Under the Hawthorn Tree (12 page)

Peggy was nearly bursting with excitement. ‘Is that one of Mammy’s aunties?’ she whispered.

Eily wasn’t sure, and cautiously approached the woman, who was busy washing down the front door step and the path outside the shop. The woman turned and caught sight of them.

‘Get away out of it, ye spalpeens. There’s nothing for ye here. Go on, now, or I’ll call the soldiers.’

‘We’re Eily and Michael and Peggy O’Driscoll,’ began Eily, ‘Margaret Murphy from Drumneagh’s children.’

The woman stared at them. ‘Divil a bit do I care who you are. I don’t know ye, anyways. Move on, now, it should be the workhouse or the roads for the likes of ye.’ Eily’s heart sank.

Peggy stood staring straight ahead. Huge tears filled her eyes. ‘You’re not our auntie.’

The woman shook her head, and turned around and began to wash with the mop, ignoring them. Eily went back up to her again.

‘Mam, did ye ever hear of the Murphys of Drumneagh – Nano and Lena were our grandmother’s sisters. They would be quite old now. They had a shop, a baking shop. Did you ever hear tell of them?’

The woman set aside her broom, then walked to the corner of the street and pointed to the far end of the main street.

‘There’s a lane over there that runs off the market square. It’s called Market Lane. There used to be a shop there run by two old ladies. Try there.’

Then she turned on her heel and walked back, not wanting to entertain one more word of conversation with them. She picked up the bucket and mop and closed the door firmly behind her.

The children stood still. The town was beginning to fill up. They crossed the street and found Market Lane. They walked up and down it twice. There was no sign of the aunts’ shop. There were stables and a closed-up general store – and then beside it they noticed a house with a small bay window. The paint was peeling and the doorway was dirty. It could have been a shop!

Eily went to knock at the door and was surprised when it opened. They edged their way into a gloomy room, divided by a wooden counter. On a shelf behind, dusty rows of jams and preserves stood to attention. This couldn’t be the place, thought Eily. Not the clean busy shop, packed with customers on market day. A wave of disappointment rushed over her.

Peggy’s eyes were popping out of her head as she looked around. ‘There’s no cakes or pies here. Where are they?’

Eily tried to shush her. An old woman appeared from behind a heavy drape at the far side of the counter. She was stooped and moved slowly. Her white hair was tied up in a neat bun. She blessed herself when she saw the children.

‘Ye poor starved craters, I’ve nothing for you here. Go up the town and you might have a better chance of a bit of help,’ she said kindly. ‘Where are
your mother and father to be letting you roam around all alone?’

‘Auntie Lena,’ said Eily, her voice trembling.

The old woman stopped. She stared at the children. Walking skeletons, not a pick on any of them. The boy was filthy and the little one looked as if a puff of wind would nearly knock her over. And the older girl, she looked worn-out. The old lady shook her head. Imagine having to live through these desperate times.

‘Auntie Lena,’ repeated Eily, ‘you’re our grandaunt. We’re Margaret and John O’Driscoll’s children. I’m Eily and this is Michael and this is our little sister Peggy.’

The old lady stood staring at them open-mouthed. She pulled up a chair and sat down. She gazed at them. The older girl was like Margaret, her mother. But they looked like beggars, or children from the workhouse.

‘I am Lena Murphy,’ she answered.

‘Where’s the other one?’ piped up Peggy.

‘Oh, do you mean my sister Nano? She’s up in bed. She’s not very strong and has to rest a lot.’

Peggy edged her way forward and handed the drooping dirty bunch of flowers to her grandaunt. Lena could not help smiling.

‘I’ve never had a cake with icing on the top and
sugar violets,’ confided Peggy.

The old lady looked at them. It was just unbelievable that these urchins were related to her. They looked famished and exhausted. They must have walked a very long way.

She brought them through to the kitchen and sat them down. She set the kettle to boil and got out fresh soda bread and a jar of her best plum jam. There would be time enough for the story of what had happened, and where Margaret and John were, but the first thing was to get a bit inside them before they passed out. From upstairs came a knocking on the floor.

That sister of mine, Nano, is always looking for something, thought Lena to herself. Well, Nano Murphy, you are in for a shock when you find out just who is sitting in our back kitchen, and the story they have to tell!

Eily looked around her. The place was old and could do with a lick of paint, but it was clean and neat. One shelf held a row of fine delph, another, various sizes of jars and baking dishes. They were with family – that was the most important thing. She hoped above all hopes that they could stay. An angry stomping could be heard upstairs, followed by a thumping noise coming down the wooden stairs. A large round-faced woman, her grey curls hanging
loose to her shoulders, stood at the bottom in a blue flannel nightgown and a grey shawl. Total disbelief came over her face when she saw the children.

‘Have you lost your senses, Lena? Letting a crowd of beggars into our kitchen, and Lord knows we’ve little enough – next thing we’ll be getting the fever. Go away out of it you young pups and don’t be taking advantage of an old woman’s soft heart.’ Nano had said her piece.

‘Will you whisht, Nano, and calm down. These are Margaret’s children, Mary Ellen’s grandchildren, our own flesh and blood,’ said Lena sharply.

Nano came closer and peered at them. Despite their haggard appearance and under the layer of dirt – yes, there were some resemblances. She sat down with a plop on an old stuffed chair, pulling her shawl around her.

