by Anne Doughty
Sam Keenan was well-known locally as a good smith, but soon everyone in the area would know he had neither boss nor experienced apprentice working alongside him. With machines now urgently needed on the land, customers might well go elsewhere rather than risk delays at this critical season.
There is no point in speculating, Sarah told herself. She did three different sums, discounting last year’s monthly income by a third, then by a half, then by three quarters. She sighed as she studied the three figures, especially the third one. Without what was left of the burial fund payment, it all looked very dim.
At least, she told herself vigorously, it wasn’t as bad as the day before she found the burial fund book in the old leather handbag. That day she knew she had no money in her purse, only enough food to last a week, and nothing predictable coming in.
Amid all the doubts, the only certainties were that when Ben left for Canada, Sam and Scottie had still to be paid on a Friday; her purse would need money to feed and clothe herself and Scottie, pay the rent and the regular bills for forge materials. She had not forgotten there was also a large sum outstanding. However fair it was, and she was convinced of that, the sum due to Paddy McCann when he returned the trap was one which seemed to grow larger as she visualised the money in the bank growing smaller each week.
She was clear that she must give more thought to increasing her income in whatever way she could so the forge itself could keep going. Sam’s wife and family depended on his wage, Scottie’s granny on the few shillings he took home every Friday night. The life she had entered joyfully some two years ago had fallen to pieces. She had lost both husband and child; now she had to face the possibility of losing her home as well and with it the place in a small community she’d been given by all those who’d known John. In her worst moments, it came to her that there was nothing left to lose but life itself.
‘No,’ she said to herself firmly, as she closed the account books, put everything away in the dresser and fetched her baking board. ‘Don’t ever think that way. It serves no useful purpose,’ she added. Something would come to help her, she told herself, as she set to work on the day’s bread. But she must be on the lookout for it.
May was the loveliest of months: the hawthorn a white cloud in the hedgerows, the newly planted crops springing up green and vibrant. The hammers in the forge rang out early and late. Scottie and Ben planted not only the potatoes, but turnips and carrots, cabbages and onions, some raised from seed by Mary-Anne, some grown from plants leftover from the bundles Billy Halligan had bought in the market in Armagh. He had brought more land into tillage this year, but after weeks of hard labour opening new areas, clearing stones and weeds and manuring he found he’d planted all he could, he could spare no more space from the grazing his animals needed.
There was little leisure for anyone that month. Mary-Anne’s mother was failing more quickly so Mary-Anne, with her family hard at work on the land till late, could seldom leave the house to come and visit Sarah. It was on one more solitary evening that Sarah was startled by a footstep in the corridor, both doors still open on a lovely golden evening. Ben stood in the doorway, a book in his hand and asked if she would like to be read to while she did her sewing.
He appeared to know that John had always read the paper aloud to her and as he settled himself he explained that while in winter his friend Mr McMahon had few visitors and he would go to him most evenings, in summer he did have other friends who would visit him. Ben himself still went regularly, but not so often, as he didn’t want to intrude upon the talk of old friends.
Sarah had made no secret of the fact that she was working on a jacket and trousers for him. Admittedly, the outfit was second-hand from the market at the bottom of Scotch Street, but Ben could see it was being expertly reshaped to fit him. As he watched, fascinated by a skill he had never before encountered, it reminded her of John when he’d said ‘he’d never seen such wee stitches’.
They were, Ben said, the first clothes, apart from the work clothes provided by John, that he’d had since the Quakers had furnished him in Dublin for his journey to County Armagh.
After that first evening, he came often and Sarah knew she would miss his presence sadly when he went, but for the moment she treasured his company, persuading him to read from her own few books of Quaker writings and poetry and from John’s treasured copy of Goldsmith’s poems, as well as from the books on history and travel, apparently on a long loan from his friend’s library.
In the second week of May the news came that the ice was melting in Canada and a ship was leaving from Sheephaven in Donegal on the last day of the month, Saturday 31st. The families in the party from Loughgall had already made a provisional booking with a captain known personally to their minister. Now, with the date agreed, all the prospective emigrants received a list of what they needed to take with them on the voyage.
