Each day during that last week of June 1846, after Daniel had called the roll, John took out his list for the holiday school and asked if there were any other names to be added on. Hannah listened, as the names of both younger and older children were added each day to the existing fifteen pupils on the roll, who’d been asked to spread the word and invite any children they knew within walking distance to join them for the two weeks of holiday school.
Now, as John and Hannah saw just how popular the whole idea was becoming, she began to wonder how they could possibly cope with so many children for a week, never mind a fortnight.
Each lunchtime, Hannah, Daniel and John considered the new names and the new problems the extra numbers would generate. No doubt parents were genuinely glad to have something to occupy their children, already limited by the depressing grey, damp weather continuing since the late spring, but it was also obvious that when every spoonful of meal and flour had to be measured out each day, that the prospect of free lunches was an opportunity not to be missed.
There was enough money in the school funds to provide the necessary food, but what money wouldn’t provide was enough space in Daniel’s cottage to seat double, or possibly treble, their usual numbers. Even with the new tables and benches it was still a tight squeeze for the existing pupils. How on earth could they possibly accommodate all these extra children?
As Daniel said during one of their lunchtime conferences, in a better summer they could have sat outside, but at the moment there was seldom a day without misty rain, or low cloud. Some days, he insisted, it was cold enough that he for one was grateful for the prospect of a fire in the evening.
John suggested mixing pupils and visitors, splitting the names on his list and then having both a morning and an afternoon session. Hannah had already agreed to come every morning, instead of her usual three, but now she felt she must offer afternoons as well. She’d no idea how she’d manage all the things she had to do at home if she were out all day, but it just didn’t occur to her to leave the afternoons to John and Daniel on their own.
Daniel suggested that both morning and afternoon sessions should be the same length, but shorter than normal school hours. He suggested ten till twelve and two till four. He then proposed that the four eldest school pupils might ‘help out’ as monitors, two in the morning, two in the afternoon. That, he said, would mean that Hannah could leave a little early in the morning and have time for a small ‘catch-up’ on her cooking and baking in the middle of the day.
It was still going to be hard work, but as Hannah and John agreed after the first two days, it was so clearly worth the effort. Weeks ago, they had put in a special order for art materials. Now they were able to offer drawing, painting and sketching to everyone who was interested. They’d also acquired fabric and backing material from Jonathan Hancock so patchwork, rug-making and sewing were offered to both boys and girls. Hannah was quite delighted when some of the boys proved to be very good at pinning patchwork, even if they left the actual sewing in place to their sisters. She had spoken of the possibility of cradle covers for very young brothers and sisters and she was very touched by the number now under way.
While Hannah and John and their two helpers showed boys and girls what they could do with the various materials available, Daniel stood by listening to the new voices. Once everyone was at work he would tell a story.
Later, he commented on the devoted quality of the silence, both when he told a story and later, when John and Hannah took it in turns to read their favourite poems.
By the end of the first week, Hannah could hardly believe how easily all the children had found things they wanted to do, and, having chosen, how easily they tackled activities totally new to them. It looked as if the habit of ‘sharing,’ a standard part of everyday school, had simply stretched out from the regulars, as Daniel called them, to the newcomers. They were all delighted that the children were completely at ease with each other and with their teachers.
One of the most successful ‘teachers’ was young Johnny Donnelly, the boy who had moved from crayons to watercolour and whose pictures had enabled Jonathan Hancock to raise donations for the school. He was one of the four ‘helpers’ from everyday school and he not only encouraged even the youngest children to use both crayons and brushes as he had, but, by sharing his own pictures, and those of his six-year-old sister, he ensured that by the end of the week everyone in the morning group had at least one picture of their own to take home.
On that Friday morning, Bridget, the woman who made the lunches for everyone, came by request, bringing small packets of ‘cookies’. Daniel had insisted that each person who had completed a project of their choice within the week should have a prize. It was Bridget’s idea that ‘something to share’ would include other children who could not come. In fact, every single ‘morning child’ had earned a prize and from what Hannah could remember from Thursday afternoon, it looked as if there would be no leftovers from the second batch she had made for Friday afternoon.
