viv young Young

Ballygall, Ireland - 1846

Chapter 1

For the first time since the fever took his darling young wife ten years ago, Joseph McLaughlin was glad she was dead. The unseasonably cold, August Sunday would have been Carmel’s thirty-third birthday but as Joseph placed a posy of ox-eye daisies on her grave, he thanked the Lord the mother of his three children had not lived to see it. At least she had been spared from knowing what was to become of the family she’d loved so dearly. He turned away from her hillside grave, angry, ashamed. Tears stung his weather-beaten cheeks.

He looked down the rocky hillside towards the cabin where his eldest daughter Kit hunched over a long-handled hoe, nurturing row upon row of prime potato plants. Kit paused, stood tall and stretched her back, aching as it did from tending to her family’s life-blood. Even from where he stood, it was plain to Joseph that the slip of a girl who’d loved nothing more than to sit on her daddy’s knee was now blossoming into a handsome young woman. Yet her spirit was as strong as any lad’s and on more than one occasion she’d humiliated her boisterous cousins with her determination.

Joseph couldn’t take his eyes off Kit as she ran her hands proudly through the foliage of the potato plants that stood tall and promising, reluctantly bowing to the chilly wind. It seemed to her only weeks ago that the shoots burst through from beneath the soil like small, pale green stars. Now, luxuriant deep green leaves crowned the buxom lumpers strung together beneath the soil, the potatoes that would sustain her family through the winter months to come. But Joseph knew it was a sham. It was all just a matter of time.

He had noticed it yesterday, the first sign that this was another fruitless harvest in the making. A froth of white, just a tiny spec on one or two leaves, but that was enough to herald the danger. Then this morning, as he stooped at the edge of the lazy beds to collect a posy of wild flowers for Carmel’s grave, he knew he’d been right. There it was, right before his eyes and a day that should have dawned with quiet reflection was now full of foreboding.

To the naked eye, it looked no more threatening than a drop of cuckoo spit, but Joseph knew better. He had seen it before, too many times. Within days this foamy, white curse would turn his entire potato crop into a putrefying mess. It would stride a rampant path through the neighboring farms and villages too quickly to save any of the crops. The salvation that lay beneath the soil would be gone; earth’s larder – and Ireland’s bellies - would be empty once again.

Joseph shook his head and began the slow walk back to the cabin. His feet grew as heavy as his heart as the cloying mud clung to his worn out boots. He looked far older than his thirty-seven years, though there was still scarcely a speck of grey in his dark, thick hair. His lined face was made rugged by the Irish weather and Irish worries. Now, there would be more difficult decisions to be made and they had to be taken soon. He had been making plans since the partial crop failures of the previous year. Desperate plans he hoped would never have to be put in place. Now the blight had returned, what had seemed an unthinkable choice appeared to be the one, single alternative to watching his family die slowly before his own eyes.

`Daddy – look! See how well they’re growing,’ called Kit.

As her father scrambled down the hillside, she scraped back the sticky wet soil to proudly reveal the small tubers she’d been nurturing. But Joseph’s expression was impassive as he carried on walking, the sickening knot in his gut tightening with every step.

Kit shrugged, put his sadness down to the melancholy anniversary and, tucking an errant curl back under her plain blue cap, she returned to her chores. Her family had so much to be thankful for, she considered, and much to look forward to. Hard though it was, this was the only life she had ever known, Ballygall the only place she’d ever been. Yet still she knew this was all she wanted. The hills may be stony and the soil heavy, but it was her home. She knew every hillock, every valley, and every soul who drew breath here in the heart of the Irish countryside. Equal distance from the two seas she had never seen, generations of the McLaughlin family had lived and farmed this same valley for more than a century, and to a man – and woman - the intention was to continue.

Joseph had decided it would serve no purpose to tell his family now: there was nothing to be done. The blight would already be coursing through the plants and within days the stink of a thousand rotting suppers would fill the air. Last year, they had tried so hard - oh, Lord how they had tried. Thankfully they had already harvested and stored their first, smaller crop before the blight struck. But the large horse potatoes that would provide the bulk of their winter diet, had failed disastrously. Frantic to save something, anything, they had tried every method known to Irish peasant farmers from previous failures. They had clamped half in a pit, salted some and stored others side by side in the cabin, fastidiously ensuring none were touching. Kit and her sister Maeve had peeled frantically until their slender fingers were sore, cutting away the infected parts and cooking what was left of the white, moist potatoes. But nothing had worked and they were left with the stink of despair and empty bellies.

No, he would let them enjoy their ignorance for a few more days, they were after all, little more than children. Kit was barely fifteen, just a year older than her sister Maeve. Then after years of stillborn disappointments, Eugene had been born as his mother died. Now, he had just seen out his first decade and his father could only pray it wouldn’t be his last.