When Ben brought her his list, Sarah was grateful that the voyage appeared to be so well organised: the agents specified clothes to deal with bad weather and suggested that passengers bring quantities of dried and preserved food to supplement the ship’s rations. The rations provided were listed. They were indeed adequate, but certainly not generous.
Clearly, Ben was not the only young person preparing to emigrate with the better weather. The newspaper reported that a party of young women were being sponsored by the Armagh Workhouse and were leaving from Belfast on May 17th, the master of the workhouse himself escorting them by van and rail to Belfast, spending two nights there in order to see them off.
Now that Mary-Anne could no longer visit in the evening she had persuaded Sarah to go down to visit her. They saw each other quite often by day, but the hasty conversations when Mary-Anne brought up milk, or eggs, or buttermilk, meant they’d little time to get to know about each other’s life and history.
Mary-Anne was intrigued by what she saw as a totally different life; she was overwhelmed by the thought of Sarah having lost her parents as a child and was curious about her Quaker upbringing. She wanted to know about Sarah’s task of teaching little ones, what it was the Quakers believed and what the town of Lisnagarvey was like compared to Armagh. Born only a mile away some forty years earlier in the house where she now lived, Mary-Anne had never been further from home than Armagh itself.
Sarah could see that Mary-Anne was in some ways as lonely as she was herself. Billy worked so hard but was inclined to worry, go silent and retreat into himself. The grandmother was almost blind; she spent most of her time in bed and didn’t like strangers. Her sons, Jamsey and young Billy were out and about whenever they’d any time off, seeking the company of other young men and, according to Mary-Anne, some good-looking girls as well.
So the two women sat by Mary-Anne’s fire, shared any fragment of news that came their way, laughed when they could and got on with any task that would not prevent them talking to each other.
Unlike Sarah and John, who, newly married, had seldom been visited in their two years together, Mary-Anne and Billy did have evening visitors who turned up regularly. It was one of them, a distant relative of Billy who earned her living making bonnets, that entertained them both one summer evening with an account of the young women going from the workhouse to Quebec.
‘Ach, sure the poor things,’ she said, drawing up her chair to be nearer the fire. ‘They had nothin’, neither in them nor on them, as the sayin’ is, but some of the gentry must have giv’ money to the workhouse to get them fitted out so they’d get a decent place in Canada. Apparently they had a sep’rate emigrant’s account for seein’ them right. Ivery girl was to get a shawl and a bonnet. That, of course, is how I knows all about it,’ she added, nodding confidentially. ‘Ye see I had to go up and fit the bonnets an’ whin I was there they show’d me all their stuff. Ye see, the women inmates had made the clothes with the linen and gingham and calico bought for them. An’ forby the clothes they’d made fer them they’d been bought three pairs of stockin’s each, a flannel petticoat and ribbon as well.
I hear Adams and John Wilson in Armagh got a good order for stuff.’
‘An’ what about yerself, Lily, what about the order ye got?’ demanded Mary-Anne, a twinkle in her eye.
Lily threw back her head and laughed, a strange, crowing laugh that having once heard it you could pick it out in a crowd whenever you heard it again.
‘Shure them ten bonnets ’ill keep me in spuds an’ flour for many a long day. An’ lovely they were too whin I’d them all trimmed up, the ribbons on thim match o’ the ribbons they’d been give for their hair. Shure they’d looked like ladies. Aye, an’ I suppose that was the whole idea. If they’re well set up they’ll get a better place an’ shure everyone knows there’s a desperit shortage of we’men in all these new places.’
‘Had ye thought of goin’ yerself, Lily?’ asked Mary-Anne, now with a broad grin on her face, while Sarah hid a smile by bending over her sewing.
