If Mary Ellen was taken aback by Bridget’s change of heart, she didn’t let it show. She acted as though what was happening had been inevitable. Maybe it had. Bridget was trying not to think. Thinking would lead to resentment.
When she’d spoken to the newspaper men, she’d still had some fight. She’d said everything she’d wanted to say, and the others in Boherbreen had supported her. She wondered if her words would appear in the newspaper. She assumed not. Papers were for politicians and landlords and important men. Not for women like her. The journalist and the artist had been kind, but when they went back to London, their superiors would probably dismiss her story.
Now, numbness had taken hold of her. Words came slowly and voicing them was difficult.
‘I’d like one last day,’ she said. ‘One good day.’
Mary Ellen, clearly nervous that Bridget would change her mind, took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think that would be wise.’
‘It’s not a lot to ask.’
‘How can we be certain that one day won’t turn into two, and two days won’t turn into a week?’
‘Because you have my word.’
‘You say that tonight, but what if you feel differently afterwards? No, it’s best that you leave tomorrow.’
Bridget despaired of her sister’s pettiness. Was there a danger she would treat Norah in such a cold way? Briefly, she considered taking the little girl from her bed and leaving again. But that would be heartless. Norah was having her first proper sleep in weeks.
It would also be pointless. They had nowhere to go.
To her surprise, Thomas spoke up. ‘One day won’t hurt. Bridget can spend tomorrow with Norah and leave on Thursday.’
Mary Ellen’s jaw slackened, but she didn’t argue. As far as Bridget could tell, she never said anything to contradict her husband. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘One day it is.’ She turned to Bridget. ‘Only you’re not to go upsetting the child. You’re to leave quietly, like we agreed.’
‘I’ve no intention of unsettling my daughter.’ She found herself emphasising the last two words. She might be entrusting Norah to the care of Mary Ellen and Thomas, but this didn’t mean she was truly theirs.
The three were sitting around the kitchen table. Norah was in the room next door. Weary from another walk, mostly on her mother’s back but occasionally on her own small feet, she’d fallen asleep as soon as Bridget had blown out the candle. Before going to bed, she’d eaten some oatmeal. Not too much, though. They’d spent so long on starvation rations that a large meal would have made her ill. It was also clear that Mary Ellen had not been lying when she’d said their circumstances were straitened. They had more to eat than Bridget and Norah, but so had birds and mice.
Mary Ellen had given Bridget a grey dress to replace her ragged workhouse uniform. It hung about her like a man’s greatcoat, but it was clean. For the first time in weeks, she’d had a proper wash with water heated on the fire. Her sister had insisted on washing Norah, who had wriggled and cried. Bridget had forced herself to turn away. Afterwards, she’d soothed her daughter, telling her that Mary Ellen loved her and would never hurt her. She prayed that this was true.
Initially, she’d intended to return to the workhouse. But Mary Ellen and Thomas had persuaded her to leave the country. For more than an hour, they’d argued and cajoled until she’d given in. They would pay her fare and give her a small amount of money. Not much, because they didn’t have much, but enough for her to get started elsewhere. She was clever, they said. She’d been the brightest girl at school, the one the master had chosen to read out loud. In another country, she could make something of herself.
There was only one place for her to go: Boston, where her brother was. She didn’t know if it would be possible to find him. All she could do was try.
Now they sat in silence, scared a stray word would cause their agreement to fall asunder.
It was Bridget who spoke first. ‘I know you’ll be able to give Norah what I can’t, but I hope you can also . . . I hope you can love her the way she deserves to be loved. For such a young girl, she’s had a hard life. Everyone has left her. She must think the world’s a very cruel place.’
Bridget worried that Mary Ellen would be offended. Instead, her face softened. ‘I promise you, we’ll mind her and love her. We will, won’t we, Thomas?’
He gave a small nod.
‘And, one day, when she’s older, will you tell her why I had to go? Will you explain?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I couldn’t bear her thinking I hadn’t loved her enough. That I’d abandoned her because I didn’t want her.’
‘We’ll have to see what happens,’ said Thomas.
She wondered then if they intended to say anything to Norah. If they didn’t, she would grow up thinking that Thomas and Mary Ellen were her parents.
Bridget had decided not to tell her daughter she was going away. She would only get upset. Of course, she’d be confused and anxious when she realised her mother had disappeared, but how long would that last? She’d already lost so many people, she would probably consider it normal. Soon, she would forget.
‘Please,’ said Bridget. ‘Please tell her about me. And about John Joe. And about Mam and Dad and Michael. She ought to know about us.’
She closed her eyes to stop the tears sliding out. She wasn’t as numb as she’d thought.
Eventually, Mary Ellen spoke again. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You can write her a letter, and when I think it’s appropriate, I’ll show it to her.’
Bridget wasn’t sure she believed this, but there was nothing else she could do.
It was important that their final day together was calm. The less fuss she made, the less likely Norah would worry that something strange was happening. They went to the beach in Hackett’s Cross. While not as impressive as Clooneven, there was plenty of sand, and they gathered shells to replenish Norah’s collection.
Out of habit, Bridget also began to collect seaweed. Then she stopped. When they were growing up, Mary Ellen had hated seaweed, and it was unlikely she would want it now.
Already, Norah looked healthier. Her curls, stripped of dirt, had regained their shine. Her cheeks were pink from running about in the breeze. Most striking was the way her face had relaxed, as if two meals and a night’s sleep were enough to make her forget months of hunger. Oh, to be so resilient.
The day was gentle, the pale blue sky speckled with light cloud. A hawk sailed above them. Behind the beach, the land was flecked with the colours of spring. Yellow and purple and white. For a minute, Bridget considered picking Norah up and running away. They could travel to Galway and get the boat to America. They’d arrive in Boston together.