As Joseph walked past the lean-to that had once been his forge, he recalled how good things used to be. He loved the trade he’d learned from his father; the smell of singeing hooves as the metal shoes were hammered home, the sound of the bellows bolstering the fire. The memories loomed large every time he looked at the now desolate forge where all that remained were a handful of tools and the old anvil that had belonged to his father and his father’s father before him. Most of the trappings of his trade had been sold, the remainder lodged in the cabin for safekeeping or hard-times. Few people in these parts had horses now, let alone money to shoe them. Few people were ploughing or harrowing, or taking their produce to market by horse and cart. His one remaining customer was Lord Edgerley, his own landlord, but the master’s horses were turned away without shoes in summer, left to graze at Coralee Castle with the faint possibility they might hunt that winter, though it would be the first season for three years if they did. So with no money from his trade as a farrier, and no income from his own small conacre tenants, the pittance from his corn crop and one under nourished pig had been all that kept their heads above the ever-beckoning waters of disgrace and starvation.

Eugene’s dog Tori had scampered back to the cabin ahead of Joseph and now lay panting in a heap by the door. Joseph walked past the bitch without a second glance and headed inside into the dingy cabin. In the smoke-filled darkness Maeve sat beneath the only window, busily sewing neat patches onto Eugene’s worn smock. Her slim legs were crossed tidily at the ankles as she rocked the chair gently back and forth. Joseph could not look at her without thinking of his wife, so strong was the resemblance. She was less of a tomboy than her sister and whilst not as sturdy, her character was as strong as anyone he’d ever met, with the same grit and tenacity he had found so attractive in Carmel. She had an understated composure that seemed it should belong to one far older than her tender years. But when Maeve set her mind to something, there was no shifting her. She had made her mind up at an early age that her role was to keep her family together, her father content and she had most certainly succeeded in doing just that.

Ten long years, he thought to himself, since he’d lost her. And yet it seemed like only yesterday that the beautiful fifteen-year old Carmel Kennedy had agreed to be his wife. The raven-haired lovely, whose kindness was as renowned as her beauty, had made him the happiest, most blessed man in Ireland. How could he ever leave this place? A place that had been shaped by generations of McLaughlins but more particularly, by Carmel’s own hand. How he missed her gentle touch, her love. Still in his prime, Joseph’s needs were few, but they needed satisfying. His family was all he had to turn to.

The wider McLaughlin family all lived in this same part of Ireland – his brothers, their wives and their children within a mile or so, and a dozen or more uncles, cousins and friends just a little further afield. With a fortnightly market just four miles away, they had no need or inclination to venture further than their own valley. Only in times of great hardship had the men folk undertaken a journey out of this, their own domain, in the desperate pursuit of work or food. Joseph had himself experienced the trauma of leaving his home for foreign lands when he’d worked the English harvest as a young man. He’d vowed never again to leave his farm and his family.

Maeve looked up at her father as he stood stone still. Her dark hair was swept back and braided into an iridescent cluster that tumbled onto the embroidered cushion behind her shoulders. The simple cushion had been the last thing her mother had made before she died and was Maeve’s pride and joy. She looked up at her father and frowned:

`You look so cold,’ she said. `Here, come and sit a while. I’ll put a little more peat on the fire.’

Joseph held back his tears as he looked at his daughter. She was a beauty; pale skin, fine bones and a sparkle to her deep green eyes that could set a man’s pulse racing.

`Don’t fuss. I’ll be staying no more than a minute or two. I have things to do, business to be seen to.’

`Are you going to buy the autumn seed?’ She asked, still sewing, rocking.

`No it’s not the seed I’m going for - even if I could afford it. There’s talk of oats making more than a shilling a stone - can you believe that? This harvest will provide us with enough to pay rent, but little more to spare; certainly not enough to keep us through until summer.’

She reached out to her father and squeezed his cold hand.

`Don’t be worrying too much, Kit has told me how big the potatoes are growing. There’s sure to be a little corn left over - and the turnips are coming through now.’

Maeve’s words fell on deaf ears.

‘We’ll be fine, sure we will.’ She reassured him. ‘ Please, sit with me a while before you go to… Where did you say you were going?’

`I’m calling on the master’s agent.’

Maeve put down her sewing and began to stand.

`Oh, shall I come with you? I would so love to see Lady-’

`No. Not today.’

`But Lady Edgerley said-’

`I said not today.’ His voice was harsh, his face set. `I’m going on to meet with the Flynns and the O’Dohertys after, so I’ll be gone for some while. You have things to tend to.’

`Of course… ‘ Maeve knew her place and it was not to argue. ‘Please, take a small piece of the dried pig belly we have left for the O’Doherty’s little ones. I’ll fetch some now. Their little Sean must be almost a full year old.’

