The Good People (11 page)

They followed the road in silence then, through moor ground and small swathes of trees, already bare in the steady approach of winter; past the dark, lacquered shine of holly. The grass by the roadside was browned and long and beyond, in the distance, the mountains patched with heather and rock stood silent against the sky. Spirals of smoke from turf fires accompanied them as they walked.

It was late afternoon by the time the two women reached Nóra’s cabin, and the sun had started to falter. They stood for a moment in the yard, panting after the trudge up the slope, and Nóra watched the girl assess her surroundings. Her eyes passed over the two-roomed thatched dwelling, the small byre beside it and the scattered hens. Nóra wondered whether Mary had expected something more, perhaps a larger home thatched with wheat straw rather than reeds. Perhaps the stumping mass of a pig in the yard or signs of a donkey rather than a quiet home with one tiny window stuffed with straw, the whitewashed walls greening with moss and a stony scoreground of potato.

‘I have a cow. She keeps us in milk and dirt.’ Nóra led Mary to the byre and they stepped into its warm darkness and its smell of flank and piss, the dark outline of the cow on the straw at their feet.

‘You’re to water, feed and milk her in the mornings and churn the butter. Once a week, you’ll churn. I’ll do the evening’s milking.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Brownie, we . . . I call her.’

Nóra watched as Mary brought her chapped hands down to the cow’s head and stroked her ears. Brownie slowly shifted her weight, her bony haunches rolling.

‘Does she give much milk?’

‘Enough,’ replied Nóra. ‘God keep her well.’

They stepped back into the soft light and walked the wet path to the house, the chickens running towards them over the yard. ‘Decent hens,’ Nóra said. ‘Here, give them the chickweed. Sure, they’re mad for it. They’re not laying as much now, but I have my faithful few and they give their eggs right through the winter.’ She shot Mary a stern look. ‘You’re not to take any. No eggs or butter. You’d be eating the rent. Do you eat much?’

‘No more than I can help.’

‘Hmm. Follow me now.’

Nóra pushed open the half-door and greeted Peg O’Shea, who was sitting by the fire with Micheál in her lap.

‘Peg, this here is Mary.’

‘God save you and welcome.’ Peg gave Mary an appraising look. ‘You’ll be a Clancy girl, with the red hair of you.’

‘Clifford. I’m Mary Clifford,’ the girl said, eyes flicking to Micheál. Her mouth slipped open.

‘Clifford, is it? Well, God bless you, Cliffords and Clancys alike. Is it far you’ve come?’

‘She set out to the rabble fair in the dark of this morning,’ Nóra said. ‘Annamore. Twelve mile or more.’

‘And the walk all this way too? Musha, you’ll be dead on your feet.’

‘She has two strong legs.’

‘And two strong arms from the look of things. Take him, will you? This is Micheál. I expect Nóra’s told you about him.’ Peg gathered the boy up and motioned for Mary to come closer.

Mary stared. Micheál’s nose was crusted and spittle had dried in the corner of his mouth. As Peg held him out to her, he began to groan like a man beaten.

She took a step back. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

There was silence, broken only by Micheál’s guttural moaning.

Peg sighed and placed the boy back down on her lap. Casting a knowing look at Nóra, she scraped the dried saliva from the boy’s face with a fingernail.

‘What do you mean, “What’s wrong with him?”’ Nóra’s voice was dangerous.

‘What ails him? That noise he’s making. Why is he carping like that? Can he not talk?’

‘He’s delicate, is all,’ Peg said softly.

‘Delicate,’ Mary repeated. She edged backwards until her hands were resting on the doorframe. ‘Is it catching?’

Nóra made an animal noise in the back of her throat. ‘You’re a bold girl to ask a question like that.’

‘Nóra –’

‘“Is it catching?” Do you hear her, Peg? The cheek of it.’

‘No, I don’t mean. Only, he does not seem . . .’

‘Seem what?’

‘Nóra. She has a right to ask.’ Peg spat on a corner of her apron and scrubbed at Micheál’s face.

‘Only . . .’ Mary pointed at his legs, exposed where the dress bunched up about his midriff. ‘Can he even walk?’ Her lip trembled.

‘She’s just a girl, Nóra,’ Peg said quietly. ‘Come here and see for yourself, Mary Clifford. He’s not got a catching sickness. He won’t harm you. He’s just a child. Just a harmless child.’

Mary nodded, swallowing hard.

‘Go on. Take a peep at him. He’s a dear thing, really.’

Mary peered over Peg’s shoulder at the boy. His eyes were half shut, gazing down the length of a snub nose, and his mouth was slack. Gurgled breathing came from his throat.

‘Is he in pain?’ Mary asked.

‘He’s not, no. He can laugh, and he can sit up a ways by himself, and he can move his arms sometimes to play with things.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Well, now,’ said Peg. ‘He’d be four years now, isn’t that so, Nóra?’

‘He likes feathers,’ Nóra breathed. She sat down unsteadily on the creepie stool opposite Peg. ‘He likes feathers.’

‘Sure, four it is. And he likes feathers. And acorns. And knuckle bones.’ Peg’s voice held a forced liveliness. ‘’Tis just the legs of him.’

‘He can’t walk,’ Nóra croaked. ‘He used to be able to, but now he can’t.’

Mary eyed the boy with apprehension, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Micheál? My name is Mary.’ She glanced over to Nóra. ‘Is he shy?’

‘He can’t talk to tell us.’ Nóra was silent for a moment. ‘I should have told you.’

Mary shook her head. Her hair had curled in the damp air of the walk back to the cabin and she looked young and frightened. Nóra felt sudden self-loathing. She is just a girl, she thought. She is just a child herself, and here I am shouting at her. A stranger.

