Signed a paddy, p.2
Signed, a Paddy, page 2
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After Paul left, Father McSweeny put me to work keeping watch over the soup. He sat in a small room next to the kitchen, behind a writing desk stacked with papers.
He frowned at what he was reading: The Freeman’s Journal. He put the paper down and rubbed his temples, then ran his fingers up his head and through his thinning hair. He dropped his hand and folded his arms across his chest. Clearly he was upset with something.
My gaze wandered the rest of the room. Books. A map of Ireland. Framed paintings of the Mother Mary, angels, Jesus on the cross. There was a wooden cabinet in the corner, waist-high. An unlit, dusty oil lamp sat on top. On the floor was a brown rug, trimmed with red and green.
I stirred the soup, and the smell made my stomach groan. It wouldn’t be ready for hours, so I sat on the ground against the wall opposite the fire. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was Father McSweeny tapping my shoulder.
“The people will be coming soon for their soup,” he said. “But first, have a bowl for yourself.”
Greedily, I accepted his offer. I tried not to take too much of the good stuff, but the warmth went through my body, to my fingers and toes. Yet my hunger felt untouched. A woman, not much older than Ma had been, had taken over soup duties.
“Sister Nora,” Father McSweeny introduced her. She gave me a quick smile.
She was helping Father McSweeny gather the bowls and spoons. She hung a teakettle next to the soup.
“Come with me,” Father McSweeny said.
We took the bowls and spoons into the chapel, where the people would normally go for Communion. He left for a moment, and then he and Sister Nora came back in carrying the large pot of soup. He placed it right on the ground, where there was already a burnt circle from all the times they had placed it there before.
“This is the best we can do,” Father McSweeny said. “The people must be served.” I nodded, looking over their odd setup.
“Please, come with me outside,” he said. “People will be waiting by now. I need help letting them in.” I did as he asked and followed him outside.
He was right. There were already many people lined up. A woman and her crying baby. A man staring at the ground. Four children, gathered in a circle, whispering. They all looked up at me with empty eyes. There was no curiosity there. No excitement. Just more barely living creatures. Person after person standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting for their soup.
“Ciara, dear, how’s he doing?” Father McSweeny asked the young mother, who had tears in her eyes.
“Can’t seem to produce any milk,” she said. “Maybe he’ll drink some soup. I need him to eat something, Father.”
He patted the baby’s head. “I know,” he said. “The soup is ready.”
He looked away, and I saw again that look of incredible fatigue on his face. He was carrying the weight of this town, and there was nothing more he could do for the woman, the baby, any of them.
“They ask so much of me,” he said, quietly.
He continued down the line, welcoming people and assuring them that their portion of soup was waiting for them. When he came back, he said, “Seventy-seven people today. We will let them in by groups of fifteen. Can you do this for me?”
“Yes, Father,” I said, as we walked back to the front of the line.
Father McSweeny re-entered the church, and I counted out fifteen people.
“Please, go inside,” I said to them. They walked ahead, pushing one another. The sixteenth person was a boy a little younger than me. He looked at me with hollow eyes. His little sister was with him.
“Your turn will be soon,” I said. He said nothing.
I let people in as the people before them left. No one argued with me or tried to sneak ahead. But still, it felt tense. When finally I could let the last person inside, I followed behind her and stood with Sister Nora and Father McSweeny.
“Slow night,” Sister Nora said, as they ate. Father McSweeny nodded. I tried to relax, then, but could not.
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Father McSweeny lived in the house next to the church. It was unimpressive, just like the church and just like Father McSweeny. It had a front door and a side door and six windows. There was no garden. No path from the gate to the door. There were some overgrown weeds and a fence that stretched across the front and back yards to stop someone from falling off the cliff or into the road.
After all of the people voiced their many grievances to Father McSweeny and left, we said goodbye to Sister Nora, and he brought me to his house for the night. The sun was setting, and it was getting colder. We walked through the kitchen to a back room, where there was a chest in the corner and a bed along one wall.
“This is where you will sleep,” he said. “You can wash up out back. There is a pump.”
“Thank you,” I said. Father McSweeny crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“Rosaleen, I need to help you. You have no one. Please stay here as long as you need. You can help me at the kitchen.” I saw the look again. The exhaustion.
“I truly appreciate it, Father,” I said. “But I cannot be another burden upon you. I will stay tonight, and I thank you for your generosity. Tomorrow, I must go.”
“Where? Where will you go?” he asked. I shook my head.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something,” I said. Father McSweeny uncrossed his arms and stood to leave.
“Please reconsider,” he said. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”
I wanted so bad to do what he asked, but I just could not be another set of hands reaching to him for help, for survival. I tried to come up with a plan that night, but my exhaustion won again and instead I slept deeply.
I was surprised to find coffee waiting for me in the morning. I could not remember the last time someone had coffee to offer me. Father McSweeny must have seen the shock on my face. He chuckled, which surprised me equally.
