‘I thought ye promised me ye wouldn’t come again,’ said Siobhan apathetically.
‘I know. I’m sorry, but ’twould be wrong to stand by an’ do nothing while my family needs me.’ She put a hand towards Kathleen’s greasy brow.
‘Don’t touch her!’ Siobhan snatched her wrist fiercely. ‘Have I not told ye time and again? If ye must come here at least try to touch them as little as possible.’ Her voice softened at Mary’s hurt expression. ‘Look, I’m sayin’ this for your own good. Ye can’t help, Mary. Ye’ll only succeed in taking the fever home to Pat – an’ ye’ve the child to think of too.’
‘I have to come, Siobhan,’ answered her sister desperately.
‘Sure, an’ d’ye think I don’t know why?’ exclaimed Siobhan. ‘’Tis ’cause ye feel guilty over Boyne giving ye the money an’ not sparing any for us, am I right?’ Mary hesitated, then nodded. ‘Didn’t I know it,’ said her sister. ‘Well, I’ll tell ye there’s no call for you to feel guilty. Boyne is quite capable of answering his own sins, may the devil take his ugly hide. D’ye think our mam’d want ye to stay behind an’ risk death just because we have to?’ She answered her own question. ‘No, ye must go an’ start a new life for yourself, Mary. You, Pat an’ your lovely baby when he comes. We don’t think ill of ye for going. We’re glad one of us is left to carry on.’
Mary accepted absolution gratefully. It had demanded all her courage to come here every day, risking her own life and defying her husband who had forbidden her to come. Now that some of her guilt was assuaged she felt free to go to England.
Kathleen coughed again. Her eyelids fluttered and her mouth moved in an attempt at speech. Mary looked down upon the sister who had wronged her and felt nothing but sorrow. When she had first heard Kathleen’s words she had thought her world shattered forever, but she had come to realise that it was Kathleen, not herself, who deserved the pity. She had Pat, what did poor Kathleen have? She ignored Siobhan’s warning and took hold of her dying sister’s hand.
‘Hush, Kathleen,’ she whispered to the girl, who was still trying to speak. ‘Don’t tire yourself, just rest an’ get well again.’
Kathleen strained to lift her head from the floor, becoming more and more frustrated with herself because the words she wanted to say emerged as incoherent croaks. Mary felt the tears prick her eyes. She knew that Kathleen was trying to ask her forgiveness. ‘It’s all right! I understand you love him too, an’ I forgive ye, Kathleen, truly I do. Don’t fret yourself.’
Rage and impotence mottled Kathleen’s face – I didn’t do it, you fool! her mind screamed. Can’t ye understand? It was all talk. God knows I offered it, but would he have me? Hah, he would not. An’ for the life of me I still can’t see why he preferred a mealy-mouthed little saint like you. Why isn’t it you who’re lying here instead of me? She sank back, panting.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Siobhan.
‘I thought ye’d know,’ replied Mary. ‘I thought everybody’d know. Ah well, no matter, ’tis all past.’
Siobhan did not press her further and they sat in silence for some minutes before Mary asked, ‘Has anyone sent for the priest?’
Is it dying I am, then? thought Kathleen with a jolt, an’ me with all these wicked things in my head.
‘Nobody’s sent for him,’ replied Siobhan, ‘but like as not he’ll be payin’ us a visit. He never seems to be away from the place nowadays. Sure, I’m sick o’ the sight of him.’
‘Ye shouldn’t oughta talk like that about the Father,’ Mary rebuked her elder sister. ‘You’re as bad as that husband o’ mine. Sure I keep telling Pat the man only comes to help.’
‘We’re past helpin’,’ sighed the other. ‘An’ anyway, what help can his preaching possibly be?’
‘May God forgive ye for your wicked talk,’ cried Mary.
‘Aw, Mary you’re such an innocent. Don’t tell me ye still believe in all that rubbish he gives ye?’
‘Stop it!’ The girl covered her ears so that she would not be party to her sister’s blasphemy. ‘I won’t listen. How can ye talk that way when …’
‘When I’m in danger o’ going next?’ Siobhan finished for her. ‘Ye think I’m putting my soul at risk? Well, Mary I never did go for all that talk, an’ I believe it even less after watching my family snuffed out like candles. If there is a God how come He allowed all this to happen? Ah, forget it,’ she patted Mary’s hand. ‘I can see I’m upsetting ye an’ I’d hate to poison such short time we have together.’
