Oldcourt
ON THE STONE ROAD, MARY’S SKIN TOUGHENED WITH THE BACK-BREAKING work. Her feet were swollen and sore, often numb with the cold and the damp. Her hands were cut, her nails broken, and two fingers were hot with chilblains. But she kept her head down every day as she was set to breaking up stones to make them smaller and more usable. She ignored the stiffness in her arms and shoulders, and the weakness that came over her at times. She forced herself to keep working.
The men were like beasts of burden, made to lift and move the heavy baskets. Sometimes the stones fell, injuring some poor fellow, while other men such as Denis Leary were set to dig the heavy, near frozen earth to create the channels and surfaces where the stones would be laid.
She witnessed one poor man break his arm and be sent on his way with only four days’ wages, and only two days ago, a grey-haired old woman, Mary Pat O’Donovan, had fainted on the ground beside her.
‘Be on your way, grandmother,’ the foreman had told her sarcastically. ‘You are no use to us.’
‘Not a word,’ Ellen had warned Mary under her breath, ‘or we will all be in trouble with him.’
Mary, petrified of losing her job, said little as she worked. She missed being with her children as she shivered in the frost and the freezing wind and rain where she felt chilled to the marrow. The one consolation was that she could at least buy some food, though it angered her that the price of corn and meal had risen substantially, making it even worse for them all.
The only good news the family had had was that John had received a short letter from Pat, who was now living and working on a building site in New York. His sea journey had been long and arduous but her brother-in-law was well and living in a fine house. By all accounts he was enjoying his new life in America.
John read his few words over and over again. They were both glad to hear that Pat was well and had escaped from the hard life they were still enduring. She imagined his life in New York, far from the stone roads, the hungry faces and the weeping land.
When she returned home most evenings, Mary barely had the energy to set the pot over the fire. After serving a hot meal to her family, she would curl up and try to warm herself, relaxing her aching muscles as she let sleep overtake her.
On Monday, Mary and the other women were surprised as there was no sign of Ellen.
‘She has the road fever, God help us!’ one of her neighbours told them. ‘They say she is bad with it.’
As Mary hit the stones, splitting them and mixing them together for the men to use, she cursed the officials that had designated such work for the poor and starving.
On Friday, news of Ellen’s death reached the women. It upset everyone deeply and they all said a few prayers in remembrance of her.
As she was paid her wages, Mary considered the pennies in her hand. Her head filled with thoughts of how Ellen’s children, now orphans, would survive without their mother.
‘Mary, you cannot keep on,’ warned John when she told him about Ellen. ‘I fear you will collapse and get sick, and then what will happen to the children?’
She knew in her heart that he was speaking the truth. The heavy work and hunger were draining the life from her, but there was nothing else for it. She had to work or else they would surely starve.
‘I am well again and ready for the work!’ her husband insisted, but anyone could see that his eyes were still sunken in his head and he was not the man he used to be. She knew he was still weak and his muscles were gone. There wasn’t a chance that he was yet strong enough to swing a heavy shovel or pickaxe.
They argued hotly over it, but Mary refused to give in. As long as she had the strength to work, she would break all the stones in the world if it meant her family would survive the hunger.
‘John, I will only do it until you are better,’ she conceded. Her back and shoulders ached constantly, but she wrapped herself up in his heavy coat and set off for the works.