nicola cassidy
Poolbeg
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published 2019 by Crimson
an imprint of Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
www.poolbeg.com
© Nicola Cassidy 2019
© Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2018, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-78199-808-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
About the Author
Nicola Cassidy grew up in the quiet countryside outside Drogheda, in County Louth, and started writing stories at a young age. Once she’d learned to love books without pictures (it was a difficult step), she devoured her local library’s stock and was particularly drawn to historical fiction and memoirs. Encouraged by her English teacher, she chose to study journalism at Dublin City University, and worked for a short time in local and national newspapers, before turning to political PR and marketing management. She studied creative writing at the Irish Writers’ Centre while living in Dublin and set up her popular and award-nominated lifestyle blog www.LadyNicci.com. She wrote her first novel while on maternity leave for her first daughter and started planning her second ten days after her second daughter was born. She lives in Termonfeckin, County Louth, with her husband and two daughters.
Acknowledgements
To Tracy Brennan, my literary agent, for connecting me to Poolbeg Press and to both of them for saying yes.
To my family, my parents, and Ronan my husband who is more supportive and encouraging to me than I am to myself and likes to send me away to write. It is an act of love, not banishment, and I am happy to be banished, always.
To my two girls August and Bonnie, who understand that during nap-time Mammy does ‘her writing’. We are slowly building up our library of books we love to read together.
To Sam McGrane, our right-hand woman and an adopted member of our family, and to our wonderful childminder Trish.
There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hallway, but I would never have written my books had I not had my children and our supportive team around us.
To Sally Vince for her input in an early draft and for showing me a very clever online tool to ensure the language I use is appropriate to its history. She is so gracious with her time and expertise and I appreciate it so much.
To the online writing community, particularly to those in Aspiring Authors Ireland & UK Facebook group, who are always cheering me along. To Andrea Mara and Sheila Forsey who have been on speed dial on a few occasions during the writing and publishing process, and to Sharon Thompson who is so kind to many writers.
To Paula Campbell and the team at Poolbeg for being so warm and supportive and for offering a contract that allows me to sit back and write in the knowledge that the books will reach the shelves. It takes away the angst, though not the nerves.
To Gaye Shortland, my editor, for her time and effort in shaping this book and to our love of dogs under the desk.
To the staff at Drogheda Library, in particular Anne Keaveney. The origins of this book were discovered there, and I look forward to seeing it on the shelves.
To the mother of the child at Number 43 Laurence Street. Whether she died in childbirth, whether she was removed from the home, whether the three-week-old child was a foundling, I have not discovered.
The advertisement looking for a respectable woman to care for that child, originally placed in the Drogheda Conservative in January 1880 and reproduced here, did however give me the nugget that inspired this book. And for that, I am grateful.
ab
For mothers –
Those who have seen their children grow up
and those who, sadly, have not.
Chapter 1
The Discovery
From its hiding place in the grass, a ladybird clung to a stalk that had narrowly avoided the chop. It waited to see if another blow, a downward shunt of metal, was to come. When it did not it moved up slowly over dewdrops, making its way to the tip of the blade of grass, a vantage point to see where to go next.
On the newly uncovered earth stood a man and his son, his wife behind them holding a tea tray.
“Do you think it’s a treasure chest, Da?”
“It could be,” said the man. “Doesn’t smell too nice, does it?”
“No,” said Aidan.
They were staring at a suitcase, a dour smell escaping from it and filling the air around them.
The man kicked it with his boot. It was spongy and soft, wet earth dislodging where his toe had hit the leather.
They were working on potato beds. They would sow a large crop, to give an abundance in late summer. The man had no experience of growing anything, but he had a battered book he’d found in one of the second-hand shops where they’d picked up some baskets and creels for the new house. It was called Gardening: Vegetables and Seeds, and he had read the whole thing twice, folding down the pages where it detailed how to grow the things he wanted. Cabbages, lettuce, turnips, summer strawberries.
Now that the house was shaped up, now that the rooms were fresh and aired out, the shed fixed up and the hedges peeled back, now that the front drive had been cleaned and all the stones and broken plaster removed, he finally had time to turn to the garden.
He’d been looking forward to planting spuds for months, ever since they bought the house. “Balls of flour they’ll be!” he said as they dug.
Aidan jumped on the spade with enthusiasm. He had grown since they’d come here, filling out, his cheeks turning pudgy and soft. The countryside suited him, where he could run for distances, safe, across green fields. He could hang from trees, upside down, till the blood in his head pooled.
