Peggy shrugged.
‘It seems like the kind of place we could go.’ Sarah was all excited.
‘Will you help us find jobs?’ Peggy asked the woman.
She laughed. ‘The finest jobs in Boston!’
Sarah and Peggy made a quick decision and joined the girls beside her.
John and James said their goodbyes, then disappeared into the crowd, with promises to come and visit Sarah the following Sunday. The gangs of people had begun to disperse and the waterfront to empty. There were shouts of ‘Good luck’ all around.
Margaret Halligan stood up and a young fellow folded up the chair and carried the placard.
‘Now, girls, follow me to Number 49, Empire Hill, the best home for young ladies in all Boston,’ she instructed, and marched ahead.
They walked slowly, the six girls trying to gape at the streets. They passed the magnificent City Hall. Mrs Halligan pointed out the huge markets and food hall beside it. Broad-leafed shady trees lined the streets, which were wide and clean. Mrs Halligan kept up a commentary as they went along. Soon they came to an area with narrow, winding streets, and Mags told them the names of the streets they were passing and which shops were good or bad. Most of them were too bamboozled to take any of it in. They kept firmly in line behind the large gold and black bonnet and layers of skirt and petticoat of Mags Halligan, the mother of them all! Arriving at Number 49, Peggy felt her spirits sink. It was a large stone house with ramshackle steps leading to a brown door. A green shamrock made of wood was nailed to the plasterwork at the side.
Inside the door the scent of lavender polish and beeswax fought a battle against the smell of corned beef and greens coming from the kitchen. A maid about the same age as Peggy led them upstairs to a long narrow room. Opening the door, Peggy was surprised to see more bunks.
‘Get two bunks, Sarah, quickly!’ shouted Peggy. They both made a dash for the one in the corner, near the window. Peggy took the top bunk.
‘Ye’s can all have a rest and Mrs Halligan will be up to talk to ye when she’s ready.’ The girl, who looked weary, opened the large clumsy wardrobe and told them to deposit their belongings there, not on or under the beds as it caused dust.
Peggy stretched out straight away. She was amazed at herself. She would have put a bet on a few days ago that the minute she’d leave the ship all she would do was run around Boston and explore every bit of it, and yet here she was lying in another bunk. Her legs could not get used to dry land and she felt as if she could sleep for a month. Sarah was already snoring softly.
Empire Hill, Boston, America – it didn’t matter where in the world you were, a bed was a bed and sleep was sleep …
* * *
‘Up you get, my fine ladies,’ boomed Mags Halligan a few hours later. A large starched white pinafore was stretched over her ample frame and a thickly coiled clump of auburn hair sat on top of the fair-skinned face with its broad cheekbones and twinkling green eyes.
Peggy and Sarah rubbed the sleep from their eyes and did their best to look attentive and alert.
‘There’ll be no grub served until you are all boiled and cleaned and scrubbed. I’ll not have filth or dirt in my house, so no messing and down to the washroom.’
Nancy, the young maid they had already met, led them down the corridor two by two to a large tiled room where there were two baths which belched out steam and heat.
Peggy and Sarah were both forced into the almost scalding hot water. Every bit of them had to be cleaned from top to toe. They scrubbed themselves with a thick soap which smelt of lily and once Nancy had looked at their heads, a foul-smelling shampoo was rubbed into their scalps which made Peggy feel like her brain would burst. Her eyes were streaming and her skin was so hot and pink she felt like a boiled lobster. She began to wonder if she had fallen into the hands of some crazed woman, when Nancy told her to ‘Get up out of it’, and tossed her a large grey bath-sheet to dry herself off. Sarah was coughing and spluttering in between laughing at how funny Peggy looked.
They were then led back up the hall to Mrs Halligan’s room. Sarah was told to wait while Peggy went in. Mags Halligan looked Peggy up and down and Peggy could feel herself go crimson with embarrassment. Mrs Halligan then told her to sit in a chair while she inspected her hair, lifting it up with the thin end of a comb.
‘Another one, Nancy. Fetch me the scissors.’