Maeve wrapped the fatty strip of meat and some meal in a cloth, tied it tightly and placed the little parcel in her father’s strong hands. She kissed him just above the bridge of his nose. Joseph knew the O’Doherty baby would be fortunate to see his second birthday and his siblings were scarcely stronger, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell his daughter that the pork would be wasted on them.

`They’ll be so pleased to see you, wont they just.’

`I hope they will - truly, I do.’

Maeve looked at her father and considered his despondency. If it was the memory of her mother haunting him, he was not alone. They all missed her, but despite the loss, they were a happy, complete family – Maeve saw to that. Of course they all tired of the meager portions they had to put up with at dinner but that was just until the harvest was in, she reasoned, and was no different to any other year. She knew her father had a whole range of skills and knowledge about farming. The potato was truly the only substantial crop the poorest Irish farmers could afford to grow in any quantity, but the additional crops Joseph had planted last year had been their salvation. Somehow, they had managed to live comfortably enough with the occasional wild fowl for the pot. All manner of wildlife seemed to be attracted by the variety of vegetation on their holding, and Joseph had taught Kit and Eugene the tricks of trapping and sling shotting.

And yes, Maeve considered, she too had developed skills and was accomplished now in virtually all of the duties required of the woman of the house. Whilst most of the families she knew existed on a diet of potatoes and buttermilk, she could stew or roast dishes with tantalising aromas. Theirs was a home of a reasonable size with a proper door as well as a real window and she took great pride in keeping it clean and orderly. One of her very own drawings was affixed to one wall and against another stood a dresser with four plates and four beakers on the shelves. This piece of furniture had enjoyed pride of place in the household since her mother’s family had provided it as a dowry. They also had three wooden beds, each with six slats a-piece and a mattress stuffed with dry straw. Kit and Maeve generally shared the largest bed, the one that their mother had died in.

As Maeve watched Joseph disappear over the hillside, another small figure drew closer. She smiled. It was Ruarie O’Connor, son of Martin and Esme O’Connor. She’d recognize that walk anywhere. This was the young man who could make her cheeks flush pink just by smiling at her. More or less since their children had been born, the McLaughlins and O’Connors would make the journey to one another’s home to share food and gossip, chatter about the harvests, while the children played together. Though Kit and Ruarie were the boisterous players, it was Maeve who Ruarie would sit with while they ate or assuaged their thirsts. Even as a child, Maeve knew there was something very special about what she felt for Ruarie and she was sure he shared that feeling.

She turned back indoors to take off her apron and tidy her hair, just in case he should come into the cabin to pass the time of day, as she dearly hoped he would. But instead, Ruarie stopped as he reached the spot where Kit was still hard at work. Maeve watched curiously as the two began to chatter. He was tall now, a strong lad both physically, and by nature. His hair was the same rosy blonde as Kit’s but, unlike hers, was straight as a poker. Maeve squinted, trying to see why he was lingering by Kit for so long. She watched as Kit looked up and her face broke into a wide, infectious smile. But Maeve’s face was somber. As Kit pulled off the damp cap and shook her head about until the curls bounced around her shoulders, Maeve turned to focus on Ruarie. Even from this distance, she could see that the lad loved Kit’s hair. And all at once the daunting realization hit her that in fact, he loved everything about her sister.

***

`Good day.’ Said Ruarie, in a perky voice.

`Oh, good day to you, Ruarie. I didn’t hear you arrive - are you on your way to the O’Regans?’

`No, Kit, I came to see you... to see how you are… and such things as that.’

`Well thank you Ruarie, I’m very, very well. Look!’ Kit pointed to the rows of potatoes. ‘They will be ready for earthing up very soon now - the turnips and our corn are looking fine and healthy too.’

`I’m glad, Kit, really I am. Our potatoes are looking grand as well. And not before time! We’ve just about finished the last of the oatmeal - not that it would be a sadness to me right now if I never saw another bowl of that gruel again.’ He smiled at Kit and patted his belly. ‘ I can’t wait for the taste of the lumpers - that sweet fodder drives away the summer hunger like nothing else.’

Ruarie looked Kit squarely in the eyes, and considered what an important part she already played in his life; whatever he was doing, she was there. As he sieved the dark soil he saw Kit’s face in the sharp flints and stones he removed. He heard her voice as he spread his homemade nets across the narrow brook, its clear, cold waters tumbling and rolling on their way down the hills to the valleys beyond. He felt her touch when the sun warmed his face as he gathered berries and nuts from the hedgerows. His heart told him now was the time to make Kit aware of these feelings, to see if they were reciprocated.

She had returned to the rhythmic hoeing of the soil, occasionally tossing a small stone or rock on to a heap that had been growing steadily all morning.

