James had taken to walking with his children, Catherine, Thomas and Mary-Annee, along the roads in the surrounding countryside. They crossed fields and streams, while he told them stories relating to the different landmarks they encountered along the way. Although he could no longer live in his homeland, James did not want his children to forget where they came from. He hoped that in their lifetime Ireland would be a much better place for them to return to. A country with something to offer, instead of always taking until there was nothing left, except the grave or a boat. These were the thoughts the young father mulled over while he waited to follow in the footsteps of his brothers and sisters, a decade after their own departure.
“Here’s as good a place as any to eat our meal. Sit down there and rest for a while, Mary-Anne is struggling to keep up on those poor wee legs of hers,” said James.
The children sat and ate potatoes that their father had carried in a cloth bag, tied to the end of a stick and placed across his shoulder.
“Am I like The Blind McCourt, Daddy, you know, the poet?” asked Thomas.
“Why do you ask that, have you taken to writing verse?”
“I wrote a poem about us leaving our house and the Master read it out to the class. He said I might even be as good as An Dall MacCuarta.”
“When was this, Thomas? Does your mammy know about it? She would be very proud of that, son?”
“Mammy told us not to tell you and said that Thomas was to stop writing such nonsense. She said the Master was filling our heads with things that would have us wanting to be above our station – whatever that means,” Catherine mumbled through a mouthful of potato.
Although James understood why Mary had said such a thing, he was annoyed that she had made little of the boy’s effort. The girls had wandered off chasing each other through the long grass but Thomas was still sitting beside his father, enjoying the male company.
“Ah, your mammy is too busy with the trials and tribulations of life to pay heed to the visions of a poet, Thomas.”
“What does that mean, Daddy?”
“You’ll understand when you find yourself with a family to feed and a roof to keep over your heads. The Blind McCourt often stayed at the house of Aunt Annie’s grandfather, or so the story goes.”
“I know, Daddy. Mamó used to tell us that story, too. She said he was put out of his home with his family when he was only a young boy and went from village to village for the rest of his life, with his songs and poems. If I don’t become a doctor, I think I might do that instead.”
“Well, if you don’t get work I suppose you can always try it. People used to give McCourt food and lodgings in exchange for entertaining them with his words,” James was not one to trample on a young boy’s dreams. “We had better be getting back, son, our walk took us a lot further than I intended today.”
Once the children had gone to bed that evening, Mary sat by the fire in what the family referred to as ‘Pat’s chair’ and began to mend some clothes, in preparation for their trip to England.
“I’ll not have us looking like a bunch of ragamuffins when we land across the water,” she said stabbing James’s good shirt with a needle.
“I hope you’re not getting above your station, love,” said James, smiling to himself.
“Why would you say such a thing? I just want us to look decent and not like the bedraggled, uncivilized Irish beggars that people over there expect to see coming off the boat.
James smile left his face as his stomach turned, “Do not belittle your own kind like that, woman. A person is not uncivilized just because they lack decent clothing and a livelihood. We are all at the mercy of circumstance and misfortune, as you well know.” James leaned forward and deliberately spat into the fire. “Sorry, Mary, am I being uncivilized? Have I offended your genteel nature?”
As he stood up, he pushed his chair back with such force, it toppled over. Leaving it where it lay, James put on his cap and jacket and left his wife sitting open mouthed by the fire. She had never heard such venom in his voice in all the years they had known each other. That it should be directed towards herself, his own wife, was even worse. Mary sat for a long time after the door had been slammed shut, staring into the flames, her sewing abandoned.
By the time Maggie got back from Kitty Carroll’s the fire had died down and Mary was sitting in the dark, not even a candle lit.
“I’m happy that I can do my own mending, if you’ve been sewing in the dark. What ails you?”
Mary told her sister-in-law what James had said and how it had affected her.
“Ah, he was only taking out his frustrations on you. Sure isn’t that why we get married in the first place?” Maggie said as she set right the upturned chair.
“It wasn’t what he said but the way he said it. I’ve never heard such coldness in his voice before, it froze me to the spot,” Mary shivered. “Who says we get married out of frustration? That’s not the reason I wed James.”
Maggie laughed, “No, nor I. Us women marry out of love. As for the men – do you not remember your courting days, Mary? Him wanting a wee bit more and you fending him off, fighting against your own temptation at the same time.”
“Hush woman, that’s your brother you’re speaking of. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Mary admonished, slightly embarrassed at the forwardness of Maggie’s words.
Both women stared at the glowing turf in silence, until Mary burst out laughing.
