Even on Days when it Rains (9 page)

When he was home, Francie used to enjoy the laughs he got from the children, particularly when they were very young and innocent. As Daniel was the baby in the family, I used to take him with me wherever I went. The only place he never wanted to go with me was to the local church when I'd be going
to
confession. So, whenever I was visiting someone or somewhere and I didn't want Daniel to come with me, I'd put him off by telling him, ‘I'm going to confession, Daniel.' And Daniel would stay behind without a whimper.

At the time we had a dog called Rover, and one day when Daniel was crossing over to a neighbour's house, the dog began to follow him. Daniel was about three at the time, and Francie was out front watching to see that he crossed safely. Daniel turned to Francie and said, ‘Daddy, call Rover back. Tell him he can't come because I'm going to confession.'

Francie laughed, and when he told me the story I realized that Daniel saw through my little trick but always played along with it. Even at the age of three he was that smart.

Daniel always slept in my bed as a child when Francie was away working. He could never understand why he was evicted every time Daddy came home. ‘Can't Daddy sleep somewhere else?' he'd ask. You could see by the expression of thunder on Daniel's little face that he was none too pleased about the change in his regular sleeping arrangement.

The children were great company, especially during the months when Francie was working abroad. The house was always full of life and chatter. I hadn't a minute to myself keeping up with their antics,
particularly
the boys'. Well, especially young James, who was tall for his age and who spent most his time dreaming up ways to be the centre of attention. I don't know where I got him; he always seemed to be up to some kind of mischief.

Wash day at that time was a major operation. There was no electric washing machine to ease the burden of work. Water was boiled in saucepans on the range and then carried outside to fill up a tub where I would scrub the dirty laundry by hand. It was time-consuming work and tedious too.

One morning I had spent the best part of an hour heating the water and filling a bathtub outside. Then I mixed in the washing soda and slushed it around to create suds. No sooner had I turned my back to fetch the dirty laundry from the house than the bold James was up to his trickery. He just couldn't resist the temptation to tip up the bathtub and empty out all my lovely hot, soapy water. I came around the corner just in time to see him scurrying away from the scene of the crime with a big, cheeky grin on his face.

I grabbed a sally rod and chased after him. Eventually I cornered James and gave him a lash of the sally stick. It didn't seem to bother him in the least. But no matter what mischief he got up to, I couldn't stay mad at James for long. I knew in my
heart
that there was no real badness in him. He just saw the humour in everything. To him, his antics were just harmless fun, but I didn't always see the funny side of them. And he was forever playing tricks on the rest of the children, silly stuff like hiding their things. That would always cause a row. There was no malice in James, he was just a trickster. But I was forever shouting at him, ‘James, if you don't leave them alone I'll give you a lash of the sally rod!' I might as well have been talking to the wall for all the notice that he took of me.

John Bosco was a different young fellow altogether. Although he was older, Bosco was smaller and quiet in himself. You wouldn't know he was around the house if James wasn't taunting him. Then he'd be well able to stand up for himself. Kathleen was a second mother to them all. She was very like myself when I was that age, as she loved helping round the home. As the years went on, her siblings would always turn to Kathleen for advice. She's a great listener, and she'd always be totally honest with them.

Margaret was a great worker too, and she loved to sing. She really had something special for a child so young, and I taught her some lovely old ballads. ‘Sing a song for us,' I'd say in the evening. And Margaret would stand in the middle of the floor,
close
her eyes and sing like she understood all the emotions that were in those songs. But on the occasions when I had to scold Margaret for misbehaving when she was a youngster, she'd get all huffy and march off to her room. Then she'd appear out of it with her little case all packed and announce that she was leaving home. She'd march off down to the strand in Kincasslagh and sit behind a rock. I'd discreetly keep an eye on her from a distance. When she'd eventually realize that no one was coming to get her, you'd see little Margaret slinking back up the road again with the little case. She'd come into the house, ignore everybody and go to her room.

Even without children, our house was always busy. There was an endless stream of visitors coming through the door. No one ever had to knock; they just lifted the latch and walked right in. The kettle would be on, and tea was always on offer. A cup of tea and a chat with the neighbours, there was nothing like it. I was surrounded by lovely people in my neighbourhood, and that compensated in some ways for the loneliness I felt when Francie was away.

