The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

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СКАЧАТЬ on, I’ll show you up, now.’ She led me through the door beside the bar then up a narrow staircase panelled in dark wood. My room was at the top, surprisingly light and spacious after the dark bar and staircase. It had windows front and back, an uneven stripped wood floor, dark oak furniture and bright white bedlinen with lacy trim. Over the bed was a picture of Christ, his arms outstretched, his heart depicted exposed and shining. The room smelt of beeswax polish. The rain had stopped and weak sunshine was shining in at the back window. I put my bags down and smiled. It felt like the kind of room where you could really relax and sort yourself out – just what I needed. It had been a very difficult few days.

      ‘This is perfect, thanks. What time’s breakfast?’

      ‘Any time you want it, love. You’re my only guest this week so I can work around you. You’ll fit in nicely, I can see. You’ve already met two of my regulars, Declan and Paulie.’

      ‘Declan’s nice.’

      She chuckled. ‘Yes and he is that, to be sure, but don’t be getting ideas. You’ll not get far with that one.’ She laughed again, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

      I spent an hour or so unpacking, sorting out my room, and setting up my laptop on the dressing table. The pub had Wi-Fi and the signal was pretty strong, so I then began some Googling to find out more about Kildoolin. Should have done that before coming over, I suppose, rather than appearing an idiot in front of the locals for not realising it was a derelict famine village! Well anyway, now I knew, and was excited at the prospect of a walk up there tomorrow. The weather forecast online showed a bright day with just a chance of a few showers in the afternoon. If I got up and out early, perhaps I’d be able to avoid them.

      It’d be the perfect way to start my holiday and my research. But first, I thought I had better call Dan and let him know I had arrived safely. I took a deep breath before picking up my mobile. It might not be an easy call, given what had happened last night.

      He answered straight away.

      ‘Hi, Dan,’ I said. ‘Just letting you know I got here OK.’

      ‘That’s good.’ He sounded deflated, and I felt a pang of guilt. What had I done to him?

      ‘So, um, the pub where I’m staying seems nice.’

      ‘Great.’

      ‘You OK?’

      He sighed. ‘What do you think, Maria?’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ I sounded lame, even to myself. I realised there was no point trying to discuss things right now. It was too soon. We – or at least I – needed some time before we could talk. ‘Look, I’ll call you again soon, OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Bye then. Love you.’ I realised he’d already hung up. I did love Dan. I wasn’t just saying that from habit.

      I knew I’d hurt him, and I was sorry for it. It’s just . . . there was stuff I needed to think about, stuff to get my head around. Things he didn’t know about. Things I should have told him long before now.

      The mind is a funny thing. Something really big and important can be happening in your life, and yet if you don’t want to face it, you can sometimes simply let yourself forget all about it. For a while, at least, until it becomes too big to ignore. I knew I was in denial, but I didn’t care, and wasn’t ready to face it all head on. Not yet, anyway.

      Hopefully here in Ireland, immersed in my research into Michael McCarthy and his mother Kitty, I’d find the time and headspace to work it all out, and sort things out with Dan, one way or another.

CHAPTER 2

       Kitty, 1848

      The potatoes were all gone. There was not a single one left. Kitty climbed down from the storage area set into the rafters of her tiny cottage and sighed. She’d crawled right into the corners, hoping against hope that there might be a few stray potatoes that had rolled right to the back. Anything to allow her to cook a meal of some sort for the children and herself tonight. Anything to hold off starvation for one more day.

      She dropped to her knees on the cold stone floor. ‘Please God let there be something today for the children. I’ll be all right going without, sure I will, but young Michael needs to eat if he’s to work, and little Gracie is fading away, Lord bless her soul.’ The prayer was said in a whisper, for fear of waking her daughter who was curled up in a corner of the room. She was thankful Gracie slept, for all the time the child was sleeping she was not feeling the clawing pangs of hunger.

      Kitty hauled herself upright again and crossed herself, feeling slightly dizzy. She had not eaten anything that day. The little family was reduced to a single meal each day now. She shook her head sadly, wondering what, if anything, she’d be able to give them this evening. Perhaps if Michael was paid what he was owed today, she could walk to Ballymor with his wages and buy some cornmeal. Or could she knock on doors and see if anyone could spare a potato or two? It was rumoured that Martin O’Shaughnessy still had a good stock. Probably blighted, like those she and the children had been living off these last months, but nevertheless they were just about edible and better than nothing. Could she bring herself to ask him for help? Old Martin wasn’t the friendliest of neighbours. His children had grown and left – two sons to America, a daughter wed in Limerick and another in Dublin. His wife had died of the consumption a couple of years ago, and he’d become a bit of a hermit since then. Kitty had helped nurse Niamh O’Shaughnessy at the end of her life, despite Martin telling her he could cope and she wasn’t needed. Now Martin was fast becoming Kitty’s only neighbour. The village was almost deserted. As the famine entered its third year, people had moved away in search of work and food. Or gone to be with God, like Kitty’s other children. She felt a wave of sadness wash over her as she remembered Little Pat and the three babies she’d lost. For a moment she could barely move or breathe, paralysed by grief, but she pulled herself together. She still had two children living, and they needed her to be strong.

      She crossed the floor of her single-room cottage, to the rough straw mattress and pile of blankets that served as a bed for herself and Grace. She sat down and laid a hand on her daughter’s forehead.

      ‘Well now, Gracie. Have you slept well? Will I get you a sip of water?’

      Grace’s huge dark eyes stared up at her, and a sweet smile came to her lips.

      ‘Bless you, child. Your smile lights up the cottage, so it does.’ Kitty scooped some water from a bucket into a pottery mug, and held it to Grace’s lips. The girl managed a few sips before lying back down on the blankets.

      ‘Mammy, will Michael catch a rabbit today?’ she asked.

      Kitty closed her eyes as she remembered that glorious day, three weeks ago now, when Michael had come home with a rabbit he’d caught in a trap. They’d still had some potatoes then, from the meagre summer crop, and the stew she’d made that night with the rabbit meat had been a feast. There’d been some for the day after as well. But Michael wasn’t the only one in the community setting traps for rabbits, and he’d had no luck since that day. ‘Ah, sure rabbit stew would be lovely, wouldn’t it?’ she said to Grace, who nodded and feebly licked her lips.

      It was another hour or more before Michael would be home. He was working in the fields for Mr Waterman СКАЧАТЬ