“Call it a payment, I guess. From the British. For doing a job that they find too disgusting to do themselves. Keeping the people of Cork alive. It’s too bad I’m failing,” he said.
I tried to drink the coffee slowly, to savor it. But truly, I drank it too fast and burned my tongue.
“How many have died in Cork?” I asked. It sounded like a ridiculous question, but there were still so many people, I couldn’t imagine there ever being more.
“Many,” he said. “But I can tell we still haven’t seen the worst.” He paused to think of how to explain himself. “You see,” he started, “because the English rely on the Quakers and me to give out the soup, I know they have no plan. There is nothing coming to save us. Only Indian cornmeal, and that is not enough. I pray every second of every day that next year’s potatoes will not be spoiled. Because if they are, there will be no one left to try again the next year. The English won’t help us and the Quakers’ supply is already drying up.”
He had not been looking at me but rather out the window, toward the sea. Now his attention came back to the kitchen.
“What is your decision?” he asked. “Will you stay?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll go to the workhouse. I’m healthier and stronger than many, and they feed you there, isn’t that true?”
“They do,” he said. “But not enough.”
“It’ll do,” I said. “Your generosity is overwhelming, but I can’t accept your offer.”
He nodded. “I will take you there, then,” he said.
I didn’t know exactly what occurred inside a workhouse, but I did know it was a place people didn’t want to go. The workhouse was the last stop on the road. It was for people like me, who had no other choice. I also knew that people were sometimes turned away from the workhouse if there was no more room, if there were too many desperate people there already, trying not to die. I felt my stomach tighten.
When I finished my coffee, I told Father McSweeny it was time to go. I didn’t want to keep myself waiting any longer. The workhouse was not close to Father McSweeny’s house, but he insisted on walking with me the whole way, even when I told him to please tell me how to get there and to go on back home. He would not.
The building was surrounded by tall, concrete walls that were difficult to see over. Only the tips of the building were visible. Hungry people lined up outside, snaking around the wall. Some of them reached for Father McSweeny as we passed. Their hands were like skeletons. I couldn’t look at them. My breath was getting shallow. I was scared.
We came to a gate on the side of the wall. Father McSweeny reached through and fiddled with the lock. It opened. He looked around before pulling me quickly through, and we went to the door of the first building we came to. It was a large, wooden door with a heavy knocker. The woman who opened it had the look of someone who had just finished crying. Her eyes were puffy and her nose was red. She sniffled. She had a round face and a round body, and she looked regretful as soon as she saw us.
“God bless, Father McSweeny,” she said. “How is the church?”
“The church is blessed,” he said. “We continue to provide everything we can. I see that you are full.”
“Regretfully so, Father. We have room for not even one more soul. It breaks my heart.” She dabbed her cheek with a dirty cloth that had been hanging loosely at her side, and I wondered if it was a cleaning cloth.
“Yes,” he said. “And neither did the inns when Mary came lookin’. Perhaps you have a stable for a very small soul. She isn’t sick, and she’s strong enough to work.”
The woman looked into my eyes, firmly gripped my shoulder, and then squeezed down my arm.
“She feels healthy enough. But you see these beggin’ eyes outside. They’re here day and night. There isn’t a thing I can do,” she said.
Panic started to crawl into my skin. It started in my head and moved hotly through the rest of my body. I could hear my heart pounding in my head. My chest was tight, and I grew so dizzy, I thought I might tip over. I could not let this sad woman refuse me.
“I can work. I work hard. Anything you need. I wash clothes. I clean pots. I will cook.” The words came tumbling out of my mouth. I was too desperate to be embarrassed that I was truly begging. She looked curious. I could see her mind working, weighing what they needed against what they could provide.
“Perhaps there is something I can use a set of small fingers for, Father McSweeny, and...what is your name, girl?”
“Rosaleen,” I said.
“Rosaleen. There is a door in the back of this building. If I can find a place for you to sleep, I will meet you there in a few minutes.” With that, she quickly shut the door.
“She really is a fine, compassionate woman during normal times,” Father McSweeny said.
We walked around the back, to where the woman had gestured. The tightness in my chest had subsided and been replaced by hunger pains. It felt like a knot in my stomach that had grown tighter and tighter of late. The pains would travel from my stomach to my head. Then, everything would spin. I tried a trick I had taught myself: I gathered saliva in my mouth and swallowed it hard. Sometimes that tricked my stomach into thinking I was eating.
The woman was not back in a few minutes. The sun was getting hotter.
“Father McSweeny, please go back to your church,” I said. He swatted the idea away.
“She won’t be much longer,” he said. His eyes looked distant, anyway, and I could tell his thoughts were far from me.
Finally, the door opened. It was not the woman, but a girl. Older than me but not quite old enough to be called a woman. She was very tall. She had wavy hair that stopped abruptly just above her shoulders. It looked like she had cut it off herself. She had very thin eyebrows but long eyelashes.
“Come inside,” she said to me. I turned to Father McSweeny.
“Thank you,” I said. He took my hands in his and looked into my eyes.