As I was an island woman and the only one in the vicinity, people coming over from the local islands would occasionally call too. I was always ready to welcome anyone who was storm-bound. One afternoon a group of fishermen from Tory Island arrived
into
Kincasslagh pier with a cargo of herring. I took them in for tea as it was a particularly stormy evening. As the time went on, there was no sign of the storm blowing over. In fact, it got considerably worse, posing a real danger to anyone out on the open sea. The men from Tory were very concerned about it, so I told them not to risk the crossing. ‘You can stay in our house. I won't have enough beds, but I have a big fire and plenty of food,' I told them.

They took me up on the offer, and it turned out to be a great night. The fishermen had some drink with them to fortify themselves against the elements, and they had a sup of that. Before long a sing song had started. I made plenty of tea and gave them lots of bread that I had baked. The singing continued into the early hours of the morning, and it was an unexpected night of merriment.

My mother, who was staying with us then, was in a bed off the kitchen. The next morning she said, ‘That was the finest night of singing I ever heard.'

It broke my heart on those occasions when I'd dwell on how much Francie was missing out in our lives. I longed for the day that he wouldn't have to emigrate to find work. Little did I know that ahead of us lay a terrible tragedy that would tear us apart.

IT WASN'T UNTIL
1967 that our family finally moved into the modern age when the local council agreed to provide us with a cottage. For the first time in our lives we were going to have all the mod cons of the times.

Up till then, we were still living with the remnants of a dying era in the house my cousin had kindly loaned to us after her father had died. It still had an old-fashioned open fire, with the cooking being done in pots hanging over the burning coals. There were no electricity and no running water. The house had neither a bathroom nor even a flush toilet – the latter was a tin hut at the end of the garden. The new cottage was going to have all of those modern conveniences. If Donegal County Council had provided us with a castle, the family wouldn't have been more excited.

All we could think of for weeks and weeks as it neared completion was our big move into this bright, spacious, modern cottage. The new dwelling
was
just across the road from the house we were living in, so we weren't being uprooted from our normal surroundings. It couldn't have been more perfect. The building of the new house provided great entertainment, and some frustration, as we watched it going up, block by block, month after month.

‘Mother, they're starting the roof,' Kathleen said one morning.

‘Do you think it will be ready next week?' Margaret asked.

‘It'll be a wee while yet,' I replied, and their heads hung. The construction work probably seemed like an eternity to the children. And, to be honest, I wasn't very patient myself.

When the shell was completed, we clapped and cheered.

‘It won't be long now till we're in our snug new house,' I assured the children. Little did I know that the interior work was a much slower process and that the plumbing, electrical and carpentry jobs would take many more months.

In November, the house was ready for us to occupy. I'd been given a key by one of the workers, but the cottage hadn't been officially handed over to me by the council. The weather had turned bitter, and we were freezing in the old house. I'd look over
at
the newly built cottage, which seemed so warm and inviting, and I'd wish that we could move in there and then. The weeks went by, the weather got colder and colder, and there was no sign of the notice from Donegal County Council. The postman occasionally called with a letter. I'd be delighted when I'd see one arriving from Francie, but there would be disappointment as well when the council's notice wasn't in the postman's bag.

One day, as I peered out through the frosted window of the old house, I decided that I couldn't wait for the council's red tape to be sorted. We would move over lock, stock and barrel under the cover of darkness that very night. Francie was away working in Scotland, so the family and I hauled over our bits and pieces of furniture, our clothes and whatever other few possessions we had to our name. At 11 p.m. we finally got the beds through the door and set them up in the rooms. Then we tried to settle down to sleep, although that was virtually impossible with the excitement of being in our grand new abode. The wee fella, Daniel, hadn't yet turned six, and I think he was probably more excited than any of us. You'd think to look at him that it was Christmas morning as he raced from room to room examining every nook and cranny. I had a terrible job keeping him away from the taps. He kept turning them on and off to see
the
water gushing out of them. The flush toilet was going every few minutes, and I don't think nature was working overtime on him. It was just the novelty of it all.

When I wrote to Francie and informed him that we were in the house, he wrote back and told me to make sure that I got the local priest to bless it. ‘I hope the council won't be mad at you for going in too soon,' he added. It was another few weeks before the council's official letter arrived, but by that time we had made ourselves at home in our lovely new surroundings. It was a cosy little nest, and I could hardly wait for Francie to come home and see it for himself. For the first time in our married life we finally had a home we could call our own.

