In the Time of Famine, Page 3

  Since she’d been a child, Emily’s remedy for unhappiness had been to take to the fields with her horse. Racing across a meadow with the wind in her hair and feeling the strength of the horse beneath her, and the delicious, terrifying fear that she might fall off, never failed to make her forget what it was that had made her unhappy.

  She walked into the barn and the familiar, pungent smell—a not unpleasant blend of horse manure and hay—brought back a flood of agreeable memories that she’d long since forgotten.

  A young man was stacking bags in the corner of the barn. She recognized him as the same one she’d seen staring at her in town. In spite of his ill-fitting, threadbare clothing, he was handsome in a rustic sort of way. But she had no interest in men, especially after what happened in London. And she certainly had no interest in a common bog trotter.

  “You,” she said imperiously. “Saddle my horse.”

  Michael looked up and smiled. “Yes, mum. Which one?”

  “Shannon.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I didn’t ask your opinion. Just do as you’re told.”

  As he saddled the horse he kept glancing at her as she paced back and forth, pretending she didn’t know he was staring at her.

  He led the horse out of the stall. “All ready, mum.”

  Michael helped her mount the horse. “You’re makin’ a terrible mistake,” he said. “He’s very cranky these days.”

  Emily stared down at him in astonishment. “You are impertinent.”

  “And you are spoiled.”

  “What’s your name?” she sputtered. “I’ll have you discharged immediately.”

  “Michael. But you can’t get me sacked. I don’t work for the Manor.”

  “Then why—? How—?”

  Michael slapped the horse’s rump and it bolted out of the barn. “Have a good ride.”

  He watched her gallop away and, again, felt an odd stirring within.

  Chapter Four

  At sunset, as if to mock the farmers already anxious about the queer weather, the sun appeared just moments before it disappeared behind the western mountains. Da, Michael, and Dermot watched it go down in silence as they trudged up the road toward their cottage. They moved slowly, their bodies weary from a backbreaking fourteen-hour day in Lord Somerville’s fields. Da and Michael veered off toward a small potato patch in front of the cottage, while Dermot continued toward the house.

  “And where do you think yer goin’?” Da called after him.

  “To me dinner. I’ve done me work.”

  “You’ve done the landlord’s work,” Michael said. “Now it’s time to do ours.”

  The arrangement between landlord and tenant was quite simple and quite harsh. In exchange for the right to build a tiny cottage and plant potatoes for his own consumption on a patch of land supplied by the landlord, a tenant farmer agreed to grow money crops for the landlord. And it was understood that the landlord’s crop came first. It was a barter system in its simplest form, and it was a system that weighed heavily in favor of the landlord. Everything on the land belonged to him, including the cottage and any improvements made by the tenant. Tenants, who had virtually no rights, could be thrown off the land with little cause. With no place to go, and no land to grow the all-important potato, “ejectment”—as that dreaded fate was called—was a certain death warrant.

  Dermot glared at the field of tall green stalks. “I’m sick to death of spuds.”

  Da’s face flushed in anger. “You won’t be sayin’ that when they fill yer belly this winter.”

  Father and son glared at each other. To break the tension, Michael grabbed Dermot in a headlock and playfully pulled him toward the field.

  “Look at these fine, healthy plants, Dermot. Sure they’re almost ready for harvestin’. Then you can sit on yer arse and do nothin’ until—” He looked up at the drumbeat of horse hoofs and saw Emily, astride Shannon, galloping across a field toward them.

  To Michael’s practiced eye it was clear that the horse was out of control. Then he saw why. Shannon had the bit in his mouth and Emily couldn’t control him. The horse was headed straight for the stone wall surrounding the potato field and for one terrifying moment Michael thought Shannon would break both his and Emily’s necks by crashing into the wall. But at the last instant, he leapt over it.

  Stalks and chunks of potatoes flew as the horse’s hooves churned the soil. Michael positioned himself in the path of the horse. As it passed, he snatched the reins. Shannon reared and, eyes wide with fright, struck at him with lethal hooves.