Nancy passed the large grey shears to Mags, who then clipped about nine inches off Peggy’s hair. It fell to the ground and lay on top of the hair from the girls before her.
Nancy next started to fine-comb Peggy’s head. After a few minutes she passed the comb to Peggy to continue.
‘Get the rest of the nits out yourself, then put these on.’ She passed Peggy a pile of clothes, all well washed and worn.
Looking at herself in a mirror, Peggy could not believe the pale-faced stick of a girl she had turned into during the few weeks at sea. But she did admit she liked being clean and fresh and rid of the constant plague of lice and itching that had afflicted her from the minute she boarded The Fortunata.
Downstairs in the kitchen the cook ladled out a thick oxtail soup, followed by corned beef served with a mound of potatoes and a bowl of parsnips and carrots. It was like food from heaven and they all wolfed it down.
Mags Halligan joined them then and plumped a large fruit soda down in front of them. She passed a mug of milky tea to each of them, along with a slice of the soda bread. For one second Peggy could almost imagine she was at home.
Mags startled them by laughing out loud to herself. ‘Twenty-five years ago I came out here with my sister Bridget,’ she declared, ‘just like the lot of you here – green and stupid and scared – and now look at me! A fine lady, respectable, with a house of my own and a good business which is growing day by day. I have six rooms let out and I look after my lodgers well. Then there is the likes of yourselves who I take in and help settle and find jobs for. I know what the fine ladies of Boston want. I’ve had twenty years of sculleries and pantries and kitchens and downstairs and upstairs. Play your cards right with me and you’ll land on your feet. I’ll get positions for you all if you follow my rules. No one likes a dirty maid, so it’s essential to look clean and presentable. Also, I know what it’s like to arrive in a strange country, worn out and hungry. I’ll feed ye and keep ye for a few days to get ye started.’
Peggy looked at Mags in admiration. What a woman, and such a big heart!
‘And what do you get out of all this?’ questioned Josie O’Donnell, a large red-faced girl.
Peggy and Sarah winked at each other. Trust Josie. She was always the first to want to know what was going on in steerage – still, she had a nerve to talk to Mags like that.
‘It’s good to see one of you with a brain in her head,’ laughed Mags. ‘I hope to get places for you all as soon as possible, but meanwhile there’s work to be done here. Domestic employment is what most of you will find, though there are the factory jobs for those that want them – machining and sewing. Naturally you’ll pay me for your keep and later there’s a fee for finding a job. Is that all clear now?’
She looked around at the six eager faces, all wondering what lay ahead of them.
CHAPTER 11
Skivvy
‘IT’S A GREAT OPPORTUNITY, Miss, so mind you don’t let me down.’ Mrs Halligan stared straight at Peggy.
Peggy was to work as a maid in a boarding house for men. She tried to smile. She should be delighted to land a job so soon, but she was nervous of being on her own and of leaving Sarah.
‘Do you think I’ll do all right?’
‘Peggy O’Driscoll, you’re a stubborn mule like myself. But you’re as bright as a button too. Helping to run a boarding house – this way you’ll be learning the ropes,’ declared Mags reassuringly.
‘I suppose so!’ shrugged Peggy.
‘Now, run and get your belongings and say goodbye to the others and I’ll bring you down the street to Mona Cavendish’s in an hour or so. It’s n
ot at the end of the earth, you know!’
In what seemed no time, Peggy found herself standing outside a gloomy wooden house in a narrow, mean, crowded street about ten minutes’ walk away from Mags Halligan’s.
‘Well, I’m not saying, Peggy, that Mrs Cavendish is the best landlady in Boston, but then she’s not the worst. She is from Liverpool originally. Anyways, it’s a start.’
A red-faced woman, her hair in two greasy coils at the side of her head, opened the door.
‘Well, is this the girl then?’ she questioned.
Mrs Halligan nodded. ‘Fresh off the boat, Mona, but a good worker.’
‘Well, I hope she’s better than the last one!’
Peggy stood, filled with misery, looking into the grimy hallway. Every instinct told her to run, but instead she said goodbye to Mags and followed the other woman inside.
‘Now, Peggy, you follow the instructions I give you and we’ll get on fine and dandy.’
