Skibbereen
‘GOOD MORNING, FATHER,’ CHORUSED THE SCHOOL CHILDREN LOUDLY as they welcomed him.
Father Fitzpatrick smiled as he took in the desks packed with young pupils keen to learn and to receive the free meals supplied by the British Relief Association. Since the inception of its charity scheme for feeding children a few weeks ago, attendance at St Fachtna’s School had never been so high, the place now crowded out. The Association’s schools scheme ensured that nearly every hungry child in the district could not only get an education but also be fed.
A few of the children had protested and objected at first to the conditions that hands and faces had to be scrubbed clean, and hair had to be combed for lice and nits, but if the children wanted to avail themselves of the two free meals provided generously by the British Association every day in the school, they must abide by the rules. The scheme was a good one and though, at first, Father Fitzpatrick had wondered about its efficiency, the promise of a bowl of gruel in the morning and oatcakes later in the day enticed the hungry. Children from all over now flocked to school.
‘It’s a devil of a job, Father, trying to get them to let their faces and hands be washed every day,’ confided the school master. ‘And you should hear the roars from some of them when the poor assistants are trying to use the fine comb to de-louse their hair.’
‘But it has made a difference?’
‘Most certainly. How can a child be expected to learn when they have an empty belly?’
‘Aye,’ he nodded. ‘The hope is that feeding and washing and cleaning the children will help curtail the spread of disease.’
The school and its classrooms had not been built to accommodate such huge numbers, but if the parents wanted the children to attend, he was happy for the school to oblige. It meant the burden of feeding so many mouths in a poor family was somewhat eased. No longer wan and pale-faced, the boys and girls, he hoped, could concentrate and learn.
As the priest walked through the town, he wondered how much longer they would have to endure such conditions. He remained tired and drained from the constant demands for his services. The young curate, who assisted him as best he could, looked of late to be exhausted too.
A few of the young men with whom he had studied and trained for the priesthood had already succumbed to fever, which they had caught while performing their religious duties in their parishes. His friend Father James Coyle had died of typhus only a few weeks ago. A kind-hearted, gentle man, it had been a great loss.
Some days, he felt as if there must be an angel watching over him as he attended the sick and dying in the lanes and hovels of the town. His job was to bless and comfort them in their final hours on this good earth. He had come to realize that doing the Lord’s work here in Skibbereen was what he had been called for, and that it was a true testimony of his faith.
‘I have your meal ready,’ declared Bridey when he returned home that evening.
The woman fussed over him like a mother hen, making sure that he ate enough and slept enough, and got a little peace to himself.
‘If I don’t look out for you, Father, who will?’
‘Thank you, Bridey. Without your good care I would be lost,’ he said, seeing her flush with pride as she returned to the kitchen.
Taking out his Bible, he began to read, finding great comfort in the familiar words …