In the early months of 1847, fever crept through Clooneven. It was quiet at first, taking only those who’d been weakened by hunger and old age. As time passed, it became greedier, claiming young men and women. The atmosphere, already dark, became dense with fear.
Bridget watched what was happening around her. She saw the glassy eyes and jaundiced faces, heard about the sweating and vomiting, the smell that filled the cabins of the sick. It was all people could talk about.
Did you hear about Mary O’Flaherty?
About Joseph Morrissey?
About the young Griffin boy?
What was causing it? they asked. Could it be as simple as a lack of food? Or were there other reasons? Were the women who searched through dung heaps for vegetable peel to blame? Or the men who killed and ate wild animals? Some argued that if a person became infected, they ought to be banished to an empty cabin or shed. Otherwise, the entire family would fall victim to the fever. They turned on each other, neighbour accusing neighbour of spreading disease.
By now Bridget had learnt to supplement the Indian meal with seaweed, nettles and dock leaves. In the autumn, there would be nuts and berries. She dreamt of fat blackberries, the juice oozing down her chin. Her mother would have laughed at how industrious she’d become. Lazy Bridget, who’d frittered away the hours on the strand, had disappeared.
She was setting off one March afternoon, Norah on her back, feet slip-sliding in the wet clay, when she met two local women, Eliza Haugh and Cathleen Downes. Bridget was lightheaded from hunger and would have preferred to walk on, but the neighbours had been good to her when her mother died. They’d been a similar age, and Johanna’s passing had been difficult for them. Nevertheless, they’d been adamant that she’d gone to a better place where she could be reunited with her husband. Bridget had her doubts about this better place, but it was a kind thought.
When she was a child, Mrs Haugh, Mrs Downes and many others had been regular visitors to the cottage. The adults had swapped songs and stories. They’d told tales about ghosts and fairies, about daring ancestors and times of good fortune. Nobody did that any more.
Bridget greeted the women and stopped to talk.
‘What way is Patrick Talty?’ asked Cathleen.
‘Suffering no longer,’ replied Eliza. ‘The Lord have mercy on his soul.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Bridget. ‘He was a young man.’
‘Twenty-two,’ replied Cathleen, blessing herself, ‘only a gosoon.’
Eliza folded her arms. She’d once had a substantial chest and retained the mannerisms of a larger woman. ‘He spent his final week in the workhouse. Would you believe that some are going there because it’s the only way they’ll get a coffin?’
Bridget had heard about people being buried without coffins, either because there was no money to pay for the wood or because they’d no surviving family to arrange a proper funeral. According to John Joe, the bodies were discarded at night to avoid bringing shame upon the family. While most were covered with earth, others were abandoned in fields and ditches, their remains claimed by animals or the weather.
‘John Joe found two bodies last month,’ she said, ‘while he was building a wall beyond in Tullaroe. A woman and a child. The woman’s arm was wrapped around the girl. He didn’t say very much, but I knew he was distressed.’
Norah had been getting a new tooth at the time. Between her tears and John Joe’s bad humour, it had been the bleakest period since Michael’s death. Tullaroe was a barren spot, little of it farmed, and Bridget couldn’t see any great purpose to her husband’s labours. They were dividing land that didn’t need to be divided. John Joe said the men joked about getting fourpence a day to protect land that wasn’t worth fourpence an acre. Bridget thought they should be given a useful task, such as building fever sheds at the workhouse or repairing the homes of the destitute or sowing crops. At least her husband was able to come home at night. Some of the workers came from miles away and were forced to bed down in the wet fields. No wonder so many were ill.
‘That’s a desperate story,’ said Cathleen. ‘As God is my witness, I’ll never cross the door of that workhouse. Minnie Slattery told me that an aunt of hers sought refuge there, and Hell would have been kinder. The woman was frail already, but she lasted only three weeks in Kilrush. The fever’s ripping through the place.’
‘Isn’t that the truth of it?’ said Eliza. ‘I say it all the time, “The places that are meant to keep us safe are killing us.” It’s the same with the relief works. There are men dropping off the roads, like birds falling into a ditch.’ She turned to Bridget. ‘What does John Joe say?’
‘He prefers not to talk about it.’
Where once John Joe had discussed the men he worked with – Packie Meleady with the torn breeches, Corney Crehan with the seven daughters – he now stayed silent or moved the conversation in another direction. He was determined not to be ground down by what he witnessed, but Bridget would have liked a return to the honest discussions they’d had in the past. Want and suffering were turning them all into other people.
It started with a headache. She might not have noticed only she saw John Joe wincing.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘There was a shocking wind out there today and it cut through all of us. Thankfully, I’ve no work tomorrow.’
‘Well, mind yourself,’ she said, as she stirred a pot of turnips. They had mussels and oat cakes too. Compared to what they’d become accustomed to, this was a feast, and she was proud of her efforts. ‘The dinner will be ready soon.’