  “All right now…” Michael said soothingly. “It’s all right, Shannon…” The prancing horse snorted, his eyes white circles as he strained against the reins. But Michael’s soothing manner soon calmed him. He rubbed his hand across the horse’s trembling muzzle. When he was sure that the animal was under control, he turned to survey the destroyed plants.

  “It’s potatoes growin’ here,” he snapped at Emily. “Not weeds to be trampled underfoot.”

  Emily yanked at the reins, not sure of what surprised her most—his impertinence or his angry tone. “Let go of my horse, you clod.”

  When Michael didn’t let go, Emily swiped at him with her riding crop, but he snatched it from her hand. He was about to fling it into the field when Da stopped him with an angry shout.

  “Michael!”

  Standing rigid with shock and anger, Da glared at his son in outraged disbelief. To think that a son of his would speak to the master’s daughter in that manner was inconceivable.

  Michael glared back defiantly. For a moment he considered flinging the riding crop into the field anyway, but instead, he turned to Emily and with a forced smile offered her the crop. She snatched it, nodded to Da, and rode off.

  “You mind yer place, Michael Ranahan,” Da rasped in a voice constricted with rage.

  “Is it my place to stand by while my betters destroy my property?”

  “Yer property? Dermot said scornfully. “You own nothin’. Sure it’s all hers—and her Da’s.”

  Michael was about to lash out at Dermot, but he suddenly realized his brother was right. “It’s not ours,” he said more to himself than to his brother. “None of this will ever be ours.”

  He glanced over Da’s shoulder at the pitiable cottage they lived in—more a pile of mud and thatch than a real house—and the miserable patch of ground where they grew their potatoes. Now, more than ever, he was certain that he’d made the right decision to go to America.

  “Ah, what does it matter who owns what?” Da said. Such talk of ownership, he knew, was pointless. And dangerous. Hadn’t he seen what happened to tenants who forgot their place? Hadn’t he seen cottages “tumbled” and families evicted for challenging the authority of the landlord?

  “As long as we have a roof to put over our heads and a field to plant our spuds,” he said in a voice trembling with emotion, “what does it matter who owns what?” He pointed to the crushed stalks. “Get this cleaned up, the pair of yez,” he mumbled. “I’m off to see Lord Somerville.”

  Da dreaded going into the Manor House because every room was filled with costly vases that might shatter from a good sneeze, dainty tables that could break if you looked at them crooked, and all manner of dishes and little porcelain statues that vibrated ominously when he stomped by in his big brogues. He lived in fear that he would break something and spend the rest of his life paying for it. He’d tried walking on tiptoe once, but he’d lost his balance and had almost fallen against a china cabinet full of fancy blue dishes. Still, in spite of his trepidation, he was here because he had something very important to ask Lord Somerville.

  Nora, the housekeeper, led him down a dark oak-paneled corridor and stopped in front of an imposing set of double doors. “Wait here.” She knocked softly and opened the door. “Sir, it’s John Ranahan to see you.” She stood aside and motioned for Da to go in.

  Da swept his cap off and came in with his arms ti
ghtly by his side. The room was many times the size of his own cottage. And every wall, he noted with awe, was covered with books stacked on shelves all the way up to the ceiling. He, himself, couldn’t read, but still, he wondered how it was possible for any man to read so many books in just one lifetime. He glanced down and to his horror saw that he’d tracked mud onto the carpet. He quickly stepped back onto the stone floor and promptly bumped against an umbrella rack. The umbrellas and walking sticks, clunking against each other, made a god-awful racket, but mercifully the rack didn’t fall over.

  Da glanced fearfully at Lord Somerville, who was sitting at a large desk writing. Thank God he hadn’t noticed. Da exhaled softly and concentrated on remaining perfectly still. As landlords went, Lord Somerville was better than most. He’d always been fair with him and treated him with respect. Still—he glanced around fearfully—he didn’t want to think what would happen if he broke something.