‘Well, now. You’ve come all this way and I’ve not even given you a drink. You must be thirsty.’ Nóra stood and replenished the pot of water on the hearth from the well pail.

Peg gave Mary a little squeeze on the shoulder. ‘Let’s set him down there. On the heather. He won’t go far.’

‘I can take him.’ Mary sat down next to Peg and lifted the boy onto her lap. ‘He’s all bones! He’s light as a bird.’

The women watched her as she pulled the cloth of Micheál’s dress down around his legs, then took off her own shawl and used it to swaddle his feet. ‘There now. Now you’re easy,’ she murmured.

‘Well. ’Tis a pleasure to have you amongst us, Mary Clifford. I wish you well and God bless. I’d best be on my way.’ She gave Nóra a meaningful glance and shuffled out the door, leaving them alone.

Mary tucked Micheál’s head against her collarbone, her arms awkwardly clasped around his body. ‘He has a tremor in him,’ she remarked.

Nóra poured out two piggins of buttermilk and began to prepare potatoes for their dinner. There was a tightening in her throat, as though a rope had been pulled against her neck, and she did not trust herself to speak. Several minutes passed before she heard Mary’s quavering voice behind her.

‘I’ll do my best for you.’

‘I’m sure you will.’ Nóra choked on the words. ‘I’m sure you will.’

Later that evening, once Mary and Nóra had finished their quiet meal and called the hens in for the night, they turned out the settle bed, placing a rough mattress of woven straw and a blanket down.

‘You’ll be warm here, by the fire,’ Nóra said.

‘Thank you, missus.’

‘And you’ll have Micheál to keep the heat in the bed.’

‘Does he not use that cradle?’ Mary pointed to the rough cot of woven sally twigs.

‘He’s grown too big for it. It cramps him. Now, mind you tuck him in well or he’ll kick his bedclothes off in the night.’

Mary looked at Micheál, who was propped up against the wall, his head rolling on one shoulder.

‘Tomorrow I’ll show you a little of the valley, if ’tis fine. You’ll need to know where the well is. And I’ll show you the best place to wash clothes in the river. It might do you good to meet a few of the other girls about here.’

‘Will Micheál come with us?’

Nóra gave her a sharp look.

‘I mean, do you leave him here, or do you take him about with you? A boy like him, who hasn’t the use of his legs . . .’

‘I don’t like to be taking him outside.’

‘You leave him alone?’

‘I won’t have folk splashing water on drowned mice.’ Nóra picked up the pail of dirty water they had washed their feet in. Easing the door open, she cried a warning to the fairies and threw it into the yard.

CHAPTER

FOUR

Ash

‘A
re you of the living or the dead?’

Peter O’Connor opened the door to Nance’s cabin and ducked his head under the low frame, a bottle of
poitín
in his hand. ‘Dead from dry-thirst.’

Nance beckoned him in. ‘Sit down, will you. Grand to see you, Peter.’

‘’Twas a fine wake they gave Martin, and a fine
caoineadh
from you, Nance.’ Peter lowered himself down by the fire and fussed with his pipe, taking Nance’s crude pair of tongs and lifting an ember to light it. ‘Lord have mercy on the souls of the dead,’ he whispered. He sucked on the pipe until the tobacco flared and a coil of smoke rose.

‘What brings you today, Peter? Is it the shoulder of you?’

Peter shook his head. ‘The arm is alright.’

‘Is it the eyes?’ When the man didn’t respond, Nance settled herself more comfortably on her stool and waited patiently.

‘I keep having these dreams,’ Peter said finally.

‘Ah, dreams, is it?’

He clenched his jaw. ‘I don’t know what’s bringing them on, Nance. Powerful dreams, they are.’

‘And are they troubling you?’

Peter took a long draw on his pipe. ‘Ever since I found Martin lying dead by the crossroads.’

‘Full of trouble, are they?’

‘Full of badness.’ Peter looked up from the fire and Nance saw that his face was dark. ‘I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is coming, Nance. I dream of dead animals. Their throats slit and them bleeding into the ground.’ He cast a look at Nance’s goat. ‘Or I dream that I’m drowning. Or a hanged man. I wake choking.’

Nance waited for Peter to continue speaking, and when the man remained silent, his knees drawn up to his chest, Nance gestured to the bottle he had brought. ‘Will we have a drink?’ She pulled the cork out and passed the bottle to him.

He took a deep gulp, winced and wiped his mouth.

‘Powerful
poitín
,’ Nance muttered, taking a swig of her own. She sat back down by the fire. She was prepared to wait. Sometimes a listening ear was all that was needed. Just silence and time in a cabin where there was no chatter, or stories, or neighbours. Where there was nothing but a fire and a woman. A woman they didn’t desire. A woman whose tongue didn’t slip secrets to other wives. Just an old woman with an ear and a taste for the smoke and the drink. That was worth slipping out of their cabins for, worth the walk between the lazy beds and the mossed walls to visit her in the fading hours. Nance knew the power of silence.

The fire burnt. Peter smoked the bowl of tobacco down to ash and rapped it out against his knees. They passed the bottle of drink between them, until the damp night air seeped under the door, making Peter restless.

‘Did I tell you about the four magpies I saw before our Martin passed, mercy on his soul?’

Nance leant forward. ‘You did not, Peter.’

‘Four of them. There’s death coming, isn’t there? I saw lights by your Piper’s Grave. By the ringfort. And that night I had the first of these dreams.’

‘I saw lightning strike the heather on the mountain,’ Nance muttered.

‘The night Martin died?’

‘The very same. There’s a strange wind blowing.’