‘Oh aye, indade I did,’ she nodded, screwing up her wrinkled face. ‘Manys a time sittin’ there hookin’ ribbon, I thought of them steppin’ out, but shure I’m well past the days whin any man wou’d look my way twice. Good luck to them, I sez and thanks be to whativer man or weman set them up, for no name was ever give, and shure where wou’d the workhouse get money for the like of bonnets an’ ribbon?’
‘Have you no idea who it might be, Lily?’ asked Sarah, who had been silent for some time, thinking about the men who came to her grandmother’s cottage with a sack of flour, or potatoes, or meal, and who, each time, asked politely if there was anything she had need of.
Sarah could not remember her grandmother ever having mentioned the rent or any other expense to these kind visitors. What she did remember was that her grandmother gave thanks day and daily for the gifts they’d received, explaining to Sarah that, as a Quaker, you were bound to look after everyone in your family, be honest in all your dealings and be generous to those in need if you were fortunate enough to have more than you needed yourself.
‘Weel, to tell you the truth, I think it mus’ be yer man Molyneux,’ she said firmly, nodding her head vigorously. ‘I mind my mither tellin’ me that one of the Molyneux built Grange Church an’ there’s a stone on it that sez 1771. That’s a brave while ago. But she tole me then an’ I’ve a good memory fer things, that one Sunday he was bein’ driven to church in his big posh coach when he luks out and sees a lock o’ poor Catholics standin’ in the rain, by one o’ those Mass rocks ye see about the place. So, he goes on to church and the next thing is he’s made enquiries about why they’ve no place of worship. An’ so he builds them a chapel as well.’
‘I niver knew that, Lily. I heered the Molyneux were all a bit strange like an’ took notions about things. But d’ye think this one might be the same?’ Mary-Anne asked.
Lily nodded vigorously and drank deep from her mug of tea.
‘The one that’s there now, I don’t know what his name is, or whether he’s a Lord or just a Sir,’ she began, shaking her head, ‘but he’s buildin’ a house, well the likes of us wou’d call it a palace,’ she added looking them both in the eye. ‘Over at Castle Dillon. Three storeys high and steps up and down to gardens, an’ statues all over the place, an’ an outlook across that bit of a lake where they keep the wildfowl. Beautiful, me brother sezs, fer he goes there regular with turf from his bit o’ bog. An’ whenever he goes there’s a man in a uniform tells him there’s a bite to eat in the kitchen whin he’s made his delivery.’
She paused for breath and looked from one to the other. ‘Now I’m tellin’ you this an’ its ta go no further fer he might get inta trouble, but one day a year or so ago he’s bein’ given tea and a piece by a wee kitchen maid an’ he says to her, “Is it true there’s acorns all roun’ the ceilin’ in one of the rooms?” An’ she tells him it is, an’ he asks her a whole lot more questions because there’s bin great talk about the place. An’ the long an’ the short of it is, she tells him there’s none of the family coming till the house is finished off an’ all the workpeople gone. An’ she takes him upstairs an’ tells him to just look like he’s workin’ on the place himself. An’ he can’t believe his eyes. He sez the ceilings were so high ye’d crick yer neck lookin’ up at them, an’ everywhere there’s pillars and rooms that big ye cou’d put a market in them an’ have space left roun’ the edges. He came home full of it and sed he doubted if Queen Victoria herself had anythin’ better.’
‘And you think he gave the money to the workhouse to let the girls emigrate?’ asked Sarah, fascinated by her tale.
‘Aye, fer he’s good-hearted too,’ she said, nodding vigorously. ‘One o’ the smiths that works in their stables had a bad fall last winter an’ was laid up fer months, an’ Molyneux had his wages sent ivery week an’ a basket of food now an’ then till the man hisself was back on his feet.’ She drained her mug of tea: ‘Shure he diden hafta do that; God bless him and send him good luck in all his dealin’s.’
Summer came with a rush: the trees were full-leafed, the translucent pale leaves strengthened to a rich green, hedges were alive with the sound of birds feeding fledglings, cow parsley waved white flowers above the tall, rich grasses at the sides of the roads. The days were now so long that when Sarah woke in the night and lay there unable to get back to sleep again, there was already light to see by. Often she got up when the dew was still heavy on the grass and the land silent in the pale early light.
