February 1848, Clooneven
Bridget
Bridget tried to think of reasons to be grateful. It was something her mother had taught her, and even in good times, she hadn’t found it easy. Now, it was almost impossible. Under pressure, she would probably say that at least they no longer had to sleep on the floor. There were beds in the workhouse. There was food too, albeit not enough.
If gratitude was hard, fear was easy. Fear was always at her shoulder. She was scared that Norah would fall ill. Scared they’d never leave the workhouse. Scared she’d become disfigured by hate.
She didn’t hate the men who’d forced them from their home. They were idiots, following instructions without heed for the consequences. Her hatred belonged to the man who’d ordered their eviction. The man who thought it right to tip families onto the side of the road when they had nowhere to go. Although it was unlikely she would ever meet Henry Frobisher, if she did she would spit in his face. Her mother would have said that such thoughts were sinful, but their world had changed, and the old ideas of right and wrong didn’t make sense any more.
For months, she’d lived with a fool’s optimism. After the relief work had ended, she’d been forced to rely on the soup kitchen. Often, all they received was salted water. On other days, they were given meal to which she added nettles or seaweed.
For the first time in three years, some of the potato crop was edible. The shame was that most of them hadn’t been able to sow many seeds, so their yield was low. If she couldn’t say that Norah was thriving, neither was she reduced to bone and sinew, like many of the local children.
Still, they had no money for rent, and rumours flew like dandelion seeds. All over the county, people were being cleared from their homes. In Boherbreen, they knew their turn would come and they braced themselves for the inevitable.
In early December, the eviction notices arrived. Shortly afterwards, an army of men appeared, some of them on horseback. The animals were better fed than any of Henry Frobisher’s tenants.
Bridget tried to stand her ground. ‘Do you not understand?’ she said, as Norah nuzzled into her. ‘We can’t pay. We haven’t any means. Forcing us onto the side of the road isn’t going to make Sir Henry any richer.’
The bailiff’s face was empty, his voice stripped of emotion. ‘That’s not our concern,’ he said. ‘We have a court order.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I promise you, Mrs Moloney, if you stay, you’ll be a sorry woman.’
Nearby, an elderly man showered curses upon the eviction party. They would spend eternity in Hell, he warned. The men laughed at him, harsh cackling laughs that made anger rise within her. The only other opposition came from Cathleen Downes’s eldest grandson who sat on their roof and threw stones. One of the agents warned that if he didn’t stop, he’d be shot. Everybody else appeared resigned to losing their home.
To make sure there was no backsliding, the landlord’s men tumbled every cottage. The thatch was sheared off or set on fire, the flames crackling, then roaring to life. Some people stood and wept. Others scattered. More, like Bridget and Norah, gathered up their few belongings and set off for the workhouse.
Icy needles of rain fell as they walked to Kilrush. Night was closing in around them. There were a thousand reasons to worry, yet one thought lodged in her brain: even if Francie wrote a letter home, she wouldn’t receive it. The family home, the place where she’d been born and had given birth to Norah, was gone.
The other women wondered why she wouldn’t go to Hackett’s Cross. Couldn’t Mary Ellen help? they asked. Hadn’t she a decent house and means to pay the rent? Bridget said nothing. She couldn’t explain that her sister’s help would come at too high a price.
The workhouse was an enormous gloomy building surrounded by high stone walls. Some days brought a torrent of new people, others a trickle. In every case, they were there because they had no choice. Where once men and women had been reluctant to spend time in the workhouse, now they fought for admission. There were people in every inch of every room and on every step of the staircase. Many were listless. Others, delirious with fever, rambled and shouted. It was the noisiest place she’d ever been. Oh, and the smell was vile: urine and vomit, sweat and putrefying flesh. Bridget thought of it as the smell of hopelessness. While a doctor did his best to treat the sick, there was no remedy for most ailments.
Often, the children were in the worst condition. Clumps of hair were missing from their heads, and a light down coated their faces. Their stomachs were bloated, their limbs wizened. They tottered rather than walked, their eyes full of milky uncertainty. There were schools for both boys and girls, but many were too weak to learn. When they were old enough, they were put to work mending clothes or tending the garden.