Then the truth returned. According to everything she’d heard, the boats were infested with desperation and disease. She remembered a man in the workhouse who’d claimed the Atlantic was rotten with Irish flesh because of all the bodies thrown overboard. Anyway, without money from Thomas and Mary Ellen, she couldn’t afford the fare.
While Norah splashed about at the water’s edge, Bridget sat and watched. The sea stretched out before her in different strips of blue. Its scent filled her head. Although she had scant idea what the rest of the world looked like, it was hard to picture anywhere more beautiful. But what did beauty matter? What was this place? Only soil and stone, sea and sand, grass and clover. Why should she feel attached to it? Save for a two-year-old girl, there was no one here for her. Most people didn’t care whether she lived or died. Indeed, they might prefer her dead. Hers was one more mouth in need of food, one more body looking for a place to sleep, one more face in the ranks of the destitute. She was a walking, breathing inconvenience.
When it was time to go, she crouched down and kissed Norah’s head.
‘Have you enjoyed yourself?’ she asked.
‘Mammy, that was a good day,’ replied Norah, her face serious, her voice content.
Back in the cottage, Mary Ellen was doing her best to pretend that everything was normal. She made a pot of vegetable broth. It had been months since Bridget had tasted anything so good. While they ate, Norah chattered. She was growing accustomed to her new family. Bridget fought to keep the emotion from her voice. There would be time enough for emotion. She wanted to eke out every second of the evening. Every word, every smile, every glance. They were all important.
By the time Norah went to bed, her eyes were drooping with tiredness. ‘Can we stay here?’ she asked Bridget, who kissed her cheek.
‘Yes, you can, pet,’ she replied.
In the main room, Mary Ellen was parcelling up some bread. ‘It’s not much,’ she said, ‘but it’ll get you on your way.’
‘What are your plans?’ asked Thomas, as he threw another sod of turf onto the fire.
‘I’ll sleep out here and leave early. If I sleep beside Norah, there’s a danger I’ll wake her. Oh, and if you give me some paper, I’ll write that letter.’
Mary Ellen tensed. All the same, she provided two sheets of paper and some ink. ‘Be careful with that,’ she said. ‘It’s all I have.’
Later, when the others had gone to bed, Bridget sat and concentrated on her letter. She tried not to dwell on the fact that Norah might never read it. All she could do was hope.
My darling Norah,
I trust you’re safe and well and that life is being kind to you. I doubt you remember me, but believe me when I say I will never forget you. You were my light in very dark times. I could not have survived without you. It’s my dearest wish that, by the time you read this, conditions have improved.
In the short time we spent together, we shared many happy moments. Our last day, on the shore in Hackett’s Cross, was perfect. I’ve decided that when life feels too difficult, those are the hours I will try to recall. Once, I thought we were all better off without happy memories. Now, I understand that they’re what make life bearable. To know that we were happy once is to believe that it might be possible again.
Bridget’s hand was unsteady, and she put down her pen. She told herself to remain composed. Presently, she continued.
We all want to know what we were like in our earliest years, and be assured, you were a lovely little girl. When I had to work, you came with me and played beside me. All the men said what a good child you were and how I was blessed to have you. They were right.
You were very small when your daddy was taken from us. He was a fine man, and you were the centre of his world. I remember him picking you up and twirling you around. You laughed then like you were the luckiest girl in the land.
I don’t know if you can understand why I left. Please accept that I did what I thought was best. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make, but I could offer you nothing apart from more suffering. I wish all that’s good for you, not simply material comforts but love and happiness and fulfilment.
As I write this, I’m preparing to leave. In the morning, I will make a start for Galway where I plan on boarding a ship for Boston. In truth, I’m very scared but I’m sure everyone feels the same. What strange times these are.
I’d like to think we will meet again. Even if we don’t, I pray that you will look upon me fondly and with mercy. You will always be in my heart.
All my love, now and for ever,
Your mother,
Bridget Moloney
Afterwards, she lay on the floor. She didn’t expect to sleep. She was wrong. When she woke, light was beginning to wash through the windows. The sky was tinted with lemon and rose. Ribbons of mist clung low to the ground. She was tempted to take one last look at Norah but couldn’t risk disturbing her. She wrapped her black shawl around her shoulders and picked up the bag containing her few possessions, including a blanket given to her by Mary Ellen. She was about to go when she remembered something. She went back to the table, took one of her daughter’s new cockle shells and dropped it into her pocket.
When she left the cottage, she didn’t look back. Neither did she follow the obvious route. Rather than walking north towards Galway, she turned south and travelled in the direction of Clooneven. Without Norah, she moved swiftly. She kept thinking of how John Joe had helped to build the road.
The graveyard was quiet. She suspected that nowadays this was a rare occurrence. She paused to consider her surroundings. She was standing among the missing. These had been her neighbours and friends. Some had been cantankerous, others mild. Some greedy, others generous. Some workshy, others industrious. But, like her mother, brother and husband, they had deserved to live. She imagined their ghosts rising up around her.
Although no cross marked the spot where Johanna, Michael and John Joe were buried, she knew exactly where to go. That she wasn’t especially religious didn’t matter. She dropped to her knees and spoke to them.
‘I’m sorry I won’t be here to talk to you,’ she said, ‘but I hope I have your blessing. I’ll think of you every day. And, Mam, I promise I’ll try to find Francie.’
It struck Bridget that if anyone saw her, they’d think she’d lost her mind. No matter. Hunger had brought madness to them all, twisting their minds as well as their bodies.
When she’d said her goodbyes, she left the graveyard and headed towards the town. She pictured John Joe walking alongside her, Norah on his back. That was how it should have been.
There might, she thought, be someone in Clooneven with a donkey and cart. Someone who could help her on her way. If not, she would begin her long journey on foot.