‘Do you know, for once I’m not hungry. Be certain to have plenty yourself, though.’
‘I will,’ she said, ‘only . . .’ She was too worried to say anything further.
By the following morning, he was burning up. His face had a grey sheen, and his eyes were rimmed with pink. Bridget instructed herself not to panic. John Joe had a temperature. It didn’t follow that he was seriously ill. He might have caught a chill from being out in the elements all day. She’d make stirabout and insist that he eat.
Norah, who had begun walking, chose that moment to wobble and tumble over. Her tiny face crumpled, and she launched into a wail that would have curdled milk.
Bridget crouched down and kissed her forehead. ‘Hush, pet,’ she urged her daughter. ‘Your daddy’s not well this morning, and we have to be quiet.’
Norah sniffled and hiccuped for a minute or two before deciding to examine her father. She plodded over to where he lay, leant in and stroked his nose.
‘Dada?’ she said.
‘Take her away,’ said John Joe, his voice so gruff, Bridget barely recognised it. ‘I can’t risk her getting the fever too.’
Norah stumbled back, her features crinkling as if she might cry again.
‘It might not be that bad,’ said Bridget. ‘It might be . . .’ She stopped. She was fooling herself.
The temperature was quickly followed by aches and pains, searing pains that caused him to cry out. Oh, and he was confused, asking after the dead and calling Bridget by the names of his sisters and rambling about people and places that meant nothing to her.
Outside, the weather had changed. A thick fog had descended over Clooneven, stripping the landscape of colour. Even nearby cottages were obscured, and everyday tasks, like walking to the well, became difficult. Bridget didn’t dare leave Norah alone with John Joe, so she carried the little girl on her back. The days were so dank, the ground so sticky, that by the time she was back home, her pail was half empty. And they needed water. Lots of it. Water for John Joe to drink, water to soothe his fever and water to keep the cottage as clean as possible.
On the fourth day, two men arrived, Cathleen Downes’s husband, Edward, and a fellow called Maurice Curry, who was well-known for taking an interest in other people’s business. They told her they’d heard John Joe was unwell. They were here to help, they said.
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Bridget, ‘but come in out of the cold, and we’ll talk.’ She felt Norah beside her, pulling at her skirt.
They edged forward but stayed on the threshold.
‘You have to look after yourself and your daughter,’ said Maurice Curry, a man with sloping shoulders and great tufts of black hair. ‘John Joe shouldn’t be here in your home. It’s not safe. There’s a shed out past the Honan family’s cabin. Patrick Talty spent a while in it. We can take him there.’
Bridget knew the shed was damp and furred with mould and spider’s webs. She was thankful John Joe was asleep. ‘I think my husband’s safer where I can take care of him.’
‘Please be reasonable, Mrs Moloney, and think of the child’s welfare.’ He peered down at Norah, who nestled in behind Bridget. ’You can’t risk a mite like that catching the fever.’
‘I’m content to keep John Joe here where I can nurse him and bring him everything he needs.’ She gestured towards the bed she’d made from an old greatcoat and two blankets. ‘As you can see, he’s as comfortable as possible. And don’t worry, I can take care of Norah too. Sure she’s no bother at all.’
‘You’re only a young girl yourself. You don’t know what’s best. Your parents, God be good to them, would have wanted us to help.’
Edward Downes, who hadn’t spoken, gave her a pleading look. When she was a child, he’d been the biggest man in the townland, with the heartiest voice. Now, his face was sunken, and his back had an old man’s stoop.
‘I’m twenty-one,’ she said, ‘and I know what’s best for my family.’
‘You’ll regret this,’ said Maurice Curry, poking a finger towards her. ‘You’ll learn that foolish behaviour has consequences.’
Tears were forming at the back of Bridget’s eyes. ‘I’m sure you’ll remember that my mother died on a lonely road with nobody to comfort her. I’m convinced John Joe will live, but I can’t let him suffer on his own. It’s not human. Now please leave us be.’
Edward Downes placed a hand on his friend’s back and, without a further word, the two turned and left.
A while later, Cathleen Downes arrived at the door. ‘I won’t come in,’ she said.
Bridget didn’t want to fall out with her mother’s friend, but neither did she want to back down. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mrs Downes. I’m not going to change my mind, though.’
‘Now, Bridget, it’s about time you called me Cathleen. You’re a grown woman with your own family. All I’m going to say is you won’t save John Joe by killing yourself and baby Norah.’
‘I’m not infected.’
‘Please, Cathleen. I need to do everything I can for him.’ Bridget’s voice was too high. She wished she sounded more like an adult. ‘I let Mam down, and I can’t make the same mistake again.’
Cathleen wrapped her hand around Bridget’s. The skin was rough as tree bark. ‘You mustn’t think like that, love. Your mammy wouldn’t want it.’ She paused. ‘How is John Joe?’