Norah, her second birthday approaching, didn’t seem to notice her friends’ strange appearance. Or, maybe, she considered it normal. She was talking all the time now, even if not everything she said made sense or was easy to understand. Among her closest companions was three-year-old Honor Guilfoyle whose family had been evicted from their home in Cahercullen. Honor was a spindly girl with wisps of white hair and grey half-moons beneath her eyes. Several of her teeth were misshapen, others had fallen out. But she was a sweet-natured child who appeared to view herself as Norah’s protector.
In early February, something unusual happened. The sky turned a stark white, and it snowed. The flakes came slowly at first, then blurred into a steady fall. Bridget recalled her father saying they hardly ever got snow in west Clare because they were too close to the sea.
Norah’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘Look, Mammy,’ she kept saying, voice laced with wonder. ‘What that?’
In the yard, flakes as big as Norah’s fist swirled by. Thrilled by this strange substance, the children ran wild. They began throwing snowballs. The adults joined in, so that crystals flew in every direction, reflecting the light like showers of jewels. All the while, the snow tumbled down, and everything was fresh and clean.
Norah, Honor and the other children stuck out their tongues and allowed the flakes to settle there. Bridget picked her daughter up and twirled her around. Norah squealed with delight. Then, cheeks pink from the cold, she kissed her mother’s nose and said, ‘Thank you, Mammy.’ There was a pure happiness in that moment and, however briefly, Bridget felt like the wealthiest woman in Ireland.
Honor had never been strong, and in the weeks that followed, her health deteriorated. She died in the middle of March. Typhus, the doctor said.
Immediately, Norah noticed her absence. She was ill at ease, looking for her in the same way she’d looked for her father the year before. Bridget didn’t know if their daughter had any memories of John Joe. She hoped not. Forgetting was easier.
Twenty people died that week, and only a few mourners attended Honor’s burial. Once, funerals had been sacred. Showing respect for the dead and for the journey they were about to take was considered important. Those days were gone.
There were no individual graves at the workhouse. Men dug pits ten feet deep and put seven or eight bodies, sometimes more, into each one. The shoulders of young men were sore from carrying corpses. Honor, bless her, was too light to hurt anyone. At three years of age, she’d weighed scarcely more than a baby.
Bridget prayed with Honor’s parents and older brother at the graveside. The weather remained cold, and the ground was crusted with frost. She hadn’t brought Norah with her. This didn’t stop her daughter asking questions. She wanted to know why her friend had disappeared and if she could go to see her.
Bridget said that Honor had gone to Heaven. ‘Like Daniel,’ she added, referring to a boy who had died the previous week.
Norah gave her an earnest look. ‘Me go too,’ she said.
That night, Bridget lay awake. She always made sure that Norah didn’t see her crying, but in the dark, she could allow the tears to run down her cheeks.
She’d heard that some families had gone back to Boherbreen. They were camped out by a stream with little by way of shelter. Food remained scarce, and Frobisher’s men might try to move them on again. That wasn’t all: for such a young child, Norah had travelled too many miles. If they stayed here, however, she would suffer the same fate as her friends. They were surrounded by people whose lives were disintegrating. Whatever chance there was of crafting a new life, it wouldn’t happen in the workhouse.
The next morning, she gripped her daughter’s hand. ‘We’re going on a small journey today, pet.’
‘Where?’ asked Norah.
‘Home,’ she said.
Five families had returned to Boherbreen. They were living on common land close to the old cottages. The only shelter was provided by the scalpeens they’d built from turf sods and branches. There wasn’t enough ground to grow vegetables, nor did anyone have seeds to sow. They were reliant on charity.
When Bridget saw their cabins, damaged beyond repair, she was hit by a renewed surge of anger. While far from perfect, the buildings had provided good homes. Families had been happy here. Men and women had led productive lives. Her dark humour was tempered by the sight of Cathleen Downes striding across the bog to greet them.
‘Welcome home,’ she said. ‘Welcome home.’
Like the others, the Downes family were living in a makeshift structure, cooking on a communal fire and washing in the stream.
‘I won’t lie to you,’ said Cathleen, as they crouched beside the fire, ‘it hasn’t been easy. There have been days when I’ve been tempted by the workhouse. It’ll be the summer before we know it, mind. And everything’s better in the summer.’