I'll never forget the look on Francie's face when he arrived home that Christmas. As the car pulled up, I could see him looking round and admiring the new cottage. We all rushed out to greet him. One of the children took his case, and Francie and I strolled up to the house. As we reached the entrance, he put a hand on each side of the door frame and said, ‘It's nice to be going into your own home.' That was one of Francie's happiest days: to see us all enjoying such comfort in a lovely, modern dwelling.

I had been saving for about a year to buy new things for the house. When you go into a new home
you
have everything to buy for it. I made extra money by knitting sweaters and selling them. I also tried to save something out of the money Francie sent home to provide for our living expenses. Then I'd go out and search for bargains. Not a penny was squandered as I gradually accumulated the essential items and some decorations that we needed for the new place. Shiny new pots and pans sat on top of the range. There was a dresser in the kitchen, all decked out with lovely cups, saucers and plates. I'd bought colourful lampshades for the electric lights, and there were new curtains for the windows. I got down on my hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush and I washed every inch of the floor to get rid of the dust. I chipped away at the solid lumps of plaster that were splattered here and there. Later I bought cheap lino for the floor covering. It looked real nice.

‘You've done a great job, Julia,' Francie said after settling in. ‘I'm so happy here in our own home.'

That happy period was short-lived. After a few months it was getting close to the time for Francie to leave again to pick up work in Scotland. He was nearly 49 years old, and the hard life he'd endured was beginning to take its toll on his health. Not that he ever complained. You'd never hear Francie moan about his lot. He just got on with it.

‘Daddy, don't go away this year,' Margaret pleaded with him.

I could see Francie's eyes watering. It was emotionally draining for him to have to leave his loved ones, particularly when he was growing weary of his terrible lifestyle. I knew it was a torture for him to have to leave.

‘You don't need to be going to Scotland. Stay here with us, we'll be grand from now on,' Margaret begged. She loved her daddy. They all did.

‘I'll go this year, but I won't go any more,' Francie finally relented.

There were still a few weeks to go before he left, but I could see that Francie wasn't himself. He shuffled where he used to strut along. And he had difficulty catching his breath.

One morning when I woke up, he was sitting up in the bed. I yawned and propped myself up on the pillow. ‘How are you feeling today, Francie?' I asked.

‘I'm fine,' he replied. Then he smiled. ‘Do you know, you're some sleeper,' he added. ‘I have said a rosary for myself and one for you, one for John Bosco, one for Margaret, one for James, one for Kathleen and one for Daniel. I've said one for everyone who is sick and one for the dead.' Francie shuffled a pile of novenas with his hands. ‘Do you see that pile of wee
leaflets
? I've read through all of those while you were sleeping.'

I smiled at him. ‘The people who get the benefit of them will be eternally grateful to you.'

I got up out of bed, and later, as I sat writing letters, I heard him on the move. When I went to see if he wanted some breakfast, I got a terrible fright. Francie was struggling to catch his breath.

‘I'm not too good, Julia,' he sighed, the blood draining from his face.

‘We'll get the doctor down, Francie,' I said.

He nodded in agreement. I knew then that he must be feeling real bad because Francie wouldn't want the doctor unless he was in serious pain.

By the time the doctor arrived, Francie's complexion had turned a deathly grey. The doctor took one look at him and said, ‘We'll get you up to the hospital straight away for an X-ray, Francie. I'll call for an ambulance.'

We had no phone in the house, so the doctor drove down to the public phone in the village to make the call. After a short time he returned to the house with the news that there was no ambulance to be got. ‘I'll take Francie to the hospital myself,' he said. As he walked him to the car, Francie was struggling more and more to catch his breath.

I was standing outside the front door in a pair of
slippers
watching him, and my heart was pounding against my chest with fright. ‘Wait till I get my shoes and I'll go with you,' I said. I rushed inside, but I was in such a state of panic and shock that I couldn't find my shoes.

‘I'll have to go,' the doctor shouted before slamming the door of the car.

I went back outside and the car was heading off round the turn on the road. I could see Francie still struggling for breath as he looked back to see if I was coming.

The time passed like an eternity as I waited for news of Francie's condition. What was the X-ray going to show? As I stood at the gate waiting for a cousin of mine to return with information, a neighbour stopped to enquire about Francie. I was telling him that I was just waiting on news of the X-ray when a car pulled up beside us. There was a priest in the back, but there was nothing unusual about a car stopping as drivers were always calling looking for directions.