Mary placed a damp rag on Kathleen’s brow. ‘I hope Father Brendan does come. ’Twould be a terrible thing if…’ she bit her lip. Suddenly she rose to lift the wooden crucifix from the wall. Stooping beside Kathleen again she folded the clammy hands round it.
My God! Kathleen’s mind cried, I am going to die. I don’t want to. Oh, please I don’t want to. Just because I can’t find the strength to speak doesn’t mean I cannot hear what you’re saying! She clawed Mary’s hand desperately, hanging on to life – I’m sorry, Mary, I didn’t mean it, ’twas just talk.
Her body was seized with one, great convulsive fit of coughing and the vomit belched noisily from her throat. Mary tried to pull her hands away as the revolting bile ran over them but Kathleen held on, would not let her escape. After what seemed like hours the coughing subsided to an ominous gurgle and Kathleen’s fingers went limp. Mary snatched the opportunity to free herself and stared down at the slime-coated fingers in horror. Why had she come here? How would she evade the fever now with the filth clinging to her skin?
Siobhan’s voice cut through her terror. ‘Go down to the stream,’ she ordered, suddenly finding the energy to stand and take control. ‘Scrub that mess off ye straight away, an’ when ye’ve done that go home to your husband’ and never come here again. D’ye hear?’ Mary nodded woefully and made for the door. ‘And, Mary,’ Siobhan picked up the wooden cross from the floor. ‘Ye may as well take this with ye. I hope it does ye more good than it’s done for us.’
‘Oh, Siobhan, please don’t talk like that,’ pleaded Mary. ‘What if Mam should ask after it?’
Siobhan looked to where Carmel lay in an exhausted heap. All the commotion had failed to wake her. ‘If she asks I’ll be sure to tell her I gave it to you. She won’t mind you taking it, Mary.’ The other took the crucifix and leaned to kiss her. ‘Go!’ commanded Siobhan taking a step backwards, then relenting, she grabbed the girl and kissed her before roughly shoving her through the doorway and barring the door behind her.
Mary ran from the cottage and did not stop until she reached the stream. She stepped into the chilly, babbling waters, sucking in her breath at the extreme coldness of it. When she had scrubbed her body thoroughly all over she bent her head into the water. Her long, ebony tresses mingled with the water’s course; like dark strands of seaweed it spread out into the crystal stream, rippling serpent-like over the pebbled bed.
When it came to putting her clothes back on she found it too sickening, with the contents of her sister’s stomach clinging to them. There was nothing for it but to wash them too. This she did, sloshing them violently in the water then laying them on the bank to pound at them with a large flat stone. Once done, she draped the sopping garments on a tree to dry, though much hope of that there was in this climate. Her teeth chattered and her thin body began to quake. She folded her arms in front of her chest, rubbing her hands up and down her goose-pimpled flesh. She would have to go back to the cottage and collect her clothes later, though what Patrick would have to say …
‘In the name o’ God, what is it you’re at?’
She turned, startled, trying to cover herself with her hands, then saw that it was her husband. Patrick hurriedly stripped off his shirt and held it out to her. ‘Is it trying to catch your death y’are?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Here, put this on at once.’
As she lifted the shirt over her damp head he winced at the sight of her starveling body. True, she had never been plump, but now the skin hung lo
osely over her fleshless form, the bones jutting out at right angles. Only the swollen belly bore evidence to the fact that this was a woman. Strange, he had always thought of her as a girl before – as chronologically speaking she was – but all the months of suffering had driven away any vestige of immaturity; to call her a girl now would be an injustice. She had been every inch a woman to her family.
She tugged the shirt to her knees and looked back at him beseechingly, still shivering violently.
‘Now, would ye care to tell me what ye were doing?’ he demanded. ‘Did a pebble trip you into the stream?’
She shook her head, then told him what had happened.
‘Aw, Mary,’ he breathed noisily. ‘Ye promised me ye wouldn’t go any more.’
‘I’m sorry to disobey ye, Pat, but ’tis my family we’re talking about, not some strangers. I couldn’t stand idly by without offering comfort.’
