Georgie and the twins, along with Hallie, stood near the table in hungry anticipation. “Now you children keep your hands to yourselves until I’ve found time to prepare a proper meal,” Peggy scolded.
“Aw, Mum. Just a bite of bread won’t hurt,” Callie defended, tearing off a chunk of bread for each of them. Bridget and Billy, the twins, stuffed the whole of it into their mouths, their eyes rolling in delight. Hallie and Georgie, following suit, resembled two golden-haired chipmunks.
Thomas James strolled into the kitchen, both arms behind him, rubbing the small of his back. His tall, lean frame was stooped over at the waist, and a wince of pain dissolved suddenly as little Bridget ran up to him, demanding to be lifted into his arms. Callie saw the streaks of white at her Da’s temples and wondered if they had appeared overnight. Or was she suddenly seeing him as if for the first time? Mum was right, he did look ill.
Upon Thom’s entrance, Peggy immediately brightened. “How are you this mornin’, love? Look what Callie’s brought us. A nice boiled egg will lift your spirits, I’ll grant you.”
Thomas’s blue eyes, so much like Callie’s, twinkled. “You’re a lift to my spirits, love.” He wrapped his arms around Peggy and kissed her soundly on the cheek.
“Put me aside, man. Can’t you see I’ve got cooking to do?” Peggy’s eyes went to Callie, knowing the moment had come for the girl to explain her offering.
“Where did you come by it, girl?” Thomas asked. “Have you been rolling bones outside McDonough’s Pub with the rest of the fools who gamble a week’s wages on the throw of the dice?” Thomas was teasing, knowing Callie was much too thrifty to risk her money in a game of chance. Still, his eyes found hers and would not release them until she answered.
“It was a shameful thing I did, Da. There was this basket, all stuffed with the best groceries in all Dublin, and no one was near it. No one! A basket, filled with food during these hard times, and no one to watch it. It was just begging for me to bring it home. So I did.” Thomas looked at his oldest daughter. He’d never known her to lie, but her tale was close to unbelievable.
“I ask you, Da. Would you have left a basket such as this without a care as to who might pick it up and bring it home to their poor little brothers and sisters?”
“Enough, Callie. I don’t want to hear any more. If you say the basket was left, then it was, and I’ll not doubt you. The James’ family is certain to come into a little luck every now and then. It’s the law of averages, I’d say.” Still, Thomas’s gaze did not leave her until one of the children begged to sit on his lap. Sitting down and lifting Billy onto his knee, Thomas turned to Peggy. “I think it’s best, love, that we not tell your sweet sister Sara about our good fortune.” There was a knowing look about him as he spoke. “I wouldn’t want the poor deprived woman to be jealous of the likes of us Jameses.”
Hallie giggled. “Oh, Da, how could Aunt Sara be jealous of us? She lives in that fine house, and look at the pretty clothes she wears. And Uncle Jack is always jingling pennies in his pocket . . .”
“And why shouldn’t she be jealous of us?” Thom pretended to scold. “We’ve got our own little Hallie, named for the beauteous Helen of Troy herself. And we’ve got Bridget, sweet as the saint in flesh.” He chucked the babe under the chin and made her giggle. “Oh, and of course we’ve got Billy. Now I ask you, does your Aunt Sara have a fine big boy like our Billy? And Georgie. Named him for Granda, your mum and me did. And ain’t he a fine, strapping lad? Smart with numbers and letters, too.” Thomas rose from the chair and went to take Callie into his arms. “And none in all of Ireland, or elsewhere for that matter, has our Callie. Named her for a great lady I once knew when I traveled to London. A great lady. Kind and lovin’ and forgivin’. Callandre was her proper name. Aw, but you were such a wee one it seemed too large a name to fit you.”
Callie turned in her father’s arms, laying her head against his chest. Tears swam in her eyes. She did love her Da. She did. If only he hadn’t put another babe in her mum’s belly. If only he would try harder to find work.
