The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl
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the time to do the research though, not with this lot consuming all my energy and my job and everything.’
‘Yes, it does take time.’ I took a sip from my glass. Was she really interested or was I in danger of boring her senseless if I said any more about my family history?
‘So did your ancestors live in Ballymor then? In the big house at the campsite?’ Nathan asked. He ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it into place across his forehead.
‘Not in the big house, no. But in the abandoned village. Have you been there?’
Dave answered. ‘Not yet. We only arrived yesterday and the weather didn’t look good enough for a walk today. Little one, there, needs a bit of encouragement. Actually, so do the others.’ Kaz and Nathan both scowled at him for this, while Sammy cuddled Nellie tighter. I saw his hand creep towards his mouth, before he pulled it away and tucked it around the toy. If I had to guess, I’d say he was being trained out of a thumb-sucking habit.
‘It’s worth a visit,’ I said. I turned to Nathan, who’d shown the most interest. ‘You can explore all the cottages, try and imagine what it would have been like to live there.’
‘Cool.’ He shrugged, then tried to look over Kaz’s shoulder at her phone. She punched his arm to stop him, earning herself a telling-off from Dave.
We chatted for a while longer, until the musicians arrived. I told them about Michael McCarthy, but not about my book. I kept looking round to see if Declan was in the bar as I had a number of questions for him, but there was no sign of him all evening, which left me feeling strangely disappointed. Paulie, however, was in his usual place at the end of the bar, steadily working his way through a number of pints of Guinness, and exchanging a few words with other local regulars. It was my third night in the pub and I was beginning to feel quite at home here.
When the musicians had got themselves set up, Sharon leaned over to Dave. ‘We should go before they start. Sam’s looking tired.’
Dave looked disappointed, as did the older kids. ‘Aw. I was hoping to hear a bit of traditional Irish music.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ said Kaz. ‘It’ll probably be crap but I’d like to hear some while we’re here.’
‘Language, Kaz,’ Sharon said, with a frown. ‘Maybe we could stay for one or two tunes, then, but not too late, or Sammy will be overtired. And you know what he’s like then.’
Sam’s hand crept towards his mouth again, and I couldn’t help but think if he curled up against his mum with his thumb in his mouth he’d probably stay happily for the entire musical set.
But, after the first two tunes – ‘The Rose of Tralee’, then ‘The Fields of Athenry’, which Dave clearly recognised as a rugby song, as he hummed along happily to it – Sharon stood and gathered up their belongings. ‘Come on. I’m driving and I’m leaving now. So you either come with me or you’re walking.’
The rest of her family pouted but got up and followed her out, waving at me as they left. I went to sit on a bar stool for the rest of the evening, rather than take up a table by myself when there were people standing. As I perched beside Paulie, he acknowledged me with a slight tilt of his head. I smiled to myself. It was probably as near as I’d get to being accepted in this community by the old fellow. I wondered whether Dan had found my bracelet. Hopefully he’d text me later and say he had it.
The rain was heavy, turning the lane in front of the cottages into a muddy stream. Kitty slipped several times as she picked her way up through the village to Martin O’Shaughnessy’s cottage. She hadn’t much to give him on this occasion – only a sketch Michael had made of the view across the valley, which might cheer him a little. Nothing to eat. She knew Martin still had some potatoes, and if he was unwell she could stay and boil some for him. She could milk the goat as well. Her gift today was her time and her labour.
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to keep the worst of the rain off. The sketch was rolled up and tucked into her skirt. Martin was ailing and it was her neighbourly duty to go to him every day.
As she approached the end cottage, she stopped a moment and patted the goat, tied by a frayed rope to a post beside the door and huddled under the eaves out of the rain. It clambered to its feet and nosed around her skirts. ‘I’ve nothing for you today, girl,’ she said. ‘Maybe next time.’
But something was wrong. There was no plume of smoke from Martin’s chimney. He always kept a turf fire alight, but today there was nothing. The cold hand of dread clutched at her heart as she tapped on the door.
‘Mr O’Shaughnessy? Martin? Are you there?’ There was no answer, so she pushed open the wooden door and peered into the gloomy interior of the cottage.
A rasping cough came from the corner, and with relief she saw that the old man was lying there – sick, but alive.
‘Has your fire gone out, Martin? Will I light it for you?’ Kitty didn’t wait for an answer but set about immediately raking out the ashes, laying turf, kindling and a few sticks of wood in the fireplace and lighting it with her own tinderbox and flint.
It wasn’t long before she had the fire going again. Martin had coughed piteously throughout. When she turned back to him, she could see by the firelight that he had weakened considerably since the previous day. ‘Ah, Martin, let me clean you up a little. Have you had anything to eat today?’
‘No, Kitty, and there’s nothing I want to eat. Just a sip of water, if you would . . .’ His voice was weak and rasping.
She fetched him a cup, filled it from his bucket which she’d replenished from the stream the day before, and held it to his lips. He could barely lift his head to sip it. It wouldn’t be long now, she knew. But for once it wasn’t the hunger ending a life. Martin still had potatoes, and the goat.
‘Will I milk the goat? Perhaps a sip of fresh warm milk will perk you up a little. Or a hot drink? The fire’s burning nicely now,’ she said.
‘No, Kitty, nothing more. You’ve done enough for me. Milk the goat if you like, but take the milk for yourself. Now away back to your own home and your children. How’s your young Michael doing, anyway?’
‘Ah, he’s grand. He’s strong, and is getting plenty of work. That reminds me—’ she pulled out the picture Michael had drawn and handed it to Martin ‘—he said to give you this. To cheer you up, like. ’Tis the view from in front of our cottage, across the valley. Look, you can see the hills, dropping away there to the sea.’
Martin peered at the drawing. ‘He’s a talented fella, your Michael. He deserves better than this life. He should get himself to Dublin, find a sponsor, have his pictures shown in a proper gallery. People would pay money for them, so they would.’
Kitty sighed. ‘He should. But how can he? He’s not got the money to get himself to Dublin and set himself up. I’ve no way of helping him.’ And, if he goes, it’s the workhouse for sure, for me and Grace, she thought but didn’t say.
‘Poverty is the tragedy of the Irish,’ Martin said, then succumbed to a coughing fit. Kitty stayed with him, mopping his brow, helping him sip from the cup of water, until he was settled, and drifting off to sleep. She resolved to call in again before nightfall. Poor Martin. She hoped the end would be painless for him.
The rain had stopped when she left Martin’s cottage, and the sun was trying to break its way through the clouds. Good. She needed to walk to Ballymor and see if she could buy a little cornmeal. She had a few pennies left from Michael’s last wages, and they were short of food again.
The walk along the lane, down the hill and into town was pleasant enough as the sun came out, drying her hair and shawl. As she entered the town