Kathleen McGurl - The Girl from Ballymor

‘Michael,’ she said.

‘What’s that you’re after saying?’ Mother Heaney asked.

‘’Tis what I’ll name the baby,’ Kitty replied.

The old lady nodded her approval, and an hour later, at the end of the service, Father John anointed him with oil of chrism and poured holy water over his head, welcoming him into the Catholic Church. Kitty swelled with pride as she watched. Michael kept his eyes open and fixed upon the priest throughout, as though he understood the seriousness of the occasion. When Father John handed him back to Kitty, her eyes had filled with tears. Michael had been born fatherless, but now he had God as his father. He would live a long, good life, she’d been certain of it. And she’d known then that she would do everything in her power to ensure it.

*

Now, so many years later, with that tiny baby almost a grown man, she left the church feeling calmed and uplifted. Remembering those good times – the early days with Michael when she’d learned what it was to be a mother, the support and love of dear Mother Heaney – had eased her soul. Outside, the clouds had cleared and the sun was fully out. There was beauty and peace to be found, even if there was poverty, starvation and death all around. She resolved to try to hold on to that thought, no matter what happened.

She paid a visit to the churchyard, laying her hand on the simple wooden cross that marked where her children were buried. ‘May God rest your souls,’ she whispered. And may Gracie and Michael never need join you here, she thought.

The food stores were further up the high street, past O’Sullivan’s pub, where a few men were standing outside, enjoying the sunshine as they supped their pints. Time was when Patrick would have been one of them, enjoying a pint once a week after work. She nodded to the men and continued to the grain store. There was a crowd outside it. She joined the edge of the crowd and asked the woman standing next to her what was happening.

‘There’s no corn. ’Tis all down at the docks in Cork still. They’ve not been able to distribute it to the towns where it’s needed. Disgusting state of affairs. What are we to do? How are we to feed our children?’ The woman shook her head sadly. Around her, the crowd was becoming angry. Two men at the front began beating on the doors of the store with sticks.

‘If there’s no corn, why are they hammering on the door? If there’s none to be bought there’s nothing to be done,’ Kitty said to her neighbour.

‘They don’t believe the warehouseman. They think he has sacks out the back that he’s keeping for himself. I’m waiting here to see if they’re right. If they’re not, and I can’t get any, there’s nothing for us to eat today. And me with seven mouths to feed. Where will it all end, I ask you?’

‘Where indeed?’ Kitty replied, wishing she had something to give the woman. At least she only had three mouths to feed now. She felt a rush of pain as she remembered that only a year ago, she’d had seven mouths to feed too. Poor Nuala, Jimmy, Éamonn and Little Pat. All taken at such a young age to sit at Jesus’s feet.

There was no point her staying in town. The crowd might turn violent, and she wanted no part of it. Her earlier tranquil mood had vanished, and now she wanted only to be home, in the cottage with Gracie and Michael. The chicken had laid an egg that morning. She still had a few of the potatoes Martin O’Shaughnessy had given her. And perhaps if he didn’t want his goat’s milk, he’d let her have it. They wouldn’t go hungry tonight. She patted her companion on the arm in a gesture of sympathy and support, and set off back to Kildoolin, her basket as empty as it had been on her way to town.

On the way home, she paused for just a few minutes to gather some sprigs of wild rosemary and golden broom. Some for herself, and some for Martin, to brighten and scent his cottage. If he was now unable to leave his bed and see the beauty of the day for himself, she would bring a tiny piece of it inside to him.

*

That evening, after Michael had returned and they had eaten their meagre meal, Kitty once more walked up the village track to Martin O’Shaughnessy’s cottage. She had a cold cooked potato, wrapped in a piece of muslin, to try to tempt him to eat. If he did not want it she would share it between Grace and Michael. She also carried the little posy she’d picked earlier. The sun was just dipping down behind the hill, but it would be light enough for another hour, for her to make sure he was settled for the night.

She tapped on the door, called out, and went straight in without waiting for an answer. No need for him to struggle to catch his breath to reply. The fire had gone out again, though the ashes were still hot, so she quickly banked it up and got it roaring again. She put the flowers in a mug of water on the table. Then she turned her attention to the bed in the corner, and the rasping, irregular breaths that were coming from it.

‘Well now, Martin, are you feeling any better?’ She knew the answer already, but it was as well to be cheerful. She knew Martin was dying, and he knew it too.

‘No, Kitty, I can’t say that I am,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, and his words followed by a coughing fit.

‘Hush now, Martin. Don’t speak if it hurts you so.’ She fetched a cloth, wet it and used it to clean the dried spittle from around his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked. She held the cup of water for him to sip from, but he wasn’t able to lift his head. Instead, she found a second cloth, a clean one, wet it and let the water trickle into his mouth from its corner. He sucked at it like a newborn baby. It was better than nothing.

‘Not long now,’ he croaked. ‘Not long.’

‘Should I fetch Father John for you?’ It was a long walk back to Ballymor this late at night, but she’d do it, if Martin wanted it. Or she’d send Michael who’d be much quicker. She cursed herself for not having spoken to Father John about Martin while she was in town earlier, but to fetch the priest to administer the last rites was an admission that death was imminent, and she had not wanted to frighten Martin or hasten his end.

He was shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve no need of Father John.’ He reached out a crabbed hand, and she took it. It was cold and thin, but he squeezed her hand with surprising strength. ‘Sit with me, Kitty. It won’t be long. Sit with me, till the end. I don’t want to go alone.’

Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. ‘Of course, Martin. I’ll stay, and I’ll do what I can for you.’

He squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes, letting out a rasping sigh.

She settled herself into a chair pulled up beside his bed, keeping her hand in his. It might be a long night. She was thankful she had banked up the fire so much when she first arrived. But if this was all she could do for her kind neighbour then it is what she would do. No one should be alone at the time of their passing.

Kitty watched the light slowly turn to dusk and then dark through the small window. The moon rose, its silvery light slipping into the cottage, caressing everything it touched. She listened to Martin’s laboured breathing, stroked his head and moistened his lips, but otherwise allowed her mind to swim deep into her thoughts.

An hour or so after she’d arrived, Michael tapped on the door and entered.

‘Mammy? We wondered where you were. Grace is in bed. Is there anything I can do? Is Mr O’Shaughnessy . . . is he . . . ?’

‘It won’t be long,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing you can do, except – milk the goat. Take the milk back for Gracie. I’ll be staying here.’

He squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into his arm, drawing strength for the night ahead from his presence. And then he was gone, leaving her once more watching the life slowly leave Martin O’Shaughnessy.