The prize-giving was a great success. As children put pictures in folders to take home, to share with parents and neighbours, Hannah thought again of Jonathan Hancock and the first pictures he had given away and the donations they had brought to the school and to the valley. He’d be so pleased that some of that picture money of his had paid for the extra art materials, for the lunches and for the oatmeal for Bridget’s little packets of cookies.
As she said goodbye to Daniel and suggested he rest himself at the weekend, she thought of all the former neighbours who had once listened to his stories. So many of them had since taken the Derry boat and now worked permanently in England or Scotland. They were one part of a long line who had made their way to Liverpool, or Glasgow, or anywhere they had contacts who would help them find work.
Surely they must miss their families and the places they once knew, just as she missed her father, her brothers, and sisters. She thought so often of the sight and sound of the waves on the Solway Firth, sweeping up to the beach at the bottom of their sloping fields. She wondered what images the emigrants from this valley carried in their hearts, as she carried hers.
Thinking of her brothers in Nova Scotia, she began to recall other emigrants she knew, like Marie and Liam, who had recently gone to New York, and a niece of Sophie’s who had left for Boston. She wondered how they would feel if they got a picture of their home valley. Would it make them glad to be remembered, or sad to be reminded that they probably would never go back to their first home?
Producing pictures for all these people would be no trouble at all judging by this week’s output, Hannah reflected as she set out for home, Sam and Rose running ahead of her and John having a final word with Daniel. A letter to accompany each one was a different matter. Only a few older children in each group could write well enough to produce even a short message. But then, Hannah thought sadly, few of the people who would appreciate pictures of ‘their valley’ could either read, or write, themselves.
They could probably not even write their own names. Just like the group of Irish harvesters Hannah had offered to help when she was seventeen and still a monitor – when one of her pupils was her own dear Patrick.
*
When Hannah had a sudden idea, like sending out pictures to former residents of their valley, ‘taking one of her notions’ as Patrick always called it, she found the details of her plan went round and round in her head until she had either solved all the problems involved with the idea, or wore herself out in the process. But this time, having ‘taken this notion’ at the end of the first week in July, neither of those things happened.
She had no sooner arrived home from holiday school, made up the fire and begun making tea for John, Sam and Rose, when Sophie from next door arrived in a flurry of skirts, clutching a letter for John.
To Hannah’s great surprise, Sophie immediately said, ‘No, thank you, Hannah dear,’ to her offer of tea, and then suggested that Sam and Rose come over and read to her, just as soon as they had finished theirs.
As they exchanged glances, Hannah saw John’s face lose not only its usual animation, but also its colour.
The long-awaited letter had come at last. John had written to his father, sharing his good news about the publication of his book on storytelling and now, after weeks when he had waited as patiently as he could for his reply, the envelope lay on the table, the Galway postmark quite unmistakable.
‘Don’t stay too long,’ Hannah warned, as soon as Rose and Sam finished off their bread and jam. ‘Sophie might like you to read to her for a little, but she sometimes gets very tired when she listens,’ Hannah explained, knowing that Rose was indeed paying attention, even if Sam was not.
The moment they disappeared, she handed John the letter and watched him rip it open.
‘It’s not from Da,’ he said abruptly, before he’d even unfolded it. ‘It’s from my sister, Clare. So something’s wrong,’ he added as he struggled awkwardly to pull out the single sheet of notepaper.
Hannah felt her spirits fall, the weariness of the day now taking away the pleasure she’d felt in the success of the week, the smiling faces of the children who had departed carrying pictures, or sketches, tiny patchwork cot covers, or packets of brownies. She sat finishing her tea, trying to stay calm and preparing herself for whatever might emerge from the torn envelope.
John dropped the letter on the table and burst into tears.
She stood up, put her arms round him and felt his warm tears splash on her bare arms.
‘Oh, John dear, what has happened? Please, tell me what’s happened.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous … here, read it yourself,’ he said thrusting the single sheet towards her. ‘It’s my eldest sister, Clare. She’s not a great writer and her spelling isn’t up to much,’ he added, making an attempt to wipe his tears and collect himself.
The writing was indeed somewhat erratic but the message was clear enough. There had been an accident on board the small coastguard boat. A young man, a trainee, had been hit on the head and gone overboard. Their father, knowing the man was unconscious, had immediately gone after him and kept him afloat until help came. The young man was all right now, but Da was still in bed with pneumonia. He had been very poorly but seemed to be a little better today, his sister wrote. Clare had put no date on the letter and the postmark was smudged. Only one thing was clear to Hannah. Whatever the difficulties between John and his father, she knew for certain that he couldn’t bear to lose him.