  “Yes, Ranahan, what is it?” Somerville asked without looking up.

  “Yer Lordship…” Da began hesitantly. “If I could take a minute of yer valuable time… it’s about the land….”

  “There’s no problem, Ranahan. You and your boys are doing a fine job.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It’s just that—”

  “Speak up, man.”

  “I wish to rent more land, yer lordship,” he blurted out.

  That got Somerville’s attention. He put his pen down and sat back in his high-backed chair. “How many acres?”

  “Two.”

  Somerville studied Da in silence. Then he said, “Why do you want more land?”

  “It’s for the sons, ya see. They’re grown men now. Soon they’ll marry and they’ll need a bit of land to put up a cottage and plant the potatoes.”

  Somerville got up and stood by the fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. He stared into the flames for a long time before he spoke. “You’re one of my best tenants, Ranahan, so I’m going to give you some advice. If I let you rent the acres, keep them for yourself. This cursed country is going to ruin, dividing and dividing the land until there’s not enough to support a crow. God knows I’m as guilty of that as any man.”

  And Somerville knew the reason for this ill-advised practice. Money. Dividing the land into smaller and smaller parcels meant more rental money, but when the parcels got too small they couldn’t yield enough to support the tenant, and soon landlord and tenant were ruined.

  Da couldn’t have understood any of that. But even if he did, he still would have wanted the land. What choice did he have?

  “Will you rent me the land, sir?”

  Somerville was still staring into the fire. In the glow of the firelight Da saw a deep sadness in Somerville’s eyes. He’d seen that look often, ever since the wife died, but now the sadness seemed even deeper. He wondered if it had anything to do with the daughter. There had been rumors, but Da was not one to listen to them. All he knew was that she was young and, if she was anything like Dermot, she had to be a handful.

  Somerville sat back down at his desk and picked up his pen. “See me after the harvest, Ranahan.”

  “Yes, sir. I will. God bless you, sir.”

  Da backed toward the door, careful not to knock anything over. He didn’t relax until he was well clear of the house. Then he spit into his calloused hands and rubbed them together. Lord Somerville didn’t say no and Da took that as a good sign. His heart pounded with joy, certain he’d just secured his sons’ futures.

  A tenant farmer’s home was called a “cottage”—a word that conjures up images of quaint thatched roofs and roses spiraling up whitewashed walls. But a 19th century Irish tenant’s cottage was anything but charming. Most cottages were windowless, one-room dwellings of mud walls covered by a roof of sod or thatch, which the family shared with pigs and chickens.

  The Ranahan cottage was slightly better than that. For one thing it was cleaner. The day they were married, Mary Ranahan announced to her new husband, “John Ranahan, there will be no animals in this house.” She made him build a shelter alongside to house the animals. He grumbled about the great waste of money and space but he built it all the same.

  The cottage was brighter because she’d also made him knock a hole in the wall to create a window—even though anyone with any sense knew that a window was useless. Wasn’t it just one more opening for the wind to blow through?

  And the Ranahan cottage was larger. After the birth of Michael, she made her husband break out one wall and expand the cottage. Even with all that, it was still a very small home for so many Ranahans.

  There were, all together, six of them living under the one roof: Da, Mam, Michael, Dermot, and Da’s mother and father. There would have been more, but one son, born a year after Michael, died in childbirth. Another boy of the fever when he was five. And a sickly little girl who died before her third birthday. They never knew what killed her.

  The whitewashed walls helped brighten the interior of the cottage, but it was still gloomy. At night, the only light came from a meager turf fire and a flickering candle. The ceiling, barely six feet high, gave the cottage a cave-like quality. From years of turf fires, smoke had been absorbed into the thatch, and now the smell permanently permeated the stuffy air. The dirt floor was covered with straw which Mam replenished daily. There was little in the way of furniture—three pallets for beds, a long table flanked by two wooden benches, a chest, and a couple of stools by the fire. And there was little in the way of decorations—a crucifix over the fireplace, and on the walls a few faded pictures cut from a discarded book. In the fireplace, an all-purpose iron cooking pot, used for everything from boiling the potatoes to heating water for the impending birth of a baby, rested on the glowing turf.