The wheeze that he had lived with for all of his eleven years had mostly disappeared. The woman had always known that the damp tenement block they’d shared with fourteen other families had been the cause of his bad chest. She had worried that the green mould that grew down the wall was growing inside him too.
He had taken to gardening with gusto, following his father around with a wheelbarrow, his willing assistant, proud of his status as the only son. While his young sisters happily played in the house and front garden, he and his father had got to work, preparing the ground for potatoes and vegetables, pulling great clumps of strong rooted grass from their maze of earthworms, clay and small stones, hacking at briars that scratched the skin from their hands, and flattening and lifting the devil’s bread that flourished around the banks of the garden.
It was Aidan who’d made the discovery, the blunt edge of his spade hitting something hard and flat, deep in the earth. He’d leaned on the spade at first, trying to push it through, but when his weight couldn’t force it any farther he bent down an
d rubbed at the soil to reveal a dark wet surface.
“Look, Da!” he called. “Something’s buried!”
The man came to see what the boy had found and his wife too who had just come from the house with a tray of tea and sandwiches. The three of them peered at the thing he had uncovered.
With their hands, the man and the boy cleared the flat surface, revealing more and more of what appeared to be a leather surface. When they found an edge they dug beside it, throwing wet clumpy clay up onto the mound of earth they’d made.
The man bent and, grunting, managed to dislodge the edge from the soil. It didn’t take long before they could pull the object up from where it had been buried.
The smell, which was now permeating the air, had quelled any hope of buried treasure. Aidan pinched his nose and grimaced.
“Will we see what’s inside?” said the man.
Aidan nodded, his mother standing back to give them some operational room.
With his spade the man knocked at the catch, which was caked in solid earth. It took three attempts before the clay moved and loosened.
The boy squatted down and fiddled with the catch, forcing it apart.
He pulled back the lid slowly and they all recoiled as a powerful stench filled the air.
Inside the case lay two small bodies, babies, the glint of a bone visible, their clothes dark and stained, their skin a dark grey pulp.
The boy jumped back, gave a short sharp yelp and burst into tears.
His mother dropped the tea tray with a rattle to the ground and put her arm around his head to shield him.
In fear, they ran, the man, the woman and the child, up the garden and into the back of the house, slamming the door behind them.
The case lay stinking beside two freestanding spades, where a white butterfly flitted about, watched by a ladybird who clung tightly to its drying blade of grass.
The Instigating Letter
Ballyheath, Kells, County Meath, Ireland
21st December 1879
Dear Christy,
I hope you are keeping well. Thank you for your last letter, which I read by the fire when everyone had gone to sleep.
The family are keeping very well, thank you. Catherine had a cold there for about two weeks and she was very bad. We nearly got the doctor out, but I treated her with an ounce of liquorice stick steeped in water and it seemed to help. The damp weather is a curse. We have been keeping the fire going all night. It is the season for it, I think. At Mass everyone is coughing.
The little ones are doing well too. They are getting big and bold. I’m in the middle of finishing off two jumpers I pulled together from some extra wool I had. My eyesight is not great any more though, so I don’t spend too long at it in the evenings.
Has the food improved any? And what about the lice? I hate to think of you scratching in there. If you want, I will see if I can send in some lotion. I am sure I could get something for you in the chemist’s. Just let me know and I will ask.
I’m including matches and papers like you asked. Next time I will send tobacco if you need it.
There hasn’t been much news. There was a house fire up the road. Mr. and Mrs. McEvoy’s place. The whole roof went up. The walls are left but they are very black, and I don’t think it is safe. They were lucky not to be killed. They are staying with her sister. I think it was a spark that did it, which is unusual in the winter months, but there you go.
I haven’t had any letters from the rest of the family except from Winnie, though she barely has any time to write. Her poor mistress passed away. Mrs. Thomas, a lovely blonde woman. She died straight after her baby was born. So Winnie is up the walls looking after the baby and the house and Mr. Thomas is in a bad way. They are looking for a nanny and putting an advert in the Drogheda Conservative this week. I hope they get someone good, so Winnie can get a bit of a break.
Christmas is coming and we are getting ready to whitewash. We’re looking to choose a goose too and I have my eye on a nice fat one down the yard. He runs away from me every time I go out to feed them, so I think he knows.
It is not very nice to be where you are for Christmas, but I suppose it is nice knowing it will be your last Christmas in there. I’d say you are counting down the weeks.