Resting his chin on Callie’s head, he began to croon to her, a sweet, lilting melody she remembered from when she was a little girl. “Ah, Callie, no matter how old you get and no matter what you think of your old Da, you’re still my girl and I love you.”
A shudder went through Callie as she leaned against Thom, burying her face into his shirtfront. God help her, she was as weak as her mother when it came to loving him. And God save her from ever loving another man just like him!
Callie bustled the children out of the tiny row house on McIver Street, grasping the twins, Bridget and Billy, by the hands. It seemed to Callie that for the first time in months the children were bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. She knew it was impossible that hunger and privation could be assuaged by one meal, yet it gave her a kind of peace, temporary though it might be, to know that the little ones were free from the hollow cramps of hunger.
Georgie and Hallie walked together, excited about this rare outing with their older sister. They should be in school, Callie thought bitterly. Peggy’s effort to teach them their letters was squeezed between cleaning the house and laundering the fancy clothes the English officers’ wives sent to her, not to mention Aunt Sara’s frilly petticoats and bloomers, done for half price seeing as how she was family.
Most of the public schools in Ireland had closed as a direct result of the potato blight. Towns and cities suffered for taxes, and there was no money to pay teachers. The usual education of Ireland’s working class children had been sketchy and of short duration. When a child reached the age of ten, he was sent to work in the mills or a related industry. Callie herself had enjoyed the benefits of an education until she was nearly fourteen. Times had been better then; Thomas had held a regular position at the mill, and Granda had been a steady contributor to the family from his job as all-around man for several shops along Blakling Street. It wasn’t until just before the twins were born, in 1845, that the first potato crop had failed. The crops had failed ever since, and that was three years now. Lord only knew what the next crop would bring. English and Irish newspapers were already calling it the Great Famine, but naming it and living it were two different things, as Callie well knew. What she didn’t know were the reasons.
Ireland’s population had risen sharply during the sixty or so years prior to the potato failure. Land, which had always been scarce, had become almost impossible to obtain. Even the smallest plots that would hardly yield a living were unavailable to the common man. Irish peasants led a hand-to-mouth existence. It was common to see beggars on country lanes and city streets. Employment was so scarce and so poorly paid in Ireland that enterprising men left the country to find labor jobs in England after planting their potato crop, returning only after the harvest.
The introduction of the Corn Laws in 1846 further reduced the small number of land holdings. These laws prompted landlords to turn into pasture much of the land that had been used to produce grain, and in so doing, forced numbers of Irish peasants off their rented land into utter destitution.
Because so many Irish had so little land, there was urgent need for a staple crop whose seed was cheap and simple to plant, whose harvest was easy and would feed them for months afterward. The potato, only minimally nutritious, met most of these requirements. Supplemented with buttermilk, it became the dominant crop and staple diet of the Irish. But there was great danger in being totally reliant upon the potato.
Because it was subject to spoilage and because almost no one had land enough to harvest a year’s supply of food, peasants were often compelled to go into debt to live at the barest level of subsistence. There was no substitute for the potato in the event of a harvest failure, and most Irish would be unable to buy food if such a disaster should happen. When the insect that brought the potato blight struck with its full force in 1845, tragedy was the result.
But some people never seemed to have to do without, Callie thought as she hurried the childr
en along McIver Street. Some like Aunt Sara and Uncle Jack and their precious only child, Colleen. That was why she had had to take the children out this afternoon—to avoid their telling Aunt Sara about the grocer’s basket. Aunt Sara would naturally draw her own conclusions about the windfall’s origins. Much as Mum refused to admit it, Aunt Sara was quite comfortable with the hard luck of the James’s family, and even took haughty pleasure in Peggy’s tribulations. If only Peggy hadn’t knocked out so many children, Aunt Sara was fond of saying in mild rebuke. If only she’d chosen a smart, enterprising man like Uncle Jack instead of a handsome rogue like Thom James. If only they’d learned to put enough by to see them through the hard times. If only, if only!