  One-half of the one-room cottage served as sleeping quarters and was separated from the other half by a tattered cloth hung on a piece of rope strung across the room. Even so, there was no hope of privacy. Three straw-covered pallets, just inches apart from each other, filled the small space. Da and Mam shared one, Granda and Grandmam another, and Michael and Dermot the third.

  As lacking as these accommodations were, other families had it worse. Sometimes twelve to sixteen adults and children shared a space the same size or smaller with pigs, chickens, dogs, and any other farm animal that made it into the house before the front door was shut for the night.

  As Mam tended to the pot of boiling potatoes, Michael sat at his place at the table, nervously tapping the rough-hewn top with his fingers. He shot furtive glances at his family, trying to assess their mood. Dermot was sitting opposite him, still sulking about not going to town this afternoon. Nothing new there.

  Granda sat opposite him, staring off into the middle distance, lost in his own thoughts. Michael loved his Da, but he’d always been more at ease with his granda. As a child he loved sitting by the fire on cold winter nights, listening to the old man tell terrifying tales of fairies and banshees. But now, age was taking its toll and lately he was having what Mam called “his moods.” When he was in his moods, he didn’t recognize anyone. Not even his own wife. He’d forget where he lived and sometimes he couldn’t even remember what a spade was used for. These moods, which came without warning and were becoming more and more frequent, frightened Grandmam. When he was like that, she’d scuttle over to the fire and sit with her black shawl thrown over her head, mumbling about evil spirits and banshees. But as quickly as they came, the moods would vanish, and he would become furious when told what he’d said and done.

  Grandmam was at her usual place by the fire. A quiet woman, she had little to say and spent most of her time sitting by the fire, staring into the flames, her lips moving in silent prayer.

  Mam, rail-thin, lifted the heavy iron pot from the fire and set it on the table. She was only forty-five, but she’d already lost most of her teeth. Her hair, which had once been a strawberry blonde, had turned a mottled gray. The only dress she owned was threadbare and tattered, but Michael had never heard a word of comp
laint from her lips.

  Da came in and shook the water off his hat. “Tis rainin’ again. I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”

  “Then they’ll be no bundlin’ the wheat tomorrow,” Dermot said hopefully.

  “There will,” Da said, bringing a scowl back to Dermot’s face.

  “Is everythin’ all right?” Mam asked, looking at her husband intently.

  Da nodded. “Aye.”

  Michael saw his Mam and Da share a knowing look and wondered what that was about.

  Supper was a simple affair. There were no plates, knives or forks. Each person took a potato out of the pot, peeled it, and dipped it into a bowl of salted water. A jug of buttermilk was passed around to wash it down. On the rare occasion when a bit of turnip or cabbage was on hand, Mam boiled it with the potatoes. And that was their typical meal—three times a day.

  As they ate in silence, Michael began to have second thoughts now that the time had come. Maybe I’ll tell them after Sunday mass, he told himself. Then, he quickly changed his mind. No, that won’t do. I’ll not get a decent night’s sleep till then and that’s a fact.

  Michael cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make—”

  “And I—” Da said at the same time.

  There was a confused silence as the two stared at each other. Finally Mam said, “Let yer Da speak first. I think he has great news.”

  With the back of his hand Da swept the potato skins in front of him onto the floor. “I spoke to Lord Somerville,” he said, rubbing his hands together excitedly. “He’ll rent me two more acres. Now, Michael and Dermot, when the time comes for you to get married, you’ll have a bit of land for yerselves.”

  Grandmam clapped her hands. “Saints preserve us. Isn’t that grand?”

  “Jasus, we’re almost landed gentry,” Granda muttered.

  Michael stared at the tabletop too stunned to speak. He hadn’t been expecting this.

  “What were you gonna say, Michael?” Grandmam asked. “I don’t know if me poor old heart can take any more great news.”