. He took a short-cut across one field and when she reached the botto
m gap he was there before her, much to her amazement, so she turned tail and headed back up towards us. On her return she shot into the middle of the herd, breathing heavily and tossing her head, which had the effect of sending charges of nervous tension through the rest of them. All it would take now was one false move to send them stampeding in all directions. They were throbbing with excitement and fear of the unknown.
“Don’t excite them!” my father shouted furiously and immediately had just that effect. We waited for them to steady down a bit and then eased them through the gate into the haggard; the cow-house door was straight ahead of them now, but how to convince them to put their heads through it was the problem. The only way was to form a human chain around them and give them no other avenue of escape, but there was no guarantee that any minute they might not decide to either break the human chain or simply jump over it. Slowly we edged them forward. We were almost there and all our nerves were stretched to breaking-point when suddenly a cat shot out the door against them. The terrified heifers bolted in all directions and we scattered before them like straw in the wind.
“Jesus, Mary and holy St Joseph,” my father prayed, “where did that frigger of a cat come from?”
Some of us had slipped on our flight before the heifers, so now knees and backsides were many shades of green, but the predominant colour was fresh, smelly green as excited cattle are prone to frequency in both bowel and urinary tract. We were back to square one but we were even a degree worse because now the cattle were scared stiff and instead of being in a herd were all over the farmyard. Martin decided then that we should take them in smaller groups and I was warned by my father to lock up the whole cat family or he would strangle every one of the bastards with his bare hands. After that we took them in pairs, and once we had the first two in, the rest fell into line easily enough. Finally they were all installed, much to our relief.
