Mary Ellen sat beside the fire, the flames throwing amber light across her face. She hadn’t attended John Joe’s burial, leaving it until afterwards to offer her sympathies. Bridget was surprised to realise that she didn’t hold it against her. There had been too many funerals, too many desolate scenes.
Thomas McGuane had chosen to stay outside. Although he didn’t say as much, she assumed he was scared that some remnant of disease remained within the cabin.
Norah sat on her mother’s knee. Mary Ellen was unfamiliar to her, and she’d wriggled away when her aunt had tried to pick her up. John Joe’s death had puzzled her. Without saying anything, she kept looking for her father, tiptoeing around the room and peering into corners.
‘What will you do now?’ said Mary Ellen.
‘I’ll have to find a way of paying the rent. I’m not sure how, but I’ll think of something.’
Her neighbours had been generous, donating vegetables and meal. Mrs Haugh had arrived one evening with an offering of herring. ‘Your need is greater than ours,’ she’d said. Welcome as these gifts were, Bridget knew she couldn’t rely indefinitely on the decency of others.
‘I planted potatoes,’ she continued. ‘Not many, but I’m hoping there’ll be enough. The crop can’t fail again.’
Mary Ellen stared into the fire. Wisps of smoke rose around her. ‘We . . . Thomas and I . . . wondered if you’d considered the workhouse.’
‘No.’
‘You’d be able to eat there.’
‘From what I hear, the only reason people go to that place is to die.’
Norah whimpered, and Bridget brushed her lips over the child’s head. ‘It’s all right, my love.’
‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Mary Ellen.
‘Mam wouldn’t have wanted any of us ending up there.’
‘She was a practical woman. If she felt it was necessary, that’s what she would have done.’
‘I said no.’
Mary Ellen was rubbing one thumb against the other, to and fro, back and forth. For some reason, she was nervous.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bridget. ‘I didn’t mean to sound sharp, but the workhouse is overcrowded, and I don’t want to bring Norah there.’ She took a long breath. ‘Maybe you could help us. We’re not looking for money. If you had any spare food, though, we’d be incredibly grateful.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. We’re feeding several members of Thomas’s family. And, let me tell you, it’s precious little we have left after the thieves get to work. They’d steal the food from our mouths if they could. When there were turnips in the field, Thomas had to mind them night and day in case some blackguard came and took them. He says people who steal food should be hanged.’
‘They only steal because they’re starving,’ said Bridget.
A brittle silence filled the room.
Eventually, Mary Ellen spoke again. ‘Do you ever think of Francie?’
‘I do. Please God, his life has turned out well, but . . . I have a feeling that if he was successful we’d have heard from him.’
‘Have you ever considered going to America yourself?’
‘When I was younger, yes. It wouldn’t have been fair on Mam, though. And now . . . now my memories are here.’ Bridget felt her eyes burning and she willed herself not to cry. There had been enough crying. ‘And I hear the conditions are rough. A ship would be no place for this girl here.’ She kissed her daughter’s head.
‘You wouldn’t have to . . .’ Mary Ellen’s voice tapered off.
‘I wouldn’t have to what?’
‘You wouldn’t have to take Norah,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t understand.’ She did, but she needed to hear her sister spell it out.
There was another pause before Mary Ellen spoke again. Her thumbs were rotating more quickly, and there was a slight shake in her voice. ‘You’ve asked yourself, no doubt, why I don’t have children.’
‘No, it’s not my concern,’ said Bridget. This was a lie, and Mary Ellen must have known it because she continued to speak.
‘I’ve never been able to carry a baby for long enough. I’ve tried again and again. Seven times I’ve been pregnant, and every time I’ve lost the baby. Like I’ve explained, we’re not wealthy, Thomas and I, but we could give a child . . . we could give Norah . . . a home.’
Despite the fire, despite the mildness of the spring afternoon, Bridget felt cold. ‘She has a home.’
Mary Ellen shook her head. ‘You can’t take care of her. Look at this place. It’s draughty and damp. There’s a hole in the thatch, and loose stones in the back wall. And a man died here.’
‘The cottage isn’t much worse than when we were children. And the man had a name. His name was John Joe, and he was Norah’s father.’
‘There was food when we were children, and a father to provide for us. And we weren’t surrounded by skeletons. There’s every danger you won’t be able to stay here either. Word has it that tenants who fall into arrears will be evicted. You must have heard that.’
Bridget tightened her hold on Norah, then looked at the woman sitting across from her, at her untidy hair, gaunt face and beseeching expression. In other circumstances, she might have felt sorry for her. But what she was suggesting, encouraged presumably by Thomas, was wrong.
‘Ma ma ma ma ma,’ said Norah, a shiver passing through her body.
Bridget loosened her grip and tickled one of the child’s feet. ‘If you took my baby, what would I do?’
‘You could go somewhere else. To America or Australia. There are lots of girls going to Australia. And you could begin again, knowing that Norah was well fed and cared for.’
The sisters had never been close, but, in that moment, a chasm opened between them.
‘She’s all I have,’ said Bridget. ‘She’s everything that’s good in my life. And tell me this: if I left, who would visit the graveyard? Who would go and see our mother and Michael and John Joe? Because I know it wouldn’t be you.’
It took Mary Ellen a small while to respond. ‘I know this sounds hard, but they’re dead, Bridget. It doesn’t matter whether anyone visits. They’re not coming back. You’ve got to think of the living. More than anything, you ought to think of the child on your knee. What’s going to become of her? It’s only a matter of time before she gets sick.’