That’s all from Kells. All is well. Write soon and let me know as always if there is anything you need.
Your loving sister,
Susan
The Advertisement
Drogheda Conservative, January 1880
WANTED
A Respectable Woman to Take Charge
of a Motherless Child
Three Weeks Old
To Bottle-feed it
Liberal Terms Will Be Given
Apply to W.D. Thomas
43 Laurence Street, Drogheda
Chapter 2
The Nanny
The train arrived on time, a black-grey plume of smoke following it through the station. The smoke separated in wisps, floating up towards the yellow ironworks ceiling, before the wind caught it and pushed it out along the track, where it disappeared into the skyline.
She descended the steps of the train and stood, looking left, towards the station door. Her back was straight, almost wooden, and her small bustle drew the eye to the curve of her behind. Her hair was fashioned neatly, a small hat attached to the side of her head with a pin. In one hand she carried a brown case.
A flurry of activity surrounded the open goods carriages, with men in flat caps lifting boxes from the train onto trolleys on the platform, while porters removed luggage from the passenger carriages.
As the smoke cleared, she made her way to the turnstile and gave the stationmaster a thin-lipped smile.
A row of vehicles were lined up at the door, a mix of family carriages, farm carts and traps. It was January and the horses blew sharp white breaths into the cold air. The drivers had scarves wrapped around their faces and necks, tweed caps pulled close to their eyebrows.
She walked by the waiting traps and cabs, taking small prim steps down the hill, out of the station grounds and onto the Dublin Road. Dark ice filled the puddles tipping the edges of the footpath.
She could hear birdsong as she quickened her pace. She had allowed plenty of time, but she couldn’t quite remember the distance.
Delivery carts rolled up the hill, the squat muscular ponies straining to carry the loads, bringing milk, groceries and coal. On her left loomed a giant grey building, surrounded by a tall stone wall. Black iron bars were on every window. She kept her head high and did not look across at the small sign on a wooden plaque, nailed to the stone gatepost.
Drogheda Union Workhouse
She lifted her boots to get her past the tall stone wall faster. When she was far enough away, she released the breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding and allowed herself to look out over the town, her vantage point allowing a sight of church spires, red fancy brickwork, grey stone factories with chimneys billowing smoke.
A wide, brown river cut through the centre of the town, curving and hiding itself from view ahead. Standing majestically over the town was the Viaduct bridge, its crisscross iron railings planted on top of giant arches, holding up the trains as they passed on their way north.
At the bottom of James’ Street she came to the Bullring, a small square area where hardware shops had their goods set out. Women in country clothes stood beside pipes and brushes, grates and shovels, chatting.
She felt some eyes on her as she walked past, the chatter stopping for a moment. She doubted anyone would remember her. She looked back at the women watching her and they burst into conversation again, turning their heads sharply to look away.
She crossed the bridge over the River Boyne to Shop Street, where attractive stores advertised clothing and fancy goods. She passed by the Augustinian church, set behind black railings, back from the road. She took the right at the top of Shop Street and there before her stood Laurence Street, a bend in the middle, sweeping into the distance.
Slowly, she counted the numbers, looking at each door as she passed.
She walked by a house painted pale blue and came back to read the black iron numbers on the door: 43.
She was early. The door was grimy. Two low windows were set in the façade, white windowsills turned grey. It wasn’t the most attractive house. She could see up ahead that there much finer buildings, with railings and steps and basements. Her gloved finger lingered on the button doorbell. Changing her mind, she lifted the large knocker, knocked three times and stood back.
No answer. She waited for another few moments. Impatiently, she tapped her boot on the pavement, curling her lip slightly, thinking. She lifted the knocker again and was about to try another rap when she saw the curtain twitching at the front.
Within seconds, the front door swung open, a frazzled woman holding it, hissing, “You’ve wakened her! Can’t you read?”
She pointed to a small white card pinned below the knocker, printed in capitals, emphasising the commands.
NO VISITORS. NO DOORBELL. KNOCK GENTLY.
“I’m here about the advertisement. About the baby.”
“Oh,” said the woman, her face softening. “Oh, of course. Come in.”
She crossed the limestone step and stood in the hallway. It was tiled in tiny small squares, a patterned mosaic in beiges and browns. The woman led her into the front room where the white net curtains blocked the light from the street.
“I’m Mrs. McHugh, the housekeeper,” she said. “Please, take a seat.”
The Nanny At Number 43 Page 1