The kitchen was cluttered and untidy. A halfprepared meat pie was sitting in the middle of the table.
‘Just look at the state the last one left me in,’ said Mrs Cavendish, ‘and now there’s another greenhorn to train!’
Peggy was told to brush up the peelings and dirt that littered the stone floor, and she watched out of the corner of her eye as Mona Cavendish deftly finished off the pastry and slid the pie into the huge oven.
‘Come on, Peggy, and I’ll show you what’s what! This is where they all eat.’ Two wooden tables were crowded into a long narrow room, lit by a window overlooking the street. ‘No food allowed in the rooms, you mind! It would only bring rats and such like.’
Another room was stuffed to bursting with a couch and oddments of chairs. It was heavy with the smell of stale tobacco. The curtains were yellow and hung limply at a closed window that overlooked the back yard. Upstairs on two floors were five rooms, each containing three or four beds. The beds themselves were practically on top of each other. Hooks protruded from a wall at the end and a medley of clothes hung from them. Peggy wrinkled her nose against the smell of stale sweat that swamped her.
‘Each room to be checked every day and swept out, with special care paid to under the beds – I’m telling you, nobody would believe the things I’ve found under those beds!’
‘Yes, Mrs Cavendish,’ murmured Peggy, vowing to herself to open the window of every room before she even touched anything.
They passed a closed door. ‘That’s my room,’ the owner nodded.
Peggy wondered where she herself was meant to sleep. ‘Are there any more rooms?’
‘No, Peggy, that’s as many as does. Most of the time it’s full.’
Back downstairs Peggy was still waiting to discover where she would sleep. The woman marched through the kitchen and pointed to a small cramped room beside the scullery. It should really have been a storage room, but had been turned into a makeshift bedroom with a narrow pallet bed and the tiniest window that looked out to an outside water closet.
‘It’s small, but it’s handy.’ Mona Cavendish had turned back towards the kitchen. ‘Get your bag and put your things away. There’s a great amount of work to catch up on.’
With a sinking feeling, Peggy realised she was the only maid in the place. She was tempted to grab her bag and go back and find The Fortunata and beg the captain to take her home. But it was useless. She hadn’t enough money to pay for her passage, and God knows how long it would take to work and save for it. Anyway, the thought of such a journey! Nothing could be that bad.
It was late afternoon when Peggy heard the tramp of heavy feet on the wooden floorboards overhead. The lodgers were home. Two massive pots of potatoes were boiled and the meat pie was piping hot. Sweat dripped off Mona Cavendish as both of them carried the food to the packed dining-room. The men cheered when they walked in and some of them winked at Peggy. She was bombarded with questions.
‘Yes, from Ireland,’ she answered, ‘Castletaggart – do you know it? … The Fortunata.’
Between them Mona and Peggy managed to make sure that each man had a good share of food on his plate. Giant jugs of milk were brought too. Silence descended as the men began their meal.
Peggy looked around at them. Most were Irish, but a few were from strange-sounding places. Their clothes were grimy and stained and their faces tanned and weather-beaten. All of them worked in building of some kind and their fingernails were encrusted with dirt.
In what seemed only a few seconds the plates were empty and Peggy was set to gather them up and take them back downstairs for washing. Mrs Cavendish prepared four huge pots of tea.
‘You wash up down below,’ she ordered and left Peggy to it.
Here she was in a crowded house and yet Peggy had never felt so lonely. It was almost dark when she finished in the kitchen. Some of the men were playing cards in the smoke-filled room. Upstairs others lay stretched out on their beds, reading or writing a letter. Another group had wandered off for a walk.
Peggy thought she had better check with Mrs Cavendish before going to bed, so she knocked timidly at the landlady’s bedroom door, and not getting a reply she pushed it in.
‘Mrs Cavendish, Mrs Cavendish.’
The woman lay stretched out on the bed in all her clothes with her eyes shut.
‘I think everything is just about cleared.’
Mrs Cavendish, half-asleep, began to mutter. ‘I’m worn out with all the work, it’s no wonder I fell asleep.’ Peggy nodded. ‘Make sure the place is set for the morning breakfast – you can’t send a working man off to build roads and railways and the like on an empty stomach, least that’s always been my policy. Anyways, you’re done then for the day, so away to your bed.’