‘Not well. There’s a rash all over his body. I have to keep Norah on the other side of the cabin. She gets upset if she looks at him too closely.’
‘And you’re certain about keeping him here?’
‘I am.’
‘Very well. But you’ve got to look after yourself too.’
That evening, when Bridget stepped outside again, she found a black pot containing oats and a cabbage. Beside it was a smaller pot, half filled with buttermilk. She knew where the food had come from. Briefly, she wondered if she should accept. The Downes family had barely enough to feed themselves. But returning the gift would be considered rude. The kindness, which she might never be able to repay, caused a tear to fall down her cheek.
She remembered what her mother had said about how they might need the McGuanes one day. She could do with help from Thomas and Mary Ellen now. Even a visit would be welcome. Then she chastised herself: there was every chance her sister hadn’t heard of their predicament.
That night, she lay awake, staring up at the thatch. Norah snuffled beside her. On the other side of the room, John Joe’s breathing was ragged, as though every single inhalation hurt. He couldn’t eat, he could barely drink and, like she’d told Cathleen, angry red spots had erupted on his skin. She fretted that she’d made the wrong decision. Might it be better if he was isolated elsewhere? Might there be some wisdom in taking him to the workhouse? As dreadful as the place was, at least there was a doctor. The McGuanes had a donkey and cart. Perhaps, they’d be willing to take him to Kilrush.
She agonised for hours, rising only to attend to John Joe when he started wandering in his sleep.
‘Shush now,’ she said, dipping a cloth into a pot of cold water and mopping his face. ‘I’m here and Norah’s here. We won’t allow anything to happen to you.’
Bridget lost count of the days. She rarely left the cabin except to fetch water or search for food. As if she understood the gravity of the situation, there was barely a sound out of Norah. She sat on the ground near the door, arranging and rearranging her collection of sticks and shells.
John Joe was unconscious for much of the time. When awake, he thrashed and moaned. Bridget thought he recognised her but couldn’t be certain.
A week or more after she’d spoken to Cathleen Downes, three of her husband’s brothers – Andy, Dan and James – arrived, each as tall and thin as a sapling. They bent their heads to enter the room. They were even more dishevelled than the last time she’d seen them. Their clothes had been patched so often that the original cloth was barely visible.
‘What way is he?’ asked the eldest brother, Dan.
‘Poor, to be honest,’ she said.
‘Mam was talking about coming to see him, only her own health isn’t the best.’
‘I understand.’ John Joe’s mother was elderly, and his father had died ten years earlier.
‘We brought you these,’ said James, removing a handkerchief from his pocket. It contained two hen’s eggs. She couldn’t imagine where he’d got them because chickens were a rarity. Most people didn’t have the spare meal for their feed.
‘I can’t take them,’ she said. ‘John Joe isn’t well enough to eat. They’ll only go to waste.’
‘They’re for you and Norah,’ said Andy. ‘And don’t worry, we didn’t steal them.’
For what felt like the first time in weeks, she smiled. ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful. Norah has never had an egg. Would you like to go over and talk to John Joe? He’s asleep, but he might wake for you.’ She took her daughter by the hand. ‘Come on, pet, we’ll go outside and leave the men in peace.’
It was only when she heard them praying that she realised they were there to say goodbye.
She slept for a short while that night, her lost family members flitting through her dreams. Her mother and father were there, as was Michael. Her other brother, Francie, appeared too. In her dream, he was collecting seaweed in Clooneven. He was cheerful and healthy, and had never left for Boston.
When she woke, John Joe’s breathing was quieter. She wanted this to be a good sign, but she’d deluded herself for too long. He was slipping away. She lay on the ground beside him and stroked his brown curls. They had become matted with sweat. Then she drew a finger along his cheek and around his jaw. She felt impossibly tender towards him and doubted she would ever feel this way again. She considered trying to get a priest, then decided she’d prefer if they were on their own.
‘Please don’t go,’ she whispered. ‘I need you and Norah needs you. Please.’
Their daughter was asleep, and Bridget believed this was for the best.
For a while she spoke about the fun they’d had as teenagers. ‘Do you remember when we went walking on the cliffs in Clooneven? That was the first time you kissed me. Mam asked why I’d been gone for so long, and I had to pretend I’d met Nellie Dillane from school.’
She squeezed John Joe’s hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she continued, ‘I did everything I could. I hope you understand that. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough, my love.’
She caressed his face again and cursed herself for not agreeing when he’d asked her to move elsewhere. If she’d been less stubborn, might he still be healthy? Might he still be talking about politics and hoisting a giggling Norah into the air?
When she kissed his cheek, she knew his breathing had stopped.
Bridget didn’t want to hear that John Joe was in a better place. He belonged here with his wife and daughter. The better place could have waited.
Presently, Norah woke and toddled over to her side.
Bridget sat up and buried her face in the soft curls the little girl had inherited from her father. She remained in the dark for a long time, her sobs magnified by the silence.