‘I’m your family Mary,’ he reminded her sternly. ‘Did ye not give a thought that ye might bring the fever home to me while ye were playing the righteous nursemaid? Do I not count?’
‘Patrick, that’s not fair!’
‘Ah, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He pulled her to him and buried his face in her wet hair. ‘Ye know I’m not really bothered about meself. ’Tis you an’ the child I worry about. Here’s me trying to keep ye alive while we can get to England an’ you intent on killing yourself.’
‘Well, ye need worry no more,’ she said sadly. ‘Siobhan’s told me not to go again. Oh, Pat, I fear for her, she said the most terrible things; about not believing in God and the like. I cannot believe ’twas her who was saying it.’
‘Can ye not?’ he asked, holding her at arms’ length to study her face. ‘Can ye honestly expect her to keep faith with a God who kills off all her family?’
‘Please, please I know what you say, but ye don’t really feel that way, do ye, Pat? I know ye don’t go to Mass an’ I know you’re rude to the Father, but surely, surely there must be something still there? How can I make ye both see what you’re doing? What can I say …’
‘Say nothing, darlin’,’ he told her. ‘You hang on to your faith if it brings ye comfort, but don’t ask me to do the same ’cause I’m out an’ finished with all that. We’ve been through it an’ I’ll say it no more. Finished. Now, come away home, we’ve more pressing issues to discuss.’ He turned towards home, steering her with him. She asked what he meant.
‘We’ve hung around long enough,’ he answered grimly. ‘Tomorrow we go.’
* * *
The two men stood facing each other; down one man’s face the tears coursed unashamedly, his shoulders racked with sobs. On the features of the other a different emotion was mixed with the grief – that of anger, anger that he had been forced to come to this, to leave his land, his father.
‘Oh, Pat I’ll miss ye, son,’ wept Richard, flinging his arms around his son, feeling their bones grate at the contact.
‘Will ye not change your mind, Dad?’ begged Patrick, the anger fading as he witnessed his father’s distress. ‘’Tis not too late, ye know.’
‘’Tis too late for me, son,’ sighed Richard, wiping a filthy claw under each eye. ‘Besides, this is where I belong.’ He limped across the room and picked up his harp, holding it out to the other man. ‘Here, take this to remember me by.’
‘I don’t need nothing to remember ye by, ye great soft lump o’ soda bread,’ answered Patrick thickly. He tried to push the harp back into his father’s hands. ‘’Tis the only thing ye have left, for God’s sake!’
Richard insisted. ‘Take it! That’s the only piece of Ireland ye can take with ye.’
‘No, not the only one, Dad.’ Mary showed him the small parcel in her hand, unfolding the piece of rag to reveal the square of turf she had hacked from the frozen ground that morning.
Richard stared down at it for a moment, then folded her fingers back over the tiny package and patted her hand warmly. ‘Keep it safe, Mary,’ he told her gruffly. Then silently to himself – I’m thinking ’tis the last ye’ll see of Ireland …
Patrick fingered his father’s gift. ‘Before I leave, will ye tell me the tale one more time? Just to carry with me.’
‘About the harp?’ Richard sank to the floor. ‘Sure, are ye never sick o’ hearing it?’ He rubbed a finger around his painful, spongy gums, swearing as another tooth came away. ‘’Tis just as well there’s nothing to eat for I’ve nothing left to eat it with.’
‘Come on, y’old rogue, give me something to cheer me,’ urged Patrick, and Richard launched into the tale of how the magnificent instrument had come to be in his possession.
While this was in progress Mary quietly excused herself and slipped away. She could not leave without first discovering the fate of her family. The snow was packed hard and her feet kept slipping out from under her. On the brow of the hill she paused to look down upon her family’s cottage, almost invisible in the whiteness. There was something odd about the scene, something not as it should be. Suddenly she realised what it was: there was no smoke coming from the chimney. Walking as fast as her weakened limbs would allow she made her way down the hill and stood for a few seconds outside the door. She tried to peer through the window but a thick layer of frost on the inside obscured her view. The door was stuck in its jamb. She put her shoulder to it and pushed with all her might. It gave with a groan and she stumbled into the cottage. Something scuttled over her feet. With a scream she lifted the hem of her tattered garment – then her eyes fell on the bodies.