‘Where have you come from? Where’s Margaret?’ She began to bombard them with questions.

Lena came over and scolded her. ‘Let them have a sup of tay first – can’t you see, woman, that the children are all done in?’

The children sipped the hot sweet milky tea and stuffed the soda bread and jam into their mouths, finishing off the loaf. The two aunts sat and watched them, neither of them saying a word, each
engrossed in her own thoughts.

When all was finished, Lena threw two extra sods on the fire. Peggy ran over and climbed on her lap, then Eily and Michael began the story – from Father going to work on the roads scheme, to baby Bridget dying and Mother going off to search for him, then their having to leave the cottage, and the kindness of Mary Kate. The beauty of the countryside and the constant search for food. The horrors along the way. Peggy’s desperate illness, and the aching exhaustion of walking so far, and how they had finally come to find Market Lane. When Eily looked up, the two aunts were busily blowing their noses and drying their eyes.

‘Well, dotes, none of you will take one step further as long as myself and Nano are here. We haven’t much now, as you can see, but there is room enough for our own, and maybe the good Lord in time will direct Margaret or John here to find you.’

Lena had stood up and was holding her arms open to them. Eily relaxed at last, knowing they would be safe in their new home with Nano and Lena. But, at the same moment, she knew their hearts would always belong to the little thatched cottage with the flat stones outside, and the small overgrown garden, and the fields around it with
the breeze blowing softly through the hawthorn tree.

A Simple History of The Great Famine 1845–1850

IN IRELAND LONG AGO
most of the people were poor, very poor. They lived and worked on land that was not their own.

Their homes were small cottages and cabins which were overcrowded and dirty. They had small plots of land beside their houses to grow their own food. The potato was grown everywhere, as it yielded the most. Their food was largely potatoes and milk, but this was enough to keep them going.

Then, in the summer of 1845 after a long wet spell, when the people went to dig their potatoes, they could not believe it – the potatoes had got a disease and were rotting in the ground. No matter what they did, the potatoes turned to sludge and slime. This disease spread all over the country to every part of Ireland.

The people prayed to God to save them. Famine had come. They were desperate. They searched for food and sold everything they had. Most went hungry.

There were plenty of other crops, but most of them were sold and exported to other countries. The poor had no money to buy food. The government had to import boat-loads of Indian corn meal (yellow meal) to feed them. But this was not enough.

Within a year large public works schemes had been set up. People worked at building roads, clearing land and
so on. The work was hard for those that were already undernourished and weak, but it was a way of earning some money.

Workhouses were crowded with those who had nowhere to go and nothing to eat. Life there was rigid and strict.

Some of the landlords did all they could to help their tenants, while others just ignored the situation. Worst of all were the landlords who evicted the tenants who could not pay rent and pulled down their simple cabins.

By the end of the summer of 1846 it was clear that the potato crop had failed again. The people had nothing. They roamed the country. The work schemes were totally crowded and people rioted outside the workhouses, trying to get in.

With the starvation now came disease – famine fever, typhus, dysentery. These spread among the already weakened people.

Ireland had become a land of living ghosts. Parishes could not keep up with the amount of deaths and had to open mass graves. Soup kitchens were set up, but still death and disease spread throughout the country.

The cycle kept on. During 1847 and the following years, approximately one million men, women and children set sail for Liverpool and North America. Many died on the long rough sea-voyages and those that survived had to work very hard to make a new life in a strange land.

For those at home the winter of 1847-1848 was one of the worst ever. This was followed by the potato blight in the autumn of 1848 and again in 1849. People died on the
roads, in the streets, in the cottages and fields. All in all, about one million died. In a small country like Ireland it was a huge proportion of the population.

Those that emigrated to America and Canada brought with them their strength and their courage and hope. Those that were left behind struggled to survive and worked to build a country where such a disaster could never happen again.

About the Author

MARITA CONLON-McKENNA is one of Ireland’s most popular children’s authors. She has written many bestselling children’s books.
Under the Hawthorn Tree
, her first novel, became an immediate bestseller and has been described as ‘the biggest success story in children’s historical fiction.’ It has been reprinted numerous times since its first publication in 1990, and has reached a worldwide audience through translations and foreign editions. Its sequels,
Wildflower Girl
and
Fields of Home
, which complete the CHILDREN OF THE FAMINE trilogy, have also been hugely successful. Marita’s other children’s novels (see inside back cover) have also received wide critical acclaim.

DONALD TESKEY drew the chapter-head illustrations. His paintings have been exhibited to great acclaim in Europe and North America.

Other Books by
MARITA CONLON-McKENNA

Granny MacGinty (for younger readers)

Wildflower Girl

Fields of Home

The Blue Horse

No Goodbye

Safe Harbour

In Deep Dark Wood

A Girl Called Blue

Copyright

This eBook edition first published 2013 by The O’Brien Press Ltd,
12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland.
Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: [email protected]; Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 1990. Reprinted 1990 (twice), 1991 (twice), 1992 (twice), 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000 (twice), 2001 (twice), 2002, 2003, 2004 (twice), 2005, 2006, 2007 (twice), 2008 (twice), 2009, 2010 (twice), 2012.

eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–600–4

Copyright for text © Marita Conlon-McKenna
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, editing and illustrations
© The O’Brien Press Ltd

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