At the extreme south-eastern end of the island, upon the same step or
level of rock, but about half a mile farther on than the O’Malleys,
lived the Duranes. Their cabin was the smallest and worst, next to Shan
Daly’s, on Inishmaan, but then they were Duranes, and Durane is one of
the best established names on the island. The family consisted of a
father, a mother, five children, a grandfather and an orphan niece.
There was only one room in the whole house, and that room was about
twenty feet long by twelve or perhaps fourteen feet wide. The walls had,
seemingly, never been coated with plaster, and even the mortar between
the blocks of stone had fallen out, and been replaced from the inside
by lumps of turf or mud as necessity occurred.
When the family were collected together, space, as may be guessed, was
at a premium, since even upon the floor they could hardly all sit down
at the same time. There was, however, a sort of ledge, covered with
straw, about three feet from the ground, upon which four of the five
children slept, and where, when food was being distributed, all that
were old enough to sit alone were to be seen perched in a row, with
tucked-up legs and open mouths, like a brood of half-fledged turkeys. At
other times they gathered chiefly upon the doorstep, which, in all Irish
cabins, is the coveted place, and only ceases to be so in exceptionally
cold weather, or after actual darkness has set in.
There was no land belonging to the cabin beyond a strip of stony
potato-ground, and Peter, or Pete, Durane was forced therefore to earn
what he could as day-labourer to his luckier neighbours. Not much
employment was given, as may be imagined, on Inishmaan, and had there
been Pete would hardly have been able to profit by it. He was a thin
dried-up little man, looking old already, though he was not yet forty,
with soft appealing eyes and a helpless, vacillating manner. His wife
Rose, or Rosha, on the contrary, though in reality a year or two older
than himself, was a fine-looking woman still, with hard red cheeks and
round black eyes, who had only accepted him, as she often loudly
asserted, for the sake of charity, and to hinder the creature from
throwing himself into the sea.
Poor Pete had certainly not been regarded as the pearl of bachelors, and
had had to seek far and ask often before finding anyone willing to
accept him. He was a well-meaning, harmless little man, full of the
best intentions, and incapable of hurting a fly. Unfortunately for
himself he bore a poor reputation in the somewhat important matter of
honesty, and it was this that had made Grania think of him in connection
with the stolen turf.
About a year before there had been a scandal about some straw which had
been missed by one of the neighbours, and which was finally traced to
Pete’s door, and although the amount taken had been a trifle, still in
so small and so poverty-stricken a community as Inishmaan small things,
it will be understood, are readily missed. No steps had been taken to
prosecute the culprit--indeed, the ties of kindred are so closely woven
and interwoven all over the island that the law is rarely resorted to.
The straw had been duly returned to the owner’s door early one morning,
and it was one of the many jokes against Pete Durane that he had been
soundly thrashed by his wife for the theft--possibly because of the
detection of it.
When Grania entered, the children were still eating their midday meal,
an old table having been pushed against their ledge for the purpose--a
very old table, almost shapeless from years of ill-usage, but still
solid, and the chief article of furniture in the house. Rosha was busily
ladling out a fresh supply of potatoes from the big black pot, laying
them down in heaps upon the table in sizes varying according to the age,
or possibly the merits, of the recipient. They were not allowed to get
cold, the children snatching them up and beginning to eat them almost
before they were out of the pot.
What with the all but total absence of glass in the paper-patched
windows, and what with the smouldering eddies of turf-smoke which rolled
overhead like some dull domestic cloud, it was at first so dark that
Grania could see nothing except the piles of potatoes and the children,
or rather the children’s hands, which, being fitfully lit by the fire,
kept darting into the light and out again, like things endowed with some
odd galvanic existence of their own. After awhile, as her eyes got more
accustomed to the atmosphere, she made out that besides the mistress of
the house, there were two other women sitting there, one of them an aunt
of Rosha’s from the opposite side of the island, the other our previous
acquaintance, Peggy Dowd, who had dropped in as usual about meal time.
No sooner was that meal snatched up and swallowed down than the children
rushed out of doors again in a body, tumbling one over the other as they
did so, the eldest girl clutching up her mother’s flannel petticoat as
she went. A spare petticoat--one, that is to say, not invariably worn
upon the person of the mistress of the house--is a highly important
article in an Irish cabin, and fulfils more functions than could be
guessed at first sight. It is a quilt by night, a shawl by day, a
head-gear, an umbrella for an entire brood of children to run out under
in the rain--nay, the man of the house himself will often not disdain to
take a turn of it, especially on occasions which do not bring him too
directly into the light of publicity. This last, by the way, was a
privilege which poor Pete Durane had never dared to claim.
Even after the children had been got rid of Grania felt it impossible
for her to enter upon the subject of her visit--a delicate one in any
case--while there were strangers present. Accordingly she did not remain
in the cabin many minutes, contenting herself with begging Rosha to ask
Pete to come over and speak to her that evening as soon as his day’s
work was finished.