DRUDGERY
I
New potatoes were urgently needed and the potato merchant told Jim to
get as many as possible dug on the first afternoon. No sooner had the
squad come to the farmhouse than they were shown out to the fields where
the green shaws, heavy with rain, lay in matted clusters across the
drills. Every step taken relieved the green vegetable matter of an
enormous amount of water, which splashed all over the workers as they
stumbled along to their toil.
Work started. The men threw out the potatoes with short three-pronged
graips; the women girt bags round their waists, went down on their knees
and followed the diggers, picking up the potatoes which they threw out.
Two basin-shaped wicker baskets without handles were supplied to each
woman; one basket for the good potatoes and the other for “brock,”
pig-food.
“It’s the devil’s job, as the man said,” old Maire a Glan remarked as
she furrowed her way through the slushy earth. “What d’ye think of it,
Judy Farrel?” But Judy, struggling with a potato stem, did not deign to
answer.
Maire was a hard worker; and it was her boast that she never had had a
day’s illness in her life. The story had got abroad that she never
missed a stitch in a stocking while giving birth to twins, and the woman
never contradicted the story. She gathered after Eamon Doherty’s
“graip”; old Eamon with a head rising to a point almost and a very short
temper.
Biddy Wor, the mother of seven children, “all gone now to all the seven
ends of the world,” as she often pathetically remarked, gathered the
potatoes that Murtagh Gallagher threw out. Biddy’s hair was as white as
snow, except on her chin, where a dozen or more black hairs stood out as
stiffly as if they were starched.
Owen Kelly, another of the diggers, was very miserly and was eternally
complaining of a pain in the back. Micky’s Jim assured him that a wife
was the best cure in the world for a sore back. But Owen, skinflint that
he was, considered a wife very costly property and preferred to live
without one. He dug for Judy Farrel, the stunted little creature with
the cough. She was a very quiet little woman, Judy, had very little to
say and, when speaking, spoke as if her mouth was full of something.
When pulling the heavy baskets, weighted with the wet clay, she moaned
constantly like a child in pain.
Two sisters worked in the squad, Dora and Bridget Doherty, cheery girls,
who spoke a lot, laughed easily, and who were similar in appearance and
very ugly. Dora worked with Connel Dinchy, son of Oiney Dinchy, an
eel-stomached youth over six foot in height and barely measuring
thirty-four inches round the chest. He was a quiet, inoffensive fellow,
who laughed down in his throat, and every fortnight he sent all his
wages home to his parents. Bridget Doherty gathered potatoes for one of
the strange men. Both girls were blood relations of Murtagh Gallagher.
The other strange man worked in conjunction with Gourock Ellen; Norah
Ryan gathered for Willie the Duck; and Ellen’s companion, who was known
as Annie--simply Annie--crawled in the clay after Thady Scanlon, a first
cousin of Micky’s Jim. When the baskets were full, Dermod Flynn emptied
the potatoes into large barrels supplied for the purpose.
The women worked hard, trying to keep themselves warm. Norah Ryan became
weary very soon. The rain formed into a little pond in the hollow of her
dress where it covered the calves of her legs. Seeing that the rest of
the women were rising from time to time and shaking the water off their
clothes, she followed their example, and when standing, a slight
dizziness caused her to reel unsteadily and she almost overbalanced and
fell. She went down on her knees hurriedly, as she did not want Micky’s
Jim to see her tottering. If this was noticed he might think her unfit
for the job. For the rest of the afternoon she crawled steadily, fearing
to rise, and wondered how Gourock Ellen, who was giving voice to a loose
and humorous song, could sing on such a day. What troubled Norah most
were the sharp pebbles that came in contact with her knees as she
dragged herself along. They seemed to pierce through rags and flesh at
each movement, and at times she could hardly refrain from crying aloud
on account of the pain. Before night, and when she knew that her knees
were bleeding, she had become almost indifferent to bodily discomforts.
All the time she was filled with an insatiable longing for home. The
farm looked out on the Clyde--the river was a grey blur seen through the
driving rain, and a boat passing by attracted her attention.
“Is it an Irish boat?” she asked Willie the Duck, who was whistling
softly to himself.
“Aye, sure,” answered Willie without raising his head.
“I wish that I was goin’ home in it,” she said plaintively.
“Ireland’s much better than this dirty country,” said Maire a Glan,
speaking loud enough for the Scotchwoman Annie to hear her.
II
When six o’clock came round Jim pulled out his watch, looked at it
severely for a moment and shouted: “Down graips and run home to yer warm
supper!”
“Home!” repeated Maire a Glan, rising awkwardly to her knees. “Mother of
Jesus; it is a home! An old byre and no less, as the man said. Shame be
on ye, Micky’s Jim!”
“We have no grub and no siller,” said Gourock Ellen, rising briskly and
loosing the claycoated sack from around her waist. “I’m up to my thighs
in clabber,” she added.
“We’ll not let ye starve as long as there’s a bit at all goin’,” said
Micky’s Jim.
