When Catherine returned from selling Patrick’s share of the previous night’s catch she was happy to find her two eldest children curled up asleep each side of their father, having an afternoon nap. They had been listening to one of his stories and all three of them had fallen asleep.
Handing over baby Ellen to Maggie, who was sitting by the fire having put some bread in a crock to bake, the young woman poured them both some tea.
“How are the Murphy girls doing, Catherine? It’s been two months since they lost their brothers, bless them. And their poor mother, how was she this morning? Did she go to town with you?”
“She did, Maggie. Sure it gives her a break from the house and its memories, sharing the journey to market with me. Did you know she got rid of every stitch of her sons’ clothing? Her youngest girl was sleeping with them under her mattress, crying all night long.”
Maggie nodded in the direction of Patrick and his two little ones snuggled into him. “Sure look at your wee ones beside their father, all safe and sound. There’s no feeling like it, is there? That wee Murphy girl was very attached to her two brothers, I suppose they took the place of her father, rest his soul. Now she’s lost them, too. A terrible tragedy. Terrible.”
Wanting to change the subject, Catherine asked her aunt if she had noticed anything different about her sister Mary-Anne.
“Now you mention it, I have. She’s not as sour as usual. I caught her smiling two days in a row. Do you think she has a man?” asked Maggie.
“Ah, she’s not that bad. Mary-Anne had it hard as a child, always sickly, missing out on school and playing with other children. She’s been a lot better since coming back to Ireland.”
“You’re too forgiving, Catherine,” tutted Maggie. “That girl is always trying to cause trouble between you and Patrick. And she stirs up her father no end when the men are in each other’s company.”
Catherine laughed, “Aye, Mary-Anne knows how to raise Da’s hackles when he’s around Patrick, I’ll agree with you there. But I never let what she says come between myself and my man. She’s not good with words, Aunt Maggie. Sometimes what comes out of her mouth isn’t what she intended.”
“Ah would you stop defending her, Catherine. I’m telling you now, watch your back where your sister, Mary-Anne, is concerned.”
Her aunt’s words played on Catherine’s mind as the day wore on and while Patrick left the house later in the afternoon, to help a neighbour with a bit of work, she decided to pay a visit to her mother. Knowing that Mary-Anne and Breege would be working at the Blackrock Hotel in the village, Catherine knew there would be an opportunity to speak to her mother in private.
When she arrived at her parents’ home, James was sitting on a chair by the fire reading a letter. When he looked up to greet her, she could tell it wasn’t good news.
“Has Thomas written at last?”
“He has, did your mother tell you?” asked James.
“I haven’t seen her today, is she around?”
“She has gone to the graveyard.”
Catherine knew that meant only one thing. Mary had taken to visiting Pat and Annie’s grave whenever something bothered her.
“Is it bad news from America, so?” asked Catherine.
James nodded and handed the letter to his daughter. “But our Thomas thinks it’s the best thing that has happened to him in a long time,” he said.
While her father poured out two cups of tea, Catherine read the neat script, skimming across the news of any neighbours her brother had bumped into. When she came to the part where Thomas announced his plans to get married again, she looked up at her father.
“He never spoke of a woman in any of his other letters. Did you know he was courting, Da?”
James shook his head. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Do you see now why your Ma is upset?”
“But sure he’s widowed,” Catherine read a woman’s name aloud from the letter, “Lily McCann. She sounds as if she’s Irish. I hope she’s good to him. Thomas doesn’t say much about her, that’s not like him.”
“No, he doesn’t, but that’s not what has your ma upset. She’s grown very fond of wee Eliza, sure we all have.”
No sooner were the words out of her father’s mouth than Catherine raced out the door crying, “Poor Ma.”
Mary was sitting on the ground at Pat and Annie’s grave, her face cradled in her hands. Catherine knew her mother was not praying, but weeping. She hesitated before joining her, knowing she was intruding on a very private moment.
“I’ve just read Thomas’s letter, Ma. I know what’s upsetting you. He would never take Eliza away from you, she’s been with ye these past seven years. Sure, she’s only been in his company four or five times since he left. I’ll write and remind him of how well she’s doing here and how happy she is,” Catherine tried to console her mother.
“Do you think he’s upset that she calls me her ma?” asked Mary.
“Of course he’s not. Isn’t it grand for her to feel that way? Especially when her father is so far away and she hardly ever sees him. Sure don’t we all make sure Eliza grows up knowing Thomas is her father?
Mary seemed to brighten up a little at Catherine’s words, “I remember Thomas’s last visit and the look on his face when she dragged your da across the room to him, saying, ‘Come on, Dadó, shake hands with Da.’ Your poor brother, I thought he was going to burst into tears,” said Mary.
“That must truly have touched his heart, to hear his wee one call him Da. I’ll wager there wasn’t a dry eye in the house that day,” replied Catherine.
For a long time, mother and daughter sat together on the damp grass, breaking the silence between them now and again with the sharing of a cherished memory. Catherine thought she saw extra wisps of grey in her mother’s hair and noticed how unusually pale she was that day.
“Ma, are you not feeling well? Or is it the sadness has you looking as white as a sheet?”
Mary patted her daughter’s hand before leaning on her shoulder to stand up.
“I’m getting old, that’s all, my love. Getting old and maudlin. Ask your father, he’s half afraid to talk to me lately, for fear I might start weeping and wailing.”
“Ma, you’re not yet fifty. Don’t be talking nonsense.”
“It’s true, Catherine. I want you to promise me that you’ll look after your father, should I pass on before him.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I refuse to even think about it. But I will take you to a doctor. You must be ailing to be thinking like that.”
Mary could see the concern written all over Catherine’s face. “We’ll see. I will do as you ask if there’s no improvement in me by the end of the week. Does that ease your mind somewhat?”
Catherine was happy with her mother’s response and the two women made their way home, arm in arm, both of them in much better frames of mind.
******
In Paddy Mac’s the talk was all about politics. The men had been discussing the 1874 elections held earlier that year.
“It’s a far cry from the day when men were marched into town and forced to cast their vote openly in front of their landlords,” someone commented.
“Aye, the secret ballot has put an end to that, at least.”
“With fifty-nine seats won by members of the Home Rule League, it won’t be long till Ireland has control of her own destiny,” said Paddy Mac.
“I wouldn’t be holding my breath for that,” replied Matthew Clarke. “The League’s members don’t even belong to the same political parties. Isaac Butt himself is Conservative and sure the only reason they won is because of seats not being contested.”
“Never mind the politics, men. What about the weather we’ve been having? Taking its toll on the harvest, it is. Even my wee bit of a garden is suffering,” an elderly man piped up.
James was glad of a change of topic, adding to the conversation about the weather. “If these storms continue, we’ll have neither fish nor fodder, then we’ll be in a right mess. With nothing to harvest and no boats going out, it’ll be over to England again for most of us.”
As mutterings of agreement rippled through Paddy Mac’s cosy establishment, its turf fire throwing out a welcome heat, the storm outside seemed to echo James’s statement. The wind driven rain lashed against the window panes and the men gave each other knowing glances as they were reminded that no matter who was governing them, they would always be at the mercy of the weather.