*
They talked quietly for a little while, John explaining to her how a man could be knocked unconscious if he were not entirely familiar with the movements of sheets, and booms, and other pieces of sailing equipment Hannah had never heard of before. What she could grasp easily enough was that going into the water unconscious could be fatal, if he fell face down. Clearly, John’s father, a strong swimmer, was taking no chances. So, he had gone in after him. John remembered now that his father’s Number Two was a good seaman, but not a good swimmer.
As John reread the letter again, some further details did emerge that he’d simply not registered in his first anxious reading. It was now clear the two men had been in the water a long time. There had been no help near at hand and the two remaining crew of the coastguard boat could not simultaneously manoeuvre their boat, hold her steady and carry out the rescue. They’d had to wait some time before a fishing boat saw their flares and came to their aid.
In just over a week’s time John would be free to go to Galway and find out for himself exactly what was happening. Right now, Hannah encouraged him to write to his sister. If he took his letter to the post first thing next morning, he just might get a reply within the week.
Hannah reckoned that it would help him to be able to act. He would certainly not be the only one watching out each day for a possible reply.
*
But there was no reply that week. As day followed day, they both knew there was no point trying to guess what was happening in Galway, or even what might already have happened.
John, who clearly felt bad at having showed so much feeling on the subject, concentrated on the remaining week’s work. It was only when he asked her how she felt about what they had done in running a holiday school and if she’d achieved what she’d hoped from it, that she suddenly remembered all the thoughts that had come to her when she saw the pictures being carried home.
‘To tell you the truth, John, any thoughts I had went clean out of my head, as my father would say, when Sophie appeared with that letter from your sister,’ she said. ‘I think I was about to have either a great thought, or a silly notion. Certainly, I’d registered all those pictures and thought of all the people who’ve gone from the valley since the bad times began.’
‘Were there many went from here?’ John asked. He knew a good deal about emigration throughout Ireland from Sophie’s newspapers but he had never actually asked about the valley where he both lived and worked.
Hannah shook her head. ‘I really couldn’t answer that properly. Perhaps the only people who do know are the priests and the ministers.’
‘I could certainly ask the priest in Churchill – he’s been very kind to me. Doesn’t even insist on my going to Mass as I thought he would.’
Hannah smiled. There were some priests who had taken a hard line with their flock, some of them repeating the phrase that had made John so angry: ‘The famine is God’s judgement on the idle Irish.’
But not all were like that. Catriona, another Covenanter’s daughter like herself, had nothing but admiration for the priest in Ramelton. She said the only problem with the dear man was he had so little money himself and yet he still tried to help out those with even less.
It was while she was telling John about Catriona and the Catholic priest that she noticed he was looking at her very closely.
‘Perhaps we should do what Jonathan Hancock did?’ he said slowly.
‘What d’you mean, John? I know he gave away Johnny Donnelly’s pictures and then asked for a donation for the school. And we both know how much money we’ve had. All those books and paper and art materials. And money for pieces and bowls of meal for supper. But then Jonathan knows landowners and gentry,’ she added gently.
‘And we don’t know who we know,’ he said firmly. ‘Most of those who went from this valley probably can’t read a covering letter, even if all our holiday school pupils could write them, which most of them can’t.’ He echoed Hannah’s thoughts. ‘But we could get round that, Hannah. And it’s not just those who’ve recently gone, there must be people from 1838 and back before that. It would be worth a try, wouldn’t it?’
For a moment, Hannah felt confused. She hadn’t seen John so animated in months, suddenly it seemed as if he had seen something he really wanted to do.
‘Hannah, don’t you remember the money that came from the Indian Army, and the story we read about the Choctaw Indians who’d had a famine themselves. We’ve no idea where a picture from this valley could end up. Can school afford the stamps and the envelopes?’
She laughed and thought again of the drunken men from the valley who had sent home an even larger donation than most of Jonathan’s offerings. She hadn’t felt she could share the story with anyone in the valley, but, thanks to those men, they could indeed buy envelopes and post them anywhere in the world where they had a name and an address for someone who had once lived in this valley.