Little Drifters: Kathleen’s Story. Kathleen O’Shea

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СКАЧАТЬ the cottage we lived in, the hills, the river nearby and all the lush green fields where beets, spuds and cabbages were harvested according to the seasons.

      The cottage sat pretty on an isolated hilltop, surrounded by wide-open countryside with a beautiful river running past the foot of the hill. Our nearest neighbour was about two miles away, a farmer who owned most of the surrounding fields. You could see horses and cows grazing within stone walls that defined the field boundaries. These walls stretched for miles, gliding up and down the hill, following the contours of the land. Groups of trees dotted the landscape, and there was a stream and a woodland close by, adding charm and tranquillity to the place. It was such an idyllic setting and, for us, the younger children, it was an adventure playground.

      The cottage itself was built from local stone and was a single storey with a slate roof. It wasn’t big, especially for 10 of us, but we muddled along. There were three bedrooms. The older children – Claire, 14, Bridget, 13, Aidan, 12, and 11-year-old Liam – shared a room, and the younger ones – Brian, five, Tara, four, Kathleen (that’s me), and our youngest brother Colin, two – occupied the other bedroom. Our parents were in the third bedroom. Later my sisters Libby and Lucy and brother Riley would come along, making 11 of us kids in total.

      Each one of us was either dark like my father Donal, or blonde like my mother Marion – we looked like a salt and pepper family! Tara had long dark hair, I was fair, Colin was dark, Brian was blond, Bridget dark, Claire blonde and the older boys both dark like my father.

      Our mother kept the cottage neat and tidy as best as she could. Most mornings she put out a plate of sliced soda bread and a pot of tea on the wooden table in the parlour, where we all helped ourselves when we got up. We had a small parlour with a log-burning stove. Pots and pans hung around the stove on big metal hooks attached to the walls. The wooden table was under the window and we’d sit, watching her washing away with the laundries, squeezing and flapping the sheets loose before hanging them on the rope that was tied to two nearby trees.

      Of course we all tried to help as best we could. In a family so large, everyone has a job, no matter how small. Water needed to be carried in buckets from the nearby river. Mammy would bring us to the riverbank where she’d find a safe spot and show us what to do.

      ‘Now mind where you put your feet down,’ she’d warn. ‘Be careful you don’t fall in the water.’

      She’d scoop up the water and lift the bucket, moving away from the river’s edge.

      ‘Don’t dip the bucket too deep,’ she’d instruct. ‘There’ll be too much water and it’ll be too heavy for you lot to lift it up. Just put it half way in.’

      She’d let us do it ourselves as it always required a handful of us to make a few trips to fill up the big barrel. Usually it fell to Brian, Tara and myself as the older ones were with my father, working on the farm. But as the buckets grew heavier with each trip we’d set to squabbling, and by the time we got to the barrel we’d usually have spilt half the water on the ground.

      That wasn’t our only job. We also had animals to tend to – some horses, a goat and a few dogs. My mother had a way with the animals; she was ever so gentle with them. Ginny the goat was a kid when my mother got her. Now she was a milking goat with just one horn as the other was snapped off during a fight with one of the dogs.

      When my mother needed milk, she’d just walk up to Ginny and say: ‘Come on now, Gin Gin. Come to Mammy.’ And Ginny would come straight to her.

      ‘Stand nice and still now,’ my mother spoke gently, and Ginny would obey.

      Then my mother would sit herself down on a stool, plant a bucket under her and support one of Ginny’s back legs.

      She milked and talked at the same time, praising Ginny like mad: ‘Thank you, Gin. That’s a grand bucket of milk there!’

      My two favourite horses was a piebald we called Polly, who pulled the cart, and a big mare we simply called Big Mare. They were very gentle creatures. We played under the horse’s bellies and in between their legs and they never once hurt us. The greyhound and the Alsatian were used for breeding and their puppies sold off for the extra cash, but Floss, a black and white sheepdog, was my father’s favourite and his constant companion. He went everywhere with Daddy.

      As our mother was always busy, we were left to our own devices for the rest of the day. We kept ourselves occupied playing with the animals or on the grounds. My mother would call on us occasionally from inside the cottage, checking we hadn’t strayed too far.

      In the evenings us younger ones got to spend time with Claire and Bridget. They were so loving and motherly to us that Tara and me jealously fought for their attention, trying to outdo each other to be closest to them.

      ‘Bridget, can I do your hair to see if there are any nits?’ I’d ask.

      Bridget would lie down and put her head on top of my lap.

      I’d part her hair carefully with my fingers and move her head around and then exclaim: ‘Bridget, don’t move! I found a load of nits! Don’t worry, I killed them all for you!’

      Then I’d click my two thumbnails and push down on her head making a sound like I was squashing the nits.

      ‘Did you hear that, Bridget?’

      ‘Yes, baby, kill them all.’

      I’d be at it for ages, all the while Bridget praising me like mad, knowing perfectly well that she didn’t have any nits, and I got the attention that I wanted.

      We had no electricity in the cottage so our only light was from candles and the open fire in the parlour, where we’d gather and sit out the evening listening to our father’s stories or his playing on the harmonica or accordion. He could play any tune even though he never learned how to read music. He’d have us dancing and singing along with a medley of old Irish folk songs, his feet tapping the floor, always in tempo. And he’d tell great stories too – sending us into howling fits of laughter. But always, always my favourite was the story of how they met.

      My father was a tall, strapping, handsome man with jet black hair, swept back on his head like a film star. He always looked smart, dressed in suits and shirts, working away from home a lot in different villages or towns. He was a jack of all trades, trying his hand at anything from building to roadwork, farming and breeding horses.

      Before he lost touch with his family, my grandmother, Daddy’s mammy, would come to see us and tell us stories about my father as a lad.

      ‘He was the Madman of Borneo, your daddy,’ she’d cackle. ‘They called him that because he was wild as anything. A real live wire. He would often be heard coming into town, shouting his head off, standing up on the horse and cart with the reins in his hands, his shirt sleeves rolled up, galloping as hard as he could, grinning, laughing, pure brazen without a care in the world. Everyone had to jump out of his way or risk being flattened to the ground!’

      At the weekends, my father took Bridget and Claire to the village pub where they were paid to perform as a trio. For my sisters, it was the highlight of their week and they’d dress themselves up to the nines, putting on make-up and doing their hair.

      ‘We want to come! We want to come!’ Tara and I would beg my father.

      ‘No, babas, you’re too young. I’ll take you when you’re a bit older,’ he’d console us.

      I was always so envious, СКАЧАТЬ