Kathleen McGurl - The Girl from Ballymor

The old man woke once more, and mumbled a few words, gasping between them. She had to lean close, and strain to make them out. ‘Take the . . . goat, Kitty. Don’t let . . . Waterman . . . have it. Look after . . . young Grace . . . and Michael. Write to my sons, tell them . . . And . . . thank you.’

After another hour, or was it two, perhaps three, his breathing became irregular, with long gaps between each one. Each time she wondered whether it would be his last. And then finally, one last breath, a gurgle in his chest, and stillness, apart from a twitching muscle near his eye. A minute later that stopped too. Kitty released her hand from his, placed his hands on his chest, crossed herself, and murmured the Lord’s Prayer.

She sat quietly for a few minutes more. So now there was only herself, Michael and Gracie left in the village. In the morning she would go to Father John, and arrange for Martin’s body to be collected, and buried. She didn’t know whether Martin had any money – if she could find any she would make sure he had a proper burial in the churchyard. If not, he would be put in the mass grave along with the latest famine victims. It was not something she could bear to think on, while she still sat with his mortal remains.

‘Bless you, Martin. May you be at peace now,’ she said, and hauled herself stiffly to her feet. It was time to go.

Outside, the full moon shimmered across the landscape, oblivious to the events inside the cottage. Kitty raised her face to it and breathed in deeply. The air was fresh and clean, damp with the night’s dew but refreshing and cleansing.

The goat had scrambled to its feet as she came out, and now Kitty untied her. ‘Come on, girl. Come on and I’ll see if I have some eggshells and potato scraps for you.’

It walked obediently beside her, down the lane back to her own cottage, as though it knew its master was dead. There would be goat’s milk to drink in the morning, Kitty thought, but immediately chastised herself for thinking of her own family’s fortune, when poor Martin lay dead not a hundred yards away.

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