`Kit. There’s something…’

`Yes?’ She replied, her eyes fixed to the ground.

`Kit, will you listen please.’

`Oh, I am Ruarie, I am listening.’

She leaned on the hoe, her face perched on her hands, and stared at him in feigned concentration. Ruarie took her grubby, worn hands in his.

`I’m thinking I might be speaking with your daddy about an important matter - very soon.’

`And what might that matter be?’

He squeezed her hands gently as he thought about his answer. Was Kit really being naïve or was she teasing him?

`That’s for your daddy and I to know. But would you be happy for me to be talking with him about... Whatever it is I am going to talk with him about?’

She shook her head and laughed as she took hold of the hoe once more, returning to the soil and the job in hand.

`Ruarie that is the most silly question I’ve heard all year. How can I be minding when I don’t know what you’re talking of, you silly boy?’

There was a silent pause before Ruarie spoke again, this time with a mature tone to his voice.

`I’m no boy, Kit. My daddy was married when he was my age.’

He looked straight into Kit’s sparkling, blue-grey eyes. She returned the stare and all at once she realised what his words meant.

`Oh… well, no, Ruarie.’

‘Is that no, you don’t want to me speak with him, or no you don’t mind. Kit?’

Her neck suddenly felt hot and for once she found herself stumbling for words.

‘I don’t suppose I’d mind at all if you were to talk to my daddy about - anything.’

Ruarie leaned towards her and gently took her shoulders in his trembling hands.

`Dia is Muire duit.’ He said quietly as he kissed her forehead, then her pretty, upturned nose.

`And may God and Mary bless you too, Ruarie.’

As Ruarie went on his way, Kit’s smiling eyes returned to peering amongst the potato plants with a new perspective. But the moment was lost almost immediately as she caught sight of the same, white froth that had made her father despair. It was the second time she’d spotted it that day and in an instant she knew it was the blight, the pestilence that would destroy everything in its path.

An equally aching void had opened up in Maeve. Whereas moments earlier there had been hope, now there was only disappointment. Seeing Kit and Ruarie together gnawed at her and snuffed out the commonly held belief that it was right and proper for an elder sister to find a husband first. If it had been anyone but Ruarie she would have been content to comply with family – Irish – tradition. She was well versed in coping with the harsh blows life could throw, but this? She walked back into the cabin, angry and betrayed. Scolded by her father, usurped by her sister - what was becoming of her family, her life?

Chapter 2

Eugene’s happy song was almost drowned out by his banging and Tori’s barking, but he didn’t care. He’d sat himself down on a mossy patch near his father’s anvil, his slim, short legs crossed and his back straight. He sang contentedly: he had a fine dog - even if she did bark a lot - and a fine family. And right now, he was very proud that if his handiwork were successful, he would also have made a perfectly serviceable scythe. He could then do real man’s work in the fields, with his daddy. Kit, he considered, would be free to help Maeve with the ‘women’s’ work’ around the home.

He took the sharp stone in his right hand and began to rain blows onto a twisted piece of metal. With a good many of their tools sold, swapped or broken, this was Eugene’s chance to make a real difference to his family’s fortunes and the very thought of it made him sing even louder. Moments later a second voice joined the chorus; it was Kit.

‘I’m very pleased to see you keeping so busy, Geney.’

Kit caught Tori’s head in her hands just in time to stop two large muddy paws landing on her smock. ‘This dog of yours is still a pup though she’s three years old if she’s a day!’

Eugene’s round face took on a serious frown beneath the thick black fringe.

His grey-green eyes were far too beautiful for a boy, thought Kit.

‘Oh don’t scold her, Kit, she’s just pleased to see you that’s all. Look here, this stone would make a fine digging tool don’t you think? And have you seen what I’m making - guess? Can you guess? It’s a scythe!’

Kit smiled at his impatience and his enthusiasm.

‘Well done, Eugene.’

Kit turned away and mumbled to herself: ‘I hope we can use it.’

Eugene stopped what he was doing.

‘What do you mean?’

He stared up at Kit, trying to make sense of the words that conjured up a sense of dread inside him.

‘Don’t you worry.’ She reassured him. ‘You just get on with that, you’re doing a grand job.’ Kit had first seen the white froth as she weeded the north end of the beds near the thicket of beech trees, earlier that day. The rain had washed away all but a tiny spot of the sticky spume from the tallest plants, but it was there nonetheless. She’d reeled at the implications of the innocuous looking scum. She refused to believe it and kept it to herself, a horrible secret that she knew would not be denied for long. Kit barged through the cabin door, rushing to get out of the chill, wet wind that for the third day was turning this into a bad summer even by Irish standards. Maeve turned away as her sister came towards her, taking her seat in a dark corner of the cabin. Kit managed a small smile for her father, but it was not returned.