Creagh
‘THE TICKETS ARE BEING ISSUED FOR THE NEW RELIEF WORKS,’ DENIS Leary had told John when he called in to the Sullivans’ cottage to share the news with his neighbour. ‘You and Pat and Flor should sign on, for everyone needs the work!’
The following day, Pat had taken the three of them in the horse and cart to register their names in the hope that they would get on the scheme. John and Pat returned with their tickets, but poor Flor was upset because an official had judged him too old for heavy labouring.
‘There is more strength in me than in most men!’ he complained bitterly.
A few days later Mary watched as John made ready to leave for his job on the new roadworks.
‘The pay is said to be poor,’ she said with worry, ‘and the work very hard.’
‘Will you whisht, Mary! Hard work never killed a man,’ he said quietly, pulling on his brown jacket and worn leather boots. ‘And ’tis better surely for me to earn the few pennies we need every day than to sit home and watch you and the children go hungry?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled and reached out to bid him well.
He set out to join a few of the neighbours who were walking to the works along with Pat, Denis and Tom Flynn. They had all been surprised when Tom, who complained of a bad hip, had been issued a ticket for the new scheme, but Flor had been refused.
Mary was filled with hope that now John was working, the huge burden of feeding and keeping their family would ease a little. At last there would be meal and oats for the pot, and perhaps a little bread to keep the starvation and hunger off them. The whole family was weak and badly in need of nourishment, and every penny he earned would give them a little more strength.
‘Oh, you’re soaked to the skin,’ she fussed, when John returned that evening. She took off his jacket and shirt, and put them near the fire to dry.
‘I’m fine,’ he protested as she made him rest easy and warm himself in a blanket, huddled close to the turf fire.
‘Where are you working?’
‘Over beyond Oldcourt.’
‘Are they putting a new road there?’
‘Aye, some kind of road down near the harbour.’ He shook his head heavily. ‘They have us digging out the ground for it, while some are set to breaking stones.’
‘At least you will earn some money.’
‘Eight pence a day,’ he said bitterly. ‘That is all they are paying us, and the like of Tom Flynn get even less. All the Board of Works wants is for us to be employed doing some sort of heavy work. One man told me that the works schemes are designed to occupy the like of us building roads and walls to nowhere!’
‘Why would they do such a thing?’ Mary puzzled as she warmed up the yellow meal for him.
John was all done in, too tired to talk. He went to bed early, and fell into a heavy sleep, snoring as he lay against her.
Every day, John would set off early in the morning with his head down and only a cut of bread or a few spoons of gruel inside him. He would return home exhausted, saying little to Mary about the works. She would serve him an evening meal of stew with wild onion, turnip and cabbage, for there was little left to forage these days.
‘We do the work they ask, yet they still haven’t paid us,’ John grumbled. ‘Not a penny for any of the men. How can we keep on working and get nothing in return? A poor young fellow collapsed beside me this morning. He told me his belly was empty these past two days. A man cannot work on that!’
‘What will happen?’
‘We complained to the foreman but he cares not a toss for us. He just said that we had to wait for our wages.’
Mary grew alarmed that John was labouring for no reward. Digging, lifting, and the breaking of stones and laying them was backbreaking work. She could see it in the stiffness that had developed in his shoulders and arms, and in the taut look on his face, which betrayed how difficult the job truly was.
The following week, he finally got paid. The paltry few shillings he earned was used immediately to purchase a bag of meal and oats.
‘Pat has gone to Maguire’s,’ he sighed.
‘Well, I’m glad that you didn’t join him there, drinking porter,’ Mary said sharply.
‘He has no wife or chicks to feed,’ her husband said defensively, ‘and deserves a few pints for all his hard work.’
Two days later Mary found it hard to stifle her annoyance and anger with Pat. He was back at their table, sitting across from them and eating their hard-earned food, as most of his wages were gone. She served him only a small portion of the soup, for no matter what John said, she had no intention of letting him steal the food from her children’s mouths.
‘This is no life for man,’ he said, eating some of the bread she had made to go with the cabbage soup. ‘I’ll not stick this, for it’s no life at all.’