Callie pulled the twins along beside her at a pace that was almost too fast for their little legs. What would Aunt Sara know about it? She who had married that mewling Jack O’Brien just because he owned a dry goods store. And Colleen, that prissy arsed twit! Her, with her fancy lace drawers and nose-in-the-air manner. What would Colleen know about going to sleep hungry and hearing her stomach growl all the night through? Not Colleen with her handsome English soldier who led her about on his arm as though she were a grand duchess while Aunt Sara glowed with pride.
Things hadn’t always been rosy for the O’Briens. There was a time when they were no better off than the Jameses. But since hard times fell on the land and droves of English soldiers and their families poured into Ireland to “guard the order of the land,” Uncle Jack’s business had soared. The English had money to spend, and Aunt Sara and Uncle Jack waited with palms open. That the English were a hated reminder of Ireland’s subservience to Great Britain and in turn dealt with the Irish with a harsh type of justice meant nothing at all to the O’Briens. As long as their shop was frequented by those who had money, they would have served the devil himself. And as far as Callie was concerned, they did.
Rounding off McIver Street onto Bayard, Callie gripped the twins’ hands tightly to her sides. Horse-drawn wagons and pushcarts crowded the street, adding their noise to the calls of the peddlers and the general commotion of shoppers and workers and the men lingering outside Melrose’s Tavern. Women with dark shawls pulled over their heads bustled along, guarding their baskets of goods and keeping a watchful eye for roving bands of street arabs who were quick of hand and fleet of foot in their intent to separate a woman from her hard-earned purchases, her purse, or even the very shoes from her feet.
Bridget tugged at the skirt of Callie’s brown linsey-woolsey dress, a castoff from cousin Colleen. “Walk slower, Callie, I can’t keep up!”
“All right, then. Just a little slower until we get over onto Florham Way.” Callie was eager to cross Bayard Street onto the relative quiet of Florham Way where just a few streets down there was a park where the children could play. This was the way she had run home earlier that morning, after snatching her basket out of the arms of Mr. Kenyon.
Florham Way was a double-wide street that made traffic for the carts and carriages more orderly. Trees, still skeletal in these early weeks of March, nevertheless held a hint of green, a promise of spring. Hallie and Georgie followed close on their sister’s heels past rag shops and cobblers. Callie could remember when flower shops and glove shops and milliners lined the street, but in these hard times a body couldn’t eat flowers, and there was no money for gloves and hats. She’d heard stories of poor folk out in the countryside who had taken to eating roots and grasses, only to die for their efforts. Callie shivered at the thought. It seemed to her that she never thought of anything else these days except food and where it would come from. Seeing her little brothers and sisters with their scrubbed and shining faces walking beside her, their heads lifted and happily teasing one another, she was glad she’d stolen the groceries. At least their bellies were full and they could laugh and play. Callie was glad she had taken the basket, and if the opportunity presented itself, she’d not hesitate to take another.
Georgie and Hallie ran across the brown, stubby grass to play along a cindered path atop a bulkhead on the waterfront. The waters of the Irish Sea were wind-chafed, rolling endlessly toward shore, pushed by the salty breezes. The sun shone warm, dancing in diamond reflections off the sea, and out in the distance there were freighters and schooners, making their way to Dublin’s wharves. This was Georgie’s favorite place. He always claimed, with the intensity of a seven year old, that one day he would become a sailor and be off to see the world.
Bridget and Billy searched the mottled turf for an elusive four-leaf clover. Granda had convinced the children that if they found a four-leaf clover, it would point the way to the hiding place of leprechauns, and there they would find the pot of gold.
Callie frowned, her finely drawn brows wrinkling over the bridge of her saucily tilted nose. Georgie wanting to see the world, the twins searching for a pot of gold. It was all the same to her. There was no pot of gold, and she’d never see any more of the world than Dublin and the long, austere rows of houses on McIver Street.
