The Whitest Flower. Brendan Graham

12

      The completed first section of the new curvilinear glasshouses sparkled majestically in the December sunlight, the brightest jewel of the Royal Botanical Gardens. Apart from the Kew glasshouse being built in England, no other gardens in Europe could boast anything to equal Glasnevin. Hopefully the coming year would see the construction of two more glasshouses, the Central Pavilion and the West Wing, which would stand alongside the first in a commanding position near the tree-lined banks of the gurgling River Tolka.

      Yet despite the splendour all around him, David Moore looked troubled, his thoughts preoccupied with what lay beyond the grey wall dividing the gardens from its nearest neighbour: the cemetery at Glasnevin.

      Would the coming year see the cemetery filled as a result of the disease afflicting Solanum tuberosum? Would the victims of the blighted potatoes which had first come out of the earth on this side of the wall be placed in the cold earth on the far side?

      Seeing her husband deep in his musings, Isabella Moore fondly encircled her husband’s arm with her own and rested her head against his shoulder.

      ‘What troubles you, husband?’ she asked, concerned.

      ‘This cursed blight. The desolation of the crop now extends to every corner of the country, leaving the poor nothing to live upon but grass and nettles. Yet still there is no action from the Government.’

      ‘I hear there is talk of repealing the Corn Laws to alleviate the suffering.’

      Moore shook is head impatiently. ‘That is nothing but expediency on the part of the Government to suit their own ends. It will help the starving populace of Ireland not one whit.’

      ‘Then what should London do?’ Isabella asked.

      ‘A National Calamity Plan needs to be set in motion. But it is my fear that politics will stay the hand of mercy and compassion for its own sinister ends.’

      ‘And what of the Irish themselves? Can they not do something?’ she pressed.

      ‘I fear that, even here, O’Connell and the Irish leadership will become usurers of the situation to press for further gains to repeal the Union.’

      ‘But surely they are right. Little has been done in half a century to develop Ireland’s economy,’ she said.

      ‘Yes, the Nationalists have a point, I’ll grant. The Union has not served Ireland well. But would that they would forgo the making of it at this fearful time.

      ‘Oh, goodness,’ Moore exclaimed, withdrawing his pocket-watch from its fob. ‘I am afraid I must hasten from you, my dear – I promised Mr McCallum a tour of the new glasshouse.’

      As he hurried to keep his appointment with the student botanist, Moore’s thoughts turned from the failings of politicians to his own failure in the face of the blight. By the time McCallum came into view he had reached a decision: the promised tour of the new glasshouse would have to wait. There were far more pressing matters to deal with.

      ‘Is the cause of the Calamity yet established?’ Stuart Duncan McCallum asked.

      ‘We are divided amongst ourselves,’ David Moore replied. ‘There is the “fungalist” school, who believe the blight is caused by a mould whose growth is promoted by excessive wet. And then there are the “atmospherists”, led by Professor Lindley of the University of London, who argue that the blight is caused by atmospheric conditions. They admit to the presence of the parasite fungus, but only as a result of the murrain, not its cause. They are in the majority.’

      ‘And you yourself, sir?’ enquired the student. ‘What is your view?’

      ‘I am with Lindley … at the moment. Dampness certainly seems to be conducive to the spread of the disease, whereas dryness retreats it. I have found that potatoes lifted early, before the atmosphere attacks a particular area, are less likely to succumb, provided the harvest is carefully stored in dry, airy conditions.’

      ‘And what of a cure?’ the young man asked in his Scottish brogue.

      ‘Our experiments continue,’ Moore replied. ‘At the moment we are observing the effect of submerging tubers in copper sulphate – a solution known as “bluestone steep”. But it is difficult to proceed to a remedy when we have yet to identify the cause.’ The curator paused. ‘And identify it we must.’

      Isabella watched from her window as her husband and his young student made their way through the gardens, deep in conversation. As the sun emerged from behind the clouds, her gaze was drawn to the new state-of-the-art glasshouse. How many thousands of pounds must be found for these, she thought, and at this time?

      Isabella Moore, nee Morgan, late of Cookstown, County Tyrone, and now of the Botanic Gardens, Glasnevin, Dublin, wondered about it all.

      In her small dark cabin in Maamtrasna, Ellen Rua O’Malley huddled the three children to her body, giving them the warmth their fire could not provide. She surveyed the bare walls of the cabin, and she wondered about it all.

      Her eyes strayed to the loft. Earlier she had inspected the lumpers lying there. They were cold but dry to the touch, with no sign of disease.

      She wondered if somebody somewhere searched for a cure to this blight? What if it struck again next year?

      As always in times of worry, she turned to God. To the three children pressed in against her, she said quietly, ‘Say with me now, for a very special intention, one Hail Mary in English.’ Not knowing for whom it was she prayed; knowing only that it was the right thing to do.

      Their teeth still a-chattering from the cold, the children, in an act of faith in the mother who warmed them, prayed with her for this unknown person, and the unknown intention in their mother’s heart.

       13

      Christmas was upon them in no time at all. But unlike any Christmas they had ever experienced. A gloom of foreboding hung over the little cabins of Maamtrasna. Word was filtering through that the effects of the blight were beginning to bite, and bite deeply.

      Biddy, Martin Tom Bawn’s wife, had dropped by to see how Ellen was keeping, and had told her, ‘’Tis said, beyond in Westport, that there won’t be a potato left in the country for people to eat by the time Saint Brigid’s Day comes.’

      ‘How are your own lasting out?’ Ellen had asked.

      ‘Faith, we’re all right for the moment – making do, sparing them out every day … thankful to have them at all,’ Biddy replied, before dashing off to see what that blackguardeen Roberteen was up to.

      Ellen had seen to it that the rationing in their own household was exact and consistent. At times, it was hard for her not to give way and throw some extra potatoes in the pot. But she resisted that temptation, reminding herself of the hard times to come. What she did do, though, was to forgo one potato a day from her own ration, and share it between the rest of the family.

      Yet despite the pervading air of gloom in the community at large, she felt good in herself this Christmas. The baby was carrying well – not too lively, just enough to let her know it was there – and growing. The children didn’t appear to be too put out about the lack of extras; as their mother suggested, they offered it up as penance for their venial sins and the souls in purgatory. But most of all, Ellen was so happy, as the days shortened into the winter solstice, that no misfortune seemed to be befalling Michael. His time was not yet come. There had been no further supernatural manifestations – no sightings of the Banshee combing her tresses; no prophetic dreams.

      All in all, this Christmas promised to be a good one for the O’Malleys.

      On Christmas Eve the night was crisp and clear, and the sky above their cabin was filled with thousands of stars lighting up the valley