Peggy’s room was damp despite the warm night air and she tossed and turned on the uncomfortable bed. The only good thing was that she wouldn’t hear the constant snoring that went on upstairs. She prayed to Auntie Lena to help her in this awful place. Maybe tomorrow things would be better.
* * *
Her prayers were not answered. With every day things got worse. Mrs Cavendish, who would chat and be friendly one minute, was liable to be like a devil the next, and Peggy’s arm was already bruised from the pinches her new mistress inflicted on her.
‘Get up, you lazy chit, I’m not paying for you to be lying in bed,’ she shouted early in the morning on Peggy’s third day, storming into her bedroom and dragging the light blanket off her. She flung her dress at her. ‘We’ve a breakfast to serve!’
By mid-morning every day Mrs Cavendish would disappear either up the town or to bed. Peggy was left to see to everything. At three o’clock the landlady would reappear and if the rooms or hallway were not clean enough or Peggy had forgotten something, she would get a clip on the ear or yet another pinch.
The only good thing was the lodgers. They chatted to Peggy and told her about their families and shared their dreams with her. But they would be there one day and gone a few days later.
‘We’re building the railways of America,’ they’d laugh. ‘We’ll be millionaires yet.’
Peggy’s life seemed grey and miserable in comparison. One or two nights she woke up crying in her sleep. ‘I want to go home. God, let me go home. Send me back to Ireland and I’ll be good for the rest of my life,’ she prayed. She wondered what was happening to Sarah and whether she had got work yet. She longed for her friend.
No miracle happened and when she opened her eyes she was still in the same room, in the same house. Every day seemed like a hundred. Mrs Cavendish seemed to have forgotten about her day off.
‘Can I have Thursday off, Mrs Cavendish, please?’
The landlady slurped her early-morning cup of tea.
‘No, it doesn’t suit this week. When I’m better sorted, Peggy, I’ll make it up to you.’
Peggy just about stopped herself crying in front of the woman.
One day there was still no sign of the landlady at four o’clock. Peggy stood in the pale sunlight, looking up the
street, watching to see if she could spot her returning. It was time to prepare the dinner. By six o’clock Peggy was frantic. She could hear the men arriving back. She had peeled the potatoes and they lay in water in a big tin bucket.
Big Jim Donovan peered down into the kitchen.
‘Lassie, we’re getting mighty hungry up here.’
‘It’ll be ready soon,’ she assured him.
Like a whirlwind she put the saucepans on to boil. She searched the pantry and the cold house for some meat. There was nothing.
‘What’ll I do? What’ll I do? What would Eily do?’
She found two dozen eggs and scrambled them with some chopped onion. Then she boiled up a dishful of beans. All the time she was aware of the coughs coming from above and the stamping of feet and banging of forks and spoons on the tables.
One of the younger lads helped her to carry the food up. She was puce with embarrassment and could see the men’s faces fall as they realised what their main meal would be. Sweat ran down her back and her hair and forehead were soaked after all her effort. The potatoes at the bottom of the saucepans had turned to a mush whilst the top ones were only half-cooked. There was only a small helping of eggs for each man. When she poured the tea she knew it was long overstewed.
‘You could dance a donkey on it, as my old mother would say,’ one of the men said jokingly.
Peggy left them to it. At the bottom of the stairs Peggy heard snoring. She followed the sound to Mrs Cavendish’s room. The landlady lay under the blankets with her good blouse still on. Her clothes littered the floor.
Peggy stared at her. Up close she could smell something. It was whisky!
A large leg of mutton lay wrapped in white paper and flung in a bloody mess on the bedroom floor. So that’s what happened to the dinner, Peggy thought, and she picked it up and brought it downstairs.
In the early hours of the morning, Peggy was woken by a shout:
‘Get up, you snivelling little brat.’
She rubbed her eyes, and stared at the woman standing over her. She had expected the landlady to thank her for managing.
Wildflower Girl (Children of the Famine) Page 6