“We’d be pigs if we ate all ourselves when other people have nothin’,”
remarked Maire a Glan.
When the squad went back to the farm a ploughman, a flat-footed, surly
fellow with a hare-lip, showed them their quarters in the steading.
“First I’ll show ye where ye’re to roost,” said the man, and led the way
into an evil-smelling byre, the roof of which was covered with cobwebs,
the floor with dung. A young fellow, with a cigarette in his mouth, was
throwing the manure through a trap-door into a vault underneath. On both
sides of the sink, which ran up the middle, was a row of stalls, each
stall containing two iron stanchions to which chains used for tying
cattle were fastened.
“No need to tie any of ye to the chains, is there?” asked the man with
the hare-lip, laughing loudly. “When ye go to bed at night, close the
trap-door,” he continued. “It will keep the smell of the midden away
from you!”
“Aye, sure,” said Willie the Duck.
“Oh! ye’re here again, are ye?” asked the ploughman. “Have ye got the
music murderer with ye? This way to see where yer eatin’ room is,” said
the man, without waiting to hear Willie the Duck’s answer to his
question.
The byre was built on the shoulder of a hillock; the midden was situated
in a grotto hollowed underneath. Behind the dung-hill, in the grotto,
the three-legged stove was standing, and already a fire which old Eamon
Doherty had kindled was sparkling merrily.
“Watch yersel’!” shouted the ploughman to Dermod Flynn, who was crossing
the dung-hill on the way towards the fire. “That young rascal above will
throw down a graipful of dung on yer head if ye’re not careful.”
Maire a Glan filled the pot with clean white potatoes and placed them
over the blaze. The ploughman sat down on an upended box and lit his
pipe; Micky’s Jim took the squad back to the byre, which was now fairly
clean, and proceeded to make bunks for the night. Four or five level
boxes were placed on the floor of each stall, a pile of hay was
scattered about on top, and over this was spread two or three bags sewn
together in the form of a sheet; sacks filled with straw served as
pillows, a single blanket was given to each person, and two of the party
had to sleep in each stall.
“Who’s goin’ to sleep with me?” asked Micky’s Jim.
“I will,” said Murtagh Gallagher.
“Ye snore like a pig!”
“What about me?” asked Owen Kelly.
“Ye kick like a colt.”
“Will I do?” asked Willie the Duck.
“Ye do!” cried Micky’s Jim, “ye that was chased out of the graveyard
with a squad of worms. None of ye will sleep with me; Dermod Flynn is
the man I want. Help me to make the bed, Dermod Flynn,” he said to the
youth who was standing beside him.
“It’s a fine place, this,” said Gourock Ellen as she spread a pile of
hay over the boxes in the stalls. “A gey guid place!”
“D’ye know who slept in that stall last night?” asked Jim.
“A heifer like mysel’ maybe,” said Ellen. “And indeed it had a muckle
better place than I had under the bridge.”
“The potatoes are nearly ready,” shouted Maire a Glan, sticking her
wrinkled head round the corner of the door.
There was a hurried rush down to the midden. Boxes were upended to serve
as seats, the maid-servant at the farm came out in brattie,[D]
shorgun,[E] and brogues, and sold milk at a penny a pint to the diggers.
All, with the exception of Annie, Ellen, and Owen Kelly, bought a
pennyworth; Micky’s Jim bought a pennyworth for Ellen, Maire a Glan
shared her milk with Annie, and Owen Kelly bought only a halfpennyworth,
half of which he kept for his breakfast on the following morning.
The potatoes were not ready yet; the water bubbled and spluttered in the
pot and shot out in little short spurts on every side. Ellen complained
of her legs; they had been horribly gashed during the day and were now
terribly sore. She lifted up her clothes as far as her thighs and rubbed
a wet cloth over the wounds. Micky’s Jim tittered; Dermod Flynn blushed,
turned away his head and looked at Norah Ryan. Ellen noticed this and,
smiling sarcastically, began to hum:
“When I was a wee thing and lived wi’ my granny,
Oh! it’s many a caution my granny gied me;
She said: ‘Now, be wise and beware of the boys,
And don’t let yer petticoats over yer knee!’”
As she finished the song, Ellen winked at Micky’s Jim and Jim winked
back. Then she hit her thigh with her hand and shouted: “Not a bad leg
that for an old one, is it?”
The potatoes were now emptied into a wicker basket, the water running
through the bottom into the midden. The men and women sat round the
basket, their little tins of milk in their hands, and proceeded to eat
their supper. The potato was held in the left hand, and stripped of its
jacket with the nail of the right thumb. Gourock Ellen used a knife when
peeling, Willie the Duck ate potato, pelt and all.
While they were sitting an old, wrinkled, and crooked man came across
the top of the dung-hill, sinking into it almost up to his knees and
approached the fire. His clothes were held on by strings, he wore a pair
of boots differing one from the other in size, shape, and colour. Indeed
they were almost without shape, and the old man’s toes, pink, with black
nails, showed through the uppers.
Gourock Ellen handed him three large potatoes from the basket.