“If you need me, you know where I am,” he said. Then, he was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
It rained for the first three days at the workhouse. When I finally stepped outside on the fourth day, the sky still occasionally dripped. My bare feet sank into the mud that parted for them. It smelled even more rotten than when I first arrived, but I was so happy to be outside that I breathed it in eagerly. I dropped my head back and waited for a raindrop to fall on my face. A big, greasy one fell on my lip and tasted burnt.
This was my free time for the day. Right after dinner. Boudica said she didn’t want to come with me today, because it was impossible for clothes to dry inside the workhouse. Everyone took particular care to keep dry.
Boudica was my first friend in a long time. She was the tall girl who had brought me into the workhouse. When she introduced herself, I told her she had a strange name. She said her ma had named her after a great warrior so that she would be strong and brave.
Boudica slept next to me, and we worked together in domestic training. We spun wool and mended clothes. Boudica said we were very lucky to do this kind of work. She’d started out helping in the kitchen but was horrible at it. One of the older women in the kitchen who liked her recommended that she be transferred to sewing and spinning instead. Her long, nimble fingers were perfect for it.
Everyone else must have felt the same way as Boudica about getting wet, because I found myself outside alone. I wiggled my toes and crouched down to touch a worm crawling over my foot. Even if it would take a long time for my clothes to dry, I couldn’t have stood to be inside for one more minute. Every time someone coughed in there, I felt it seep into my skin. Even though I washed my hands and arms in the laundry tub until they turned red, I never felt clean. Out here, I could breathe and feel the ground under my feet. And I didn’t have to watch dead bodies being carted off.
“Do you know why they’re so slimy?” a voice said.
I jumped a bit. I didn’t realize there was someone else outside. I looked up at the boy, standing across the path. He had piercing blue eyes and brown hair. I hadn’t seen many men at the workhouse and certainly no boys my age.
I looked back down at the worm, now inching up my leg.
“Why are they so slimy?” I asked.
“It’s like the spit in your mouth,” he said. “They breathe through their skin.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“ ’Course it is,” he said. “Don’t call me a liar.” He looked sour.
“Are there a lot of kids here our age?” I asked. “I haven’t seen many.”
“Not many, but some,” he said. “All of my brothers already died. I suppose that happens to a lot of kids.”
I nodded. The bell rang, telling us we were supposed to be somewhere now.
“Well, g’bye, whoever you are,” he said, turning away.
“Rosaleen,” I called back. “I’m sorry about your brothers.”
I grabbed the worm and slipped it into my pocket before going back inside.
I kept that worm for a long time. Boudica thought I was strange for keeping a pet worm. It seemed to hate the light, and I usually found it under my bed. I thought it probably needed dirt, so one day, I scooped a big mound of dirt up outside and put it in my apron. Then I emptied it out under my bed. No one noticed. I watched my worm eat a piece of straw. So, I gave it a scrap of cloth that I tore off my dress. It ate that, too. I was fascinated. How was this worm so resilient? I wished I could eat straw and cloth.
Miss Stafford, the matron, called our names every morning before breakfast. I never looked her in the eye. She was old, cranky, and frightening, and always smelled like onions. Everything in the workhouse smelled a bit like onions, but Miss Stafford smelled the worst.
There were hundreds of women and girls at the workhouse. Our room had at least fifty. Miss Stafford spoke slowly and enunciated every name carefully. My stomach was always groaning by the end of it, aching for some cornmeal slop.
Once, she stopped me in the hallway and demanded that I tie her boots. I wanted to spit on them, but I didn’t.
Every day after breakfast, we spun wool. We worked with lots of other girls and some older women, too. We worked in the west wing, on the top floor. It was one long, dusty room. There were lots of windows and sunlight, but we were cramped close together and it got very hot. Everyone was sweating all the time. It smelled terrible. But still, I knew other jobs were much worse, and I tried to be grateful.
We stopped only for dinner and supper. We were given one additional set of clothing, which was washed once a week with the sheets and blankets and cloth. Washing clothing was one job I was glad not to have. It felt like disease clung to everything, and every time I brushed past another person, I wanted to strip off my clothes right there and burn them.
My hands ached at the end of each day, so that at supper, it was difficult to hold the spoon. I knew Boudica’s did, too, but I often watched her rub Miss Ginny’s hands in the evenings. Miss Ginny was the oldest person at the workhouse. She was almost completely blind, but she was still the best and fastest spinner we had.
At mealtimes, we saw the men and boys rubbing their own shoulders, wiping their brows, and trying not to collapse into their meals. They were too tired to complain. We all were. But truly, the food was awful, the workhouse was filthy, and disease spread quickly. It was rare to go all day without seeing a sick or dead body being wheeled away.
Sometimes, a new group of men would show up. You could tell them apart by their relative strength and spirit. They would tease and pick on the men already there. Try to fight them. Boudica said it was because they were angry to be at the workhouse and scared of becoming as frail and pathetic as the rest. I heard that the overseers would soon beat this out of them, but I wasn’t sure why they had to. The work was enough.