Bridget’s light golden curls lifted on the brisk March wind. Her drab green woolen dress needed patching at the sleeve. Billy would be needing his shoes resoled before long. There was no escaping the worry, the everlasting sense of responsibility she felt toward them. Yet at the same time there was an anger, a hostility that she should have to take on such a burden.
The sun shone down on the mud flats exposed by low tide. The overripe smell of rotting vegetation and decaying fish caught in the swing of tide wrinkled Callie’s nose. Huge gray boulders, exposed now, stood starkly against the dark waters of the Irish Sea. Georgie would dearly love to race across the mud flats the way he could in summer. Summer, only months away, and yet no nearer than a lifetime. Summer would come, and with it, Peggy’s new babe. A new James child, a new responsibility. And what hope was there for it? Could Billy or Georgie grow to be fine, educated gentlemen like her savior from the night before, Mr. Byrch Kenyon? Would their shoulders ever be as broad, and would they wear fine cranberry velvet coats? No, she thought not.
Callie had been trying to forget Byrch Kenyon ever since she’d run away from him on the dark corner of Bayard Street, but the memory of his smile and the way he had lifted his dark brows when he laughed drew her thoughts to him again and again.
Somehow, Callie felt that meeting Mr. Kenyon was an important event in her life, even though she almost laughed at herself for thinking it. She was never likely to see him again. He had told her he was returning to America and his newspaper.
Squinting into the late afternoon sun, Callie saw Hallie and Georgie walking toward her, the freshness of the air staining their cheeks rosy. Immediately her eyes went to little Bridget who had given up the game of clover hunting to cuddle her little rag doll and sing softly to it. Swinging about, Callie searched for Billy’s bright blond head.
“Bridget darlin’, where’s your twin?” The little girl looked about, shrugging her thin shoulders.
“Georgie, have you seen Billy?” Even before his answer, Callie knew he had not.
Going to Bridget, Callie knelt down beside her. “Tell Callie, darlin’, where was Billy when you saw him last?” She tried to keep the edge of panic from creeping into her voice.
Bridget stuck her finger into her mouth as she always did when she became frightened. Her pansy blue eyes were widened. “Billy? Billy?” she called for her twin.
“Where was he when you were playing?” Callie purposely softened her tone. “Did you see where he went?”
“Billy found a clover, and he’s gone to find the pot of gold!” Bridget said, pleased that she remembered.
“Yes, darlin’, but which way did he go?” Bridget pulled her finger out of her mouth and pointed back in the direction of Bayard Street.
“Oh, my God! The traffic!” Appointing Georgie to mind the children and not to leave this spot, Callie ran to where Bridget had pointed. Wild imaginings taunted her. Billy was such a little boy, too little to know the dangers of the carts and horses. She could ima
gine him, small and helpless, being trampled beneath the wheels of a wagon or stomped beneath the flinty hooves of a ragman’s team. Looking for the pot of gold, indeed!
Pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, Callie ran the length of Florham Way back to the noise and confusion of Bayard Street, searching for a bright blond head. There was a break in the traffic, and across the cobbled street she caught sight of a little figure scooting between the dust bins outside the wheelwright’s shop. Billy! Already her hands itched to smack that little bottom for the worry he’d caused her.
Callie went after him, calling his name. “Billy James, take yourself out of there this minute! Billy James, do you hear me?”
A tall figure dressed in a cranberry coat and buff-colored breeches stood near the corner. The sound of Callie’s calls caught his attention, and he turned in her direction. A sudden smile lit his clean, handsome features when he recognized her. Byrch Kenyon had spent most of his day walking up and down Bayard Street, looking for her. Since she had left him in this neighborhood, he had rightly assumed she lived nearby. His hope was that she would come out either on her way to work or on an errand.
He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. To him, Callie was all that was Ireland during these hard times—young, desperate, and yet with that certain quality of determination and a willingness to defend herself. He laughed when he remembered her biting remarks and felt humbled when he thought of her desperation. Would he, given the same circumstances, have found the courage to risk the rope to feed his family?
Cinders to Satin Page 3