The priest got out of the car and then I saw that he was being followed by Biddy, one of our relatives. My first thought was that Biddy had heard in the village that Francie had been taken away and that she was coming looking for news of him.

It was the priest who stopped and spoke. ‘Are you Julia?' he asked.

‘I am,' I said, and a terrible feeling came over me.

The priest looked down at his shoes. I knew then that he had come to me with some awful news.

‘Father, is there anything wrong?' I heard myself asking.

‘Yes,' he said, his head shaking.

My heart was racing. ‘Have you good news or bad news?' I heard myself asking.

‘I have good news and bad news,' the priest replied, lifting his head.

‘Is Francie dead?' I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.

‘I'm afraid he is after dying,' the priest said quietly.

When I look back on it, I think that I went into shock at that moment because I didn't immediately react to this dreadful news that the priest was telling me. That my Francie was gone.

Then the priest started to speak again. ‘The good news is that your Francie got the last rites before he died, by a strange coincidence,' he revealed. ‘All the other priests are away on a retreat. I say Mass in Dungloe hospital once a year, but I wasn't due to say it today. I met Biddy yesterday, and she asked me where I was going to be saying Mass today. I told her I was going to say it in Kincasslagh. Biddy then said how she was hoping it was Dungloe, as she was
looking
for a lift there. I decided then that I'd go and say the Mass in the hospital, and that's how I was up there to give Francie the last rites.'

Francie had once told a cousin of mine that he prayed he would never die without a priest. So he was granted that request.

The priest told me more of the details, how Francie had died just as he was entering the hospital. It was God that had saved me from going with him because I wouldn't have wanted to be there when he passed away.

I was still in shock. I heard myself asking, ‘Father, did he have time to make his confession?'

‘My good woman,' he answered, ‘that man had no need to make a confession. He went straight to heaven.'

The priest shook my hand as I turned to enter the house. It broke my heart to see the commotion inside. The children had overheard the whole conversation and knew that their daddy was dead. They were inconsolable, and I just wanted to curl up and die myself. They looked like a pitiful bunch of lost souls as they tried to take it all in. They were heartbroken that life could be so cruel to them: they curled up in corners crying. I looked at wee Daniel, only six years old, and thought how unfair it was that he would never really remember his daddy because he was so young.

Later the body of my darling Francie came home in a coffin. As four men struggled to manoeuvre it through the front door, I sobbed at the thought that it would be Francie's last time coming into his own house. He'd had so little time to enjoy it. As they opened the lid of the box I felt my legs go weak, and I burst into loud fits of sobbing. A neighbour put her arm around me to calm me. I stroked Francie's forehead and kissed it. He looked like he was just asleep. We laid him out in a candlelit room, which had a large crucifix on the wall. The wake went by in a blur for me. Neighbours came and went over a couple of days, paying their respects and offering support. ‘Sorry for your trouble, Julia, if there's anything we can do, you know where we are,' they'd say. I was grateful to have everyone around to comfort me, but no one could bring my Francie back to his family.

No words can describe the pain in our house on the day of the funeral. The wailing of the children would have melted the hardest of hearts. Poor little Daniel didn't really know what was going on, but he became very upset when he saw the coffin leaving the house. Daniel clung to it and cried, ‘Don't youse take me daddy away. Bury him in the garden.'

He held my hand and pleaded, ‘Please, Mammy, don't let them take our dad away. We need him here
at
home.' He kept crying, ‘Everyone will have a daddy now but us.' Then he asked, ‘Will Dad ever come back?'

I could barely get the words out and my heart was breaking as I said, ‘No, Daniel, God wanted him and we have to let him go.'

I travelled in the hearse with the coffin, my hand resting on the head of it until we reached the chapel. When they lifted the coffin out of the hearse down at the church and placed it on a trolley, I helped to push it up the aisle and sat beside it during the funeral Mass. Afterwards I followed the coffin to the lonely graveyard and kissed the head of the box before it was lowered into the cold, dark earth. Every sickening thud of the clay hitting the wood felt like a nail being driven through my heart. It was a horrible sound and such a cold, cold feeling. I left the graveyard that day with a black cloud hanging over me, and I doubted that I would ever see a sunny day again.