The Moloneys had been gone only three months, but in that time, several of their neighbours had perished. Eliza Haugh had died in January, and Cathleen’s eyes filled with tears as she spoke about her friend’s last days.
‘She was a decent woman. No matter how little she had, she was willing to share. There are plenty who could learn from her.’
‘There are,’ said Bridget, thinking of Mary Ellen and Thomas. ‘What about the others?’
‘Maggie and John Tubridy are gone to America. More are headed the same way, but you need money for the passage, and few enough have it. I’ve heard that in some places, the landlord is paying for people to go, just so he can be rid of them.’
‘If you had the money would you go?’ asked Bridget.
‘I’m too old, my love. America’s not for the likes of me. If I was young, though, that’s what I’d do. There’s nothing left for anyone around here. I usen’t think they’d deliberately set out to kill us, but now . . . now I don’t know. What I can’t fathom is why those men beyond in London hate us so much. Are we that different from their own people?’
Cathleen’s words echoed Bridget’s thoughts. What had once looked like an unfortunate series of events had begun to feel like a plan.
‘What are you doing for food?’ she asked.
‘The soup kitchen opens most days in Clooneven. When it doesn’t . . .’ Cathleen paused. ‘When it doesn’t, people eat whatever they can find, even if it’s only seaweed or a few tufts of grass. I’ve seen children with green juice trickling down their chins. It’s not right, but, sure, what is right any more?’
Bridget soon discovered that every day in Boherbreen was about survival. They had to be careful where they foraged in case anyone accused them of trespassing on Frobisher’s land. While Bridget was relieved to be home, she’d underestimated how difficult Norah would find it. Staying warm was a constant challenge. She rebuked herself for leaving Kilrush without so much as a blanket.
The little girl, who’d endured endless privations without complaint, started to grizzle and moan. ‘I cold,’ she’d say, her teeth chattering as she spoke. Sometimes her clothes were stiff with frost.
Bridget thought constantly about death. At her lowest, she decided it wasn’t a case of if they died, but how and when. She couldn’t say that leaving the workhouse had been a mistake because staying would have been a mistake too. At night, she dreamt of her childhood and of the days when they’d had enough to eat. It had never occurred to her that an existence like this was possible. At other times, she fantasised about food. She imagined what it would be like to eat an entire pot of potatoes. She thought of salty fish and sweet apples and warm oat cakes.
One night, as she attempted to get Norah to sleep, she realised that her daughter looked like the children in Kilrush. Her wrists were so thin it appeared as if they could snap at any moment. The same was true of her ankles.
I’m killing you, thought Bridget.
As much as I love you, I’m killing you.
If she could have done so, she would have given Norah whatever warmth was left in her own body. She would donate her blood and breath. But it wasn’t enough. She hadn’t been able to save her mother. She hadn’t saved Michael or John Joe. She might not be able to save herself. But she could save her daughter.
It didn’t end there. Even if Norah lived, she deserved better than this. She deserved a house, a bed, clean clothes. She deserved oatmeal with milk, eggs, bread. She deserved laughter.
The offer remained open. Continuing to spurn it was selfish. She would give Norah to Mary Ellen, and then she’d return to the workhouse.
Bridget pulled Norah close and whispered into her hair: ‘You’ve got to go to sleep, pet, because we’ll be busy tomorrow.’
In the morning, as they prepared for the walk to Hackett’s Cross, Bridget saw two men striding across the bog. From their heavy coats, hats and sturdy boots, she guessed they were English. She might be leaving, but the others weren’t, and they didn’t deserve any more upheaval.
She walked towards the men. ‘No one here is doing anything wrong,’ she shouted. ‘Go away and leave us be.’
Several others joined her. One of Cathleen’s grandsons, the boy who’d thrown stones at the eviction party, urged the men to turn back. ‘Can you not allow us to live in peace?’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ added Cathleen. ‘We’ve no more to give. Ye’ve already taken it all.’
The men continued towards them. The taller of the two raised a hand. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘we mean you no harm.’
‘What are you doing here then?’ said Bridget. ‘What do you want?’
‘We want to ask about your lives,’ he replied.