Skibbereen
DAN CALLED TO A SICK FAMILY IN CORONEA, MOST OF THEM SIMPLY weak with hunger, and then to a young boy who was suffering from bad seizures in Bridgetown. His last ticket was to visit the Murphys’ cabin in Windmill Lane. Julia Murphy was a gentle type of woman, a young widow who had last come to him when her son had fallen and broken his arm. He was one of two children and Dan wondered who in the family was ailing and required a visit from him on this occasion.
‘Mrs Murphy?’ he called as he knocked lightly on the low door of the small cabin.
A young girl of five or six appeared in filthy rags and held the door for him. In the dim, smoky light of the one room Dan’s senses were overwhelmed by the obvious smell of putrefaction.
‘Where is your mother?’ he asked the child.
‘There.’
She pointed nervously at a hunched figure that lay sleeping on the floor among the filthy straw.
‘Julia, it’s Dr Donovan,’ he called softly.
There was no response. As he approached her a voice moaned, and he bent down to look more closely.
‘Julia?’
He stopped suddenly, realizing that there was also a boy of about four years old under the blanket, sobbing tearfully. Beside him lay his mother, cold and pale. He moved her gently and checked, but there was no pulse or sign of life. Her body was already beginning to decay. He lifted up the half-starved child.
‘It’s all right, little man,’ he soothed the scared child. ‘You are safe.’
The small girl ran over to join her brother.
Neither of them was anything more than bones, their small stomachs swollen. Lord knows when they had last eaten. Dan searched the damp cabin and found no trace of any type of food. How long had poor Julia Murphy gone without eating? No doubt the little she had she had given to her children while she grew weaker.
Overcome with sadness, he stared at the once-beautiful woman who had lain down and died here in her own home. There was no furniture, no comfort, and she and her children had little clothing. Likely she had pawned their every last possession.
Was there no one in the town who might have helped her or her children? If only they had come to the dispensary, he could have at least had them admitted to the Union! Perhaps pride or fear or shame had prevented Julia Murphy from seeking help.
The small boy clung to Dan’s neck. Both children needed to be cared for, so he resolved to take them to the workhouse straight away. Following a proper examination, he would make arrangements for the burial of their poor mother.
‘What are your names?’ he asked the girl.
‘I’m Maria and he’s Owen,’ she said as she stared at the doctor, her eyes sunken in her face.
‘Well, Maria and Owen, I have a fine horse and trap, and I am going to take you to a place where you will be fed and looked after as your mother cannot do that any more,’ Dan tried to explain.
‘Is my mama dead?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. But she would want the two of you to be well cared for.’
As he took the children by the hand and led them down to where he had tethered his horse, one or two curious neighbours appeared at their doorways.
‘Mrs Murphy is unfortunately deceased, so please do not enter there,’ he warned. ‘On my return I will attend to things.’
As he drove the young Murphys to the workhouse, Dan thought of his own children and prayed that they would never face such sadness. No boy or girl deserved to see their beloved mother meet her end in this terrible way.