Kathleen, Bernadette and Carmel lay beside each other on the floor. It was as though someone had laid out sticks in a neat line; their lifeless shells were frozen, making hardly a swell under the torn blanket. Next to them lay Siobhan. Hers was not a neat and tidy death. She had obviously collapsed whilst tending her mother, beside whom she was slumped, a rag still clutched in her hand.
But it was her face that transfixed Mary with horror – or the lack of it. She did not understand what had happened at first, until she noticed the inquisitive, beady eyes studying her from a shadowy corner, waiting for her to leave so that the creatures could resume their meal. With a moan of disgust and rage she looked around for a broom – anything – with which to beat them. There was nothing, all had been pawned long ago to buy food. Her hands flailed about in uncontrollable fury, but the wretches merely scurried to another corner of the room and twitched their filthy whiskers at her.
It was too much. She ran sobbing from the cabin, tripping in the ice, the tears freezing on her face to make sore, red patches. At the top of the hill she fell to the ground to regain her breath. She must pull herself together before encountering Patrick. He would be so mad if he knew where she had been. The act of digging her fingers into the snow helped to calm her, which was just as well for at that moment the door of the cottage opened and Patrick stepped out to seek her.
‘God, have ye hurt yourself?’ He hurried forward to help her to her feet.
She wiped a hand across her face, attempted a smile. ‘No, I’m fine. No damage done. ’Tis time to go, then?’
Patrick looked at his father as he spoke. ‘Alas, it is.’
Richard started to weep again and clung to his son, prolonging the agony of parting. Why was it, when they had but a few seconds left together that he could think of a million things to tell his son? He sank to his knees as Patrick wrenched himself free and, hooking his wife’s arm, strode away down the hill without a backward glance.
The wailing had stopped now. A quiet madness came upon him. Leadenly he went back inside the house.
* * *
‘Stop pushing!’ blared the angry porter, while he himself tried to force the emigrants onto the train.
Mary, standing back with her husband, looked beyond him to a group of noisy departees who clung to their relatives, the free-flowing tears carving channels on their ravaged faces. Women prostrated themselves on the railway track, weeping and wailing their misery. Mary clasped her little
bundle of possessions to her chest. Through the cloth she felt the outline of the crucifix that Siobhan had given her, saw again the rats that had eaten her sister’s pretty face.
After they had left Richard, she and Patrick had called at the priest’s house in the hope of receiving a meal before they embarked on their journey. He had given them soup and wished them God speed. Patrick had offered no rudeness this time, indeed, Mary doubted he had even heard Father Brendan’s last attempt at retrieving his soul. He had been very subdued.
Apart from the sermon and the soup the priest had also made the suggestion that they take the train to Dublin instead of walking the breadth of the country. After all, had not Boyne given them enough to cover the fare? Neither Patrick nor Mary had ever seen a train before and the idea of speeding along on one of the fire-breathing monsters filled them with apprehension. But then Patrick had seen the wisdom of Father Brendan’s words; Mary was in no condition to tramp hundreds of miles unnecessarily.
Even after being pointed in the right direction they had had to walk a considerable distance before finding the railway and were now exhausted, too much so to be afraid of the strange contraption that was going to spare them further exertion.
‘Right, move!’ The shout went up, making people cling more wildly than ever to their departing relatives. The impatient porters were upon them, roughly grasping Patrick’s arms and thrusting him onto the train. Mary soon followed, sobbing pitifully as she thought of the corpses of her loved ones, left to the mercy of the rats. Others, too, were wrenched from their families and hurled crying and complaining onto the waiting train.
Like a death knell the station bell signalled the train’s departure and a great keening arose from those left behind. The train jerked into motion, its tall funnel belching smoke, weeping men and women clinging to its brass rails. They pressed their faces to the carriages, attempting to catch a last glimpse of their kin. Gathering speed, the train shook them off like a dog ridding itself of fleas. Some of them fell under the clattering wheels and were crushed. Wretched white faces peered from its carriages, watching their homeland fall further and further behind them. Those on the station watched the train grow smaller until it was a mere dot on the horizon.
A Long Way from Heaven Page 5