She found it easier to fill the empty hours with a piece of sewing than to lie in bed, wide-eyed, long before the first cock crowed and hours before Scottie arrived at the back door to come and eat his bowl of porridge.
May was a good month in the forge, with customers staying loyal even though Sam was quite honest with them as to how long their work might take. Scottie had now shoed his first horse and Sam had said encouraging words that pleased both her and Scottie himself.
The month ended and Ben said his goodbyes, having asked Sarah if she would write to him as soon as he had an address to send her. She knew she would miss him and she did, even more than she had expected. To her surprise she found that Scottie missed him too. He came asking her for news long before a letter could have travelled back on a returning vessel. In the end, she got out her old atlas and showed him just how long Ben’s journey was. Suddenly Scottie seemed to have grown. She noticed he walked now with a longer stride and no longer scurried round the place, his shoulders hunched, his eyes deflected from any watcher.
She herself noticed the different ring of his hammer on the anvil when he was fitting a set of shoes: more confident and more assured. It seemed he had stepped into Ben’s shoes as far as the forge was concerned and she was pleased for him.
But takings were down in June. The randomly parked reapers and rakers were all gone and only one pair of gates was propped up awaiting the curved decoration that would crown their topmost bars. The dip in income was more like a half than a third and there were still the same bills for coal and turf, as well as heavy duty iron and angle iron.
July started badly in terms of weather: humid days that made everyone feel uncomfortable and tired, the horses waiting to be shod stamping and skittering with distress, plagued by small flies they couldn’t shift with their lashing tails. Scottie did his best with them, but suffered a kick on his right leg which left him limping for some weeks. Heavy rain followed; the humid weather clearing only much later in the month to give brilliant blue skies against which clouds mushroomed upwards into great white castles.
The income in the forge, however, went in the other direction, falling week on week and Sarah spent yet more early morning hours sewing rag rugs with cuttings from fabric her brother Charles sent her, an idea shaping in her mind that she might earn some money from her efforts with a needle and thread.
She was delighted by what Charles had sent and was touched that he’d remembered she’d told him she could use anything he had available. What took away her pleasure in the gift was his covering letter which told her that his business was doing badly, now affected
by what he described as ‘a general depression in the textile industry’.
He had been let down by some customers who had found cheaper fabric elsewhere. Left with fabric on his hands and no buyers, he’d already had to let some of his women workers go. Worse still, for Charles was still an active member of his local Quaker Meeting, he’d been visited by some of the men who oversaw the Meetings’ affairs. They reminded him, as if he should need such a reminder, that if his business failed, leaving debts, then he would be declared to be ‘out of unity’ with the Meeting.
It was the memory of just such pronouncements regarding her dear friend’s marriage that made her feel she herself was out of unity, not because she no longer attended Lisnagarvey, nor had been formally spoken to, but simply because she could not accept some of the precepts that one was required to live by. She had no argument with most of Quaker teaching, but when it came to ostracising a man or a woman for their choice of a marriage partner, or their misfortune, through no fault of their own in a business venture, then she simply could not in all conscience sustain her membership.
Charles’s misfortune and the falling income of the forge were only two of many matters that distressed her. She had written to her friend Helen, now in South Carolina, telling her of John’s death. No doubt it was a week or two after his death, but months had now passed and with summer traffic across the Atlantic at its height, she had been watching out for a letter for weeks. It was so unlike Helen not to reply immediately when she was in distress that she began to be anxious about her friend herself.
It was at the beginning of August when her brother-in-law, George, arrived over from Greenan. He always came to have his horse shod even though there was a smithy in Greenan itself. He used to joke when he came about supporting the family business, but on this occasion there were no jokes. He came straight in to see Sarah, asked briefly how she was and then said apologetically that, yes, he needed the mare shod, but he had no money to pay for the job.