‘You didn’t come here to sympathise, did you? First you wanted me to go to the workhouse, and when I wouldn’t agree, you started talking about America. What you actually want is to separate me from my daughter, isn’t that it? You talk about hanging people who take a few turnips yet you’re trying to steal a baby.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Why do I get the feeling that this was Thomas’s idea? You know I’ve never liked him. Neither did Mam, only she was too much of a lady to say so.’ Bridget’s voice vibrated with anger, and Norah began to cry. ‘It’s all right, pet, the woman is leaving. There’s no call to be scared.’
‘We’re being sensible, that’s all. You’re only young. You can marry again and have other children. And we’re not talking about stealing Norah. We’d give you money to pay for your passage to America or wherever you wanted to go.’
There was desperation in Mary Ellen’s voice unlike anything Bridget had heard before. She couldn’t listen any longer. She stood too suddenly, causing her stool to tip over. ‘What I want is for you to leave my house,’ she said.
By now, Norah’s wails were echoing around the room.
Mary Ellen hesitated. ‘When you’ve had a chance to consider our offer, you might think differently. Please consider it, at least.’
‘I’ve given you my answer. Oh, and be sure to tell your husband the answer is no. And it always will be.’
The days crawled by. Bridget was tired in a way she hadn’t experienced before. Every step was a struggle, a battle with sore legs and aching arms. Worry wrapped itself around her like ivy.
At night, she yearned for John Joe. To stop the tears seeping out, she pressed her knuckles hard against her eyes. Had she been on her own, she might have given up. She might have waded into the Atlantic until she lost her footing and the current dragged her under. Like her father, she would be lost to the vastness of the ocean.
While walking to Clooneven, she was struck by the absence of sound. There were no animals, no children playing. Even the seagulls were quiet. In the town, landowners and their agents continued to go about their business. There were men in fine suits and women in bonnets. A girl with blonde ringlets gazed at Norah. Mostly, however, the well-to-do stared through them.
Do you not see us? thought Bridget. When did we become invisible?
As she crossed onto Main Street, she recalled something Mary Ellen had said: ‘You’re strong and healthy.’ While Bridget was hollow with hunger, she had to admit that, compared to many, this was true. It was then the idea came to her.
She would have to try. If he said no, and he probably would, there was nothing lost.
She rounded the corner and tapped on the door of the parish priest’s house. While she waited for her knock to be answered, her knees shook with nerves.
‘Please be good for Mammy,’ she said to Norah.
Father McNamara’s housekeeper opened the door and gave them a swift appraisal. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You need to go elsewhere.’
‘But—’
‘If Father McNamara saw every woman who came to the door begging for help, he’d have time for nothing else.’
‘I’m not begging. What it is—’
Hearing their voices, the priest appeared. He was a young man with rosy cheeks and furrows of fair hair. Bridget explained herself.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said.
The priest’s front room contained a heavy brown desk and chairs upholstered in a deep shade of green. At the far wall, there were shelves with scores of books. The room smelt of wax. Bridget had to fight the urge to touch everything.
Father McNamara told her to take a seat. Norah sat on the floor, tracing her fingers along the patterned rug.
Bridget outlined her predicament. ‘As you can see, Father, we’re in very distressed circumstances,’ she said.
When he was saying Mass, Father McNamara’s voice filled the church. Here, he was more softly spoken. He told Bridget that he remembered John Joe coming to him in search of work. He remembered her mother too. ‘Have you no other family who could assist you?’ he asked.
‘No, Father. I’ve one sister except . . .’
‘She’s not in any position to help?’
‘She’s not.’ No doubt lying to a priest was an especially grievous sin, but she had no choice.
‘Very well, then. I’ll write a letter for you. This practice . . . while uncommon . . . is not unheard of, I believe.’
‘Thank you, Father. You’re very good.’
Norah peeped up at them. ‘Be good,’ she said. ‘Be good.’
Bridget couldn’t help but smile. ‘That’s what I said to her when I was knocking on the door. She has a great head on her.’
Father McNamara looked down at Norah. ‘Aren’t you the grand girl?’ He took out a sheet of paper, began writing then stopped. ‘Have you eaten today, Mrs Moloney?’
‘We were hoping to get some stirabout later.’
He frowned. ‘Mrs Ryan,’ he called.
When the housekeeper appeared, there was a deep crease at the top of her nose. ‘Yes, Father?’ she said.
‘I think we have some porridge left over from this morning. Oh, and we might also have a little bread to spare. Will you set up a table in the kitchen? These two ladies are in need of nourishment.’
The next morning, Bridget rose early. She tucked the letter into her skirt pocket, lifted Norah onto her back and walked the mile to the field where a group of men was gathering. They stood in a circle, blowing warmth onto their hands, clouds of breath rising into the chill air. Several young boys were there too, one no older than seven or eight. She set Norah on the ground, then approached a squat man with a narrow mouth and unruly red hair. There was a cruelty about his eyes that suggested he’d found his calling. In his left hand, he carried a whip.
He read the letter and sighed. ‘You do appreciate the nature of the work here, Mrs Moloney?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘You understand that digging drainage ditches is hard physical labour, and that many men find it difficult?’
‘Like Father McNamara says, I’m in good health. And I promise you I’m a willing worker.’
‘What are you proposing to do with the child?’
Bridget was conscious that the men were staring at her. ‘Norah will be no bother. She’ll sit on the dry ground over there and play with her shells and cones. I can share my dinner with her.’
‘I can’t say I like the idea,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll see how you get on. If I find your work satisfactory, you’ll receive twopence for the day.’
‘My husband was paid four.’
‘You’ll get twopence and be grateful for it. What sort of world would we have if women were paid the same as men?’
He laughed then, as though he’d said something amusing.
Bridget said nothing. The sun was breaking through, casting a soft light over Henry Frobisher’s fields. She didn’t fool herself that this was the end of her problems. Hunger was never far away. But they’d have food today, and she’d be paid for her work. For now, that would have to do.