“God bless ye, for it’s yerself that has the kindly heart, decent
woman,” said the old fellow in a feeble voice, and he began to eat his
potatoes hurriedly like a dog. Dermod handed him part of a tin of milk
and blushed at the profuse thanks of the stranger.
“It’s a fine warm place that ye are inside of this night,” said the old
fellow when he had finished his meal.
“It’s a rotten place,” said Dermod Flynn.
“It’s better nor lyin’ under a hedge,” answered the old man.
“Or under a bridge,” Gourock Ellen remarked, lifting her dress again;
then, as if some modest thought had struck her, dropping it suddenly.
“Why do ye lie under a hedge?” Dermod asked, and the old man thereupon
gave a rambling account of his misfortunes, which included a sore back
and inability to labour along with sound men. He had come from Mayo
years ago and had worked at many a hard job since then, both in England
and Scotland. Now that he was a homeless old man nobody at all wanted
him.
When the party went up to the byre he stretched out his old thin limbs
by the fire and fell into the easy slumber of old age. Suddenly he awoke
with a start to find the fire still burning brightly and a beautiful
girl with long hair flung over her shoulders looking at him. It was
Norah Ryan; the old man thought for a moment that he was looking at an
angel.
“God be good to me!” he cried, crossing himself; “but who is yerself?”
Then as recollection brought him a face seen at the fire, he exclaimed:
“Arrah, sure it’s yerself that is the colleen I was after seein’ sittin’
here a minute ago. Now, isn’t it a good cheery fire?”
“Have ye any home to go to?” asked Norah.
“Never a home,” said the old man, resting one elbow in the ashes. “There
is nothin’ but the rainy roads and the hardships for a man like me.”
“But could ye not get inside of some house for the night?”
“God look on yer wit!” said the old fellow, laughing feebly. “Ye’re just
new over, I’ll warrant, and ye haven’t come to learn that they have
forgotten all about kindness in this country. They do not want the man
with no roof-tree over his head here. They’re all black and bitter
Protestants.”
“So I heard say.”
“Ye’ll be one of the right sort, I’ll go bail.”
“I’m a Catholic.”
“Ah! that’s it! The Catholics are the best, and I’m one meself just as
ye are, girsha. Have ye a penny to spare for one of yer own kind?”
“Are ye goin’ back to Ireland again?” asked Norah, drawing the
weasel-skin purse from the pocket of her steaming dress.
“If only I had the price of the boat, I’d go in a minute,” said the man,
fixing greedy eyes on the purse which Norah held in her hand. “But I’m
very poor, and mind ye I’m one of yer own sort. Maybe ye have a sixpence
to spare,” he said.
Norah possessed a two-shilling piece, all the money she had in the
world, and she needed it badly herself. But the desire to help the old
man overmastered her, and she handed him the florin. Followed by the
garrulous thanks of her penniless countryman she hurried back to the
byre, feeling in some curious way ashamed of her kindness.
III
A candle fixed on the top of a stanchion threw a dim light over the
byre, and long black shadows danced on roof and wall. A strong,
unhealthy odour pervaded the whole building; the tap at one end was
running, and as the screw had been broken the water could not be turned
off. Micky’s Jim sat in a cattle-trough sewing bags together with a
packing needle; these were to be used as a quilt. Dermod Flynn, who was
undressing, slipped beneath the blankets with his trousers still on as
Norah Ryan came in, but Willie the Duck, stripped to the pelt, stood for
a moment laughing stupidly, the guttering candle lighting up his narrow,
hairy face and sunken chest.
Old Owen Kelly was already in bed.
“This place is a lot better than where we slept last year,” he called to
Micky’s Jim.
“Where did ye sleep last year?” asked Dermod Flynn.
“In the pig-sty,” said Jim. “We were almost eaten alive by the blue
lice.”
The women undressed in the shadow at the far end of the stalls, and from
time to time Micky’s Jim peeped round the corner. When the women looked
up he would shout out: “I see something,” and whistle lightly between
the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. The Irishwomen undressed
under the blankets, the two strange women, careless and indifferent to
the jibes of Micky’s Jim, stripped off to their chemises in full view of
the occupants of the byre. Annie and Gourock Ellen had quarrelled about
something; they were not going to sleep together that night.
“Ye have to sleep with me, lass,” said Gourock Ellen to Norah.
“All right,” said the young girl quietly, seeing no reason why she
should not sleep with a strange woman. As she spoke she went down on her
knees to say her prayers.
“Say one prayer for me, just a short one,” said Ellen in a low tone.
“All right, decent woman,” answered the girl.
“I’ll put the light out now,” shouted Micky’s Jim after a short
interval. “The women will not be ashamed to go on takin’ off their
clothes now.”
The light went out, but Jim suddenly relit the candle, and the guttering
blaze again flared weakly through the gloom. There was a hurried
movement of naked flesh in the women’s quarters and a precipitate
scampering under the blankets.
“That was a mortal sin, Micky’s Jim,” Norah Ryan said in a low voice,
and in her tones there was a suspicion of tears.