“Oh Maggie, I have to admit, what you say is true about his frustration. I don’t know how many times James told me he was driven demented, and that our wedding day could not come soon enough for him.”
“Wedding night you mean, Mary. Sure it was the same for me. I’ve been widowed so long now that I have forgotten what it’s like to have to answer to a man, and I fully intend on keeping things that way.”
“So you’ll not change your mind about coming with us then?” asked Mary.
“If I move back there I will wither away and die. Kitty Carroll and her daughter told me they will be glad of the company and that I can stay with them for as long as I like. James won’t be too happy about that, will he?” said Maggie.
Mary remarked that nothing seemed to make her husband happy any more. It was why she had agreed with his decision about moving to England. The death of his uncle, alone and confused, separated from his family, had changed James from a warm-hearted man to one with a cold and bitter nature. Mary feared he would get worse if they stayed and had thought about moving back to Monaghan, but the only family either of them had was the one across the water. What was left of her own kin had settled in America and apart from a handful of letters received over the years, Mary knew nothing about them.
“A fresh start is what we need, Maggie. My only fear is that it will not suit the children over there. The air is heavy and stale and there are too many people crowded into every street. I worry how Mary-Anne will fare with her delicate nature.”
“Rose will take care of her if she’s ailing, like she did with my youngest. That woman could have been a doctor if she were born a man and to a wealthy family,” said Maggie.
“You are quite the healer yourself,” Mary patted her sister-in-law’s hand. “I have a lot to thank you for, Maggie, and I will miss you sorely. I intend to keep begging you to come with us, right up until we board that boat. James still has your ticket,” she stood up, placing her sewing on the table. “I’m going to sleep upstairs with you and the children tonight. It would be better for James if I don’t see him when he gets home and I will feel less bitterness towards him after a night’s sleep.”
“I will be up shortly, Mary. Leave Brigid here with me for now, the wee mite is fast asleep. I’ll bring her to you if she wakes up looking to be nursed.”
******
Paddy Mac knew better than to put a drink up in front of Matthew Clarke. The last time he had done that, every stick of furniture in the place had been reduced to firewood. Some men should never touch alcohol and he was one of them. Paddy watched as Matthew sat down on a bench beside James McGrother, who had been in a sour mood since storming through the door earlier that evening.
“I called in to tell some of the men about a bit of labouring work, James, are you interested?”
The young man looked at Matthew with glazed eyes and shook his head slowly.
“Much obliged for the offer but the next time I break sweat earning a wage, it will be on foreign soil,” James slurred, raising his drink in salute.
“Can I give you a word of advice?” Matthew waited until James nodded his head. “Don’t be so quick to look for comfort in the bottom of a tankard. All you will find there is grief and you know very well how that feels.”
“Well now, Mr. Clarke, I’m grateful for your concern about my grief, and yes, I do know what that feels like – as does every man here this evening, including your good self. But I am not looking to ease that particular pain, I have had plenty of practice with that already,” James took a long drink. “No, Matthew, what I cannot stand is the guilt and remorse that I am unable to shake off. Those feelings are there every cursed minute of my day. They even invade my dreams by night.”
Knowing how difficult it would be to reason with a man who had been drinking for the evening, Matthew placed a hand on his young friend’s shoulder.
“Time heals all things eventually, James, if you allow it to. When you are settled with your family across the water things will get better for you, mark my words.”
“I will be too busy labouring over there to spend much time dwelling on the past. I know you are concerned to see how often I come in here, but it is the only way I can get a night’s sleep.”
“I know, James, I know. Well, if you change your mind about the labouring, we will be meeting up at Father Marmion’s, it was him that put the work my way. Sure we can get a blessing on our day while we are at it. It would do you good to be there but I won’t press you about it,” Matthew held out his hand.
“You’re a fine man, Matthew Clarke, and a good neighbour,” James grasped a hand that was as calloused as his own from years of fishing, labouring and working the bog.
“Goodnight James.”
As Matthew walked out of Paddy Mac’s he felt as if a mountain of guilt had been heaped upon his shoulders. It was unnerving how close he had come to telling the young fisherman the truth about his uncle. Giving out information like that, no matter how good the intention was, could get a man killed. Matthew had been assured that Flanagan would get what he deserved and Pat McGrother’s name would finally be cleared. The fact that justice would be served too late for the old man’s family, left a bitter taste in Matthew’s mouth. Add to that the forced exile of his own son, and it took all of his will power not to hunt down Flanagan and throttle him, until he had squeezed every last breath from the wretched man’s body.