The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

and I can’t get any, there’s nothing for us to eat today. And me with seven mouths to feed. Where will it all end, I ask you?’

      ‘Where indeed?’ Kitty replied, wishing she had something to give the woman. At least she only had three mouths to feed now. She felt a rush of pain as she remembered that only a year ago, she’d had seven mouths to feed too. Poor Nuala, Jimmy, Éamonn and Little Pat. All taken at such a young age to sit at Jesus’s feet.

      There was no point her staying in town. The crowd might turn violent, and she wanted no part of it. Her earlier tranquil mood had vanished, and now she wanted only to be home, in the cottage with Gracie and Michael. The chicken had laid an egg that morning. She still had a few of the potatoes Martin O’Shaughnessy had given her. And perhaps if he didn’t want his goat’s milk, he’d let her have it. They wouldn’t go hungry tonight. She patted her companion on the arm in a gesture of sympathy and support, and set off back to Kildoolin, her basket as empty as it had been on her way to town.

      On the way home, she paused for just a few minutes to gather some sprigs of wild rosemary and golden broom. Some for herself, and some for Martin, to brighten and scent his cottage. If he was now unable to leave his bed and see the beauty of the day for himself, she would bring a tiny piece of it inside to him.

      *

      That evening, after Michael had returned and they had eaten their meagre meal, Kitty once more walked up the village track to Martin O’Shaughnessy’s cottage. She had a cold cooked potato, wrapped in a piece of muslin, to try to tempt him to eat. If he did not want it she would share it between Grace and Michael. She also carried the little posy she’