Dark Rosaleen (15 page)

‘I don't suppose he believes that now,' Kate said.

‘I think he still half believes it. We are still a part of the Empire, even if we are forgotten.'

‘How odd you should say that,' Kate said. ‘Somebody once said that to me— ' She stopped and looked away.

‘Go on, Kate,' said Una, laughing. ‘Who was he? Your lover. Tell me he was your lover.'

Kate took Una's hand. ‘No!' she said. ‘Not my lover. He was someone I was very fond of. I didn't love him, not as you might expect. Had he lived he would have been more like a brother.'

‘Tell me.'

‘To tell you a little of it would not be enough and to tell you more might be unwise.'

‘You make it sound very serious, Kate.'

‘It is. Or rather, it was.'

‘Kate, we are friends,' said Una, ‘You can trust me. Do trust me. Share it with me. We can become allies.'

They had been Shelley's same words on the day he left Cork, the last time Kate saw him. Her reservations about confiding in Una faded with those words.

They sat in the shade of the oak on that hot summer morning and Kate told of her conspiracy with a young English captain who had become a traitor in Ireland's cause, of Edward Ogilvie and his bullwhip, of Eugene and his encyclopaedia and finally of Keegan's little schoolroom. When Kate had finished her telling, she and Una hugged each other and it was agreed: they would ride to Kinsale together and there Kate would introduce Keegan and his class to her new friend and ally.

The first spikes of the morning sun caught every colour of the convoy: the riders' uniforms of green and blue, yellow and scarlet, their helmets and the swords in their scabbards, the flashing polished brass of the horses' harnesses, the rifles of the infantry.

The line of wagons was the longest yet to leave Cork Harbour, thirty of them piled high with grain, the pulling teams pounding at the ground, the crack of whips over their heads and the shouts of the wagon masters urging them on. People lined the roads to watch them pass but no one cheered. Who could applaud such a precious cargo that was on its way to somewhere else? How could they believe there were others hungrier than themselves?

Kate saddled her mare and watched the column until it was out of sight. As she left the stable yard, Dr Martineau came from the house and stood in her way.

‘These are dangerous times, Miss Kathryn,' he said in his soft and silky way. ‘Is it wise to leave Cork?'

‘I have left it too often to wonder now whether it is wise or not,' she replied coldly.

‘Indeed you have,' he said coming closer. He held the bridle as she mounted.

‘And I know the road so well, Dr Martineau, that I shall not need your escort to follow me today.'

‘Dear me, Miss Kathryn! I'm surprised that you should take offence at what is only my concern for your safety …'

‘An escort with a spyglass?' she interrupted him.

‘Indeed. With a spyglass and a pistol too, which he has orders to use without hesitation should there be any risk to your safety. I wonder that you protest so much.'

‘I shall tell my father you have me followed.'

‘As you wish.' He ran his hand along the mare's neck. ‘I can only hope he will not press me for details of your little excursions, innocent though they may be. It might worry him nevertheless.'

She wanted to bring her whip across his smiling face. Angrily, she pulled hard on the reins and, with a kick of her heels, she cantered away out of the yard and onto the track that led up the road to Kinsale. A minute later the cobbles echoed again as a rider in a black cloak followed, a spyglass and a pistol in his pockets.

The rendezvous had been arranged. She was to meet Una Fitzgerald by the ferry at Glanmire and from there they would ride together the twenty miles to Kinsale and meet with Keegan and the children.

The sun was already warm and at Ballygarvan they stopped to water their horses. Una had brought a basket of her father's oatcakes and a small flagon of his homemade ginger beer. They sat by a stream and ate breakfast.

‘Una, I've asked this of so many others but let me ask you too. Why have the Irish always been so dependent on the potato? Why don't they grow wheat? Why don't they bake bread?'

Una reached out, touched the tips of Kate's fingers and began the rhyme: ‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man … Kate, I'm running out of fingers. You'll marry a beggar man.'

‘Una, don't play. Answer me.'

Una rolled on her back. ‘Kate, you'll not see bread baked anywhere from Valencia to Malin Head. An oven is unheard of in any village in the whole of Ireland. There's scarcely a woman among them who knows how to cook anything but a boiled potato.'

‘But they could be taught.'

‘And what would they bake?'

‘Bread, of course.'

‘And you bake bread with …?'

‘With flour, of course. What else?'

‘And where would they get their flour?'

‘Una, you're teasing me.'

‘No, Kate! It's just that you assume too much. How can they afford to buy flour when they can barely find the money for their seed potatoes? If they have enough land to sow wheat or barley or oats, it is to sell to pay their rents. They can't afford to eat them. They call the potato the lazy crop but what else can a poor man grow to keep his family alive? All he needs is a quarter acre, a spade and a pocketful of faith.'

‘I'm sorry, Una. You must think me stupid but I know so little of the Irish. When I was in England I thought of you all as foreign. Now I am the foreigner and I'm struggling to understand. Why are there so many extremes here? Kindness and hatred all in the same mix.'

Kate waited for her to answer. Una ate the last of her cake and blew away the crumbs. A small bird, yellow and blue, hovered and dropped into the long grass in search of them. Una turned and lay on her stomach.

‘I was born among these people, Kate. All I can ever remember is their fun. They were famous for it. They would help build each other's cottages, all coming together, the women and children too, gathering the wood and the stones and the thatch. The tenant brought the food and there was always a lot of drink. If he could afford it, he'd have music and as long as it was light they would work to the fiddler's tunes. There was always a song then, always singing, whatever the reason. A child was born, a girl was married, an old man buried. There was a fiddler at every wake and sometimes even a piper. They would have poteen and whiskey and tobacco for the men, talk for the women. There was such kindness. They would never close a door on a stranger. There'd be a plate of potatoes for him, a jug of buttermilk and a stool for conversation. But it's all gone and how I miss it! I wonder if it will ever come back.'

Una stood and brushed off the grass. ‘Come, Kate. It is time to meet your lovely schoolteacher. Let's be off. We'll go the pretty way.'

The wicker basket, hidden in the long grass, was forgotten. Who would stumble on it? Who would find the few oatcakes and a little of the ginger beer inside and thank the Lord for His many miracles?

‘As sure as God made them, He matched them.' They were Tom Keegan's words and Kate would always remember them. The old man had come to the schoolroom that morning because his son was afraid he could not cope on his own with Una's arrival. He would instead rely on his father, with his flow of easy words and warm ways, to charm her. Old Tom would take the awkward stiffness out of it all.

Young Keegan had woken early and had fussed every minute thereafter. He was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the schoolroom floor a second time even before the sun rose. He had tramped the hillside, picking the tallest fern fronds which he had placed in stone jugs in the four corners of the room. The fire was burning in the hearth, water for tea was simmering in the kettle that hung from the hook above it and peat was neatly stacked by the door. The children's slates and sticks of chalk were placed in a row along the bench, in line and exactly spaced, like toy soldiers on parade.

Keegan was worrying that there was still more to be done when he heard the sound of the riders arriving. Old Tom was first out the door to greet them. He grabbed hold of Una's bridle.

‘
Céad fáilte romhat. Go mbeannaí Dia thú agus fáilte romhat. Is mór an onóir domsa agus do na leanaí tú a theacht inár láthair. Cuireann sé áthas an domhain orainn
.'

‘Father, father!' Keegan shouted above the old man's greetings. ‘Have you forgotten? When Kate is here we speak English?'

‘Oh! Dearie dear. A hundred apologies!' The old man repeated it twice over. ‘Forgive me, Kate. We are a little flustered at the sight of you both. It's the expecting that's done it. But you're welcome. You are so welcome.'

He helped Una from her saddle, bowed and shook her hand. ‘I am the father of this young schoolmaster you've come to meet. We are honoured to have you here. We have tea brewing and we shall have some talk. The children will be coming soon and there'll be little time for chat when they do.'

Keegan had barely slept all week, worrying about the words he must find and the ways of saying them to the daughter of Sir Robert Fitzgerald. Would she be as Kate had been to him at their first meeting? He thought not. Then Eugene and his wounds had been the bridge between them. The drama of that day had been the reason for them coming together and it had held them as friends since. The prospect of meeting Una had unsettled a normally confident Keegan. It had occupied him and irritated him. But that morning, to his surprise, he and Una did not meet as strangers meet.

The children arrived together. Eight of them had brought a penny. They paid it to Keegan once a week for their schooling. There were times when some did not, and they brought sods of peat instead. Eugene was first at the schoolroom door. Kate introduced him to Una. He shook her hand and showed her his book of Irish poems, translated and carefully written in English with a quill and blackberry ink. The other children followed and those who had shoes took them off and left them outside.

Keegan, in his worrisome planning for this special day, had given their mothers fifteen pence to search the market for food to cook for him. At ten o'clock, they left the steaming covered pots by the door. It was time for breakfast.

Old Tom arranged the seating. The four sat in a circle on the floor, surrounded by the children. The children closed their eyes and clasped their hands as the old man said prayers. The potatoes were hot and they danced them from hand to hand as they skinned them. Then Tom mashed them in a bowl filled with buttermilk and nuggets of coarse salt.

‘Now, ladies, gentlemen and little folk,' he said as if he was addressing an association dinner. ‘We have an Irish speciality known only to those who can afford nothing else. It's our boxy: mashed-up turnips with fern leaves and dandelion. I see the mothers have done us a favour and added a sprig of mint so we'll have a banquet! Now God bless us, every one of us.' The children crossed themselves and mouthed their amens.

Keegan had indeed been wise to have his father attend. He could never have managed the morning on his own. The old man turned breakfast into a party with his talk and tales of Jack-o'-Lantern, the banshees and the mysteries deep within the fields of fairies. The children sat and listened to him, entranced and as still as statues.

‘Father,' Keegan said, laughing, ‘enough of your banshees and Jack-o'-Lanterns. It's all nonsense, you're dumping rubbish into this classroom of mine. This is a place of learning.'

‘Nonsense, is it?' the old man replied, attempting a scowl. ‘Are you asking for a
pishogue
?'

‘What is that?' Kate asked.

‘It's a curse and the worst one,' the old man said. ‘You can be cursed by a fairy or a saint. The Irish saints are forever putting curses on people and no county is more cursed by them than Cork, though Limerick might compete. We're full of our silly stories and Irish bellies would be emptier still if we didn't have them.'

‘Do we have time for one of them?' asked Kate.

The old man laughed. ‘If I tell you one, I'll tell you a dozen.'

‘Start with one, then.'

‘Well, let me think and, son, you will put it into Irish for the children?' He scratched his head and winked at Kate. He loved an audience and none had ever been as lovely as this. The children quietly pushed their way closer. The old man was going to tell them a story. No one had ever sat with them like this and they had never known such a thing as a story.

The old man began and his son, sitting beside him, whispered the translation.

‘There was once a poor man who worked hard all day. But he couldn't sleep at night because he had no bed. He had to sleep on the cold stones and that made his bones ache. He couldn't even afford to buy straw to sleep on because he had to give it all to his donkey. You see, if his donkey couldn't sleep, it wouldn't work. And if it did not work and pull the cart then the man would starve. But his bones ached so much that one day he built himself a cot. Then he put legs on it to raise himself off the cold ground. That night he was warm and he slept well. But when he woke he found his donkey dead. He reckoned the saints had put a curse on him for impudently raising himself above his station. So he buried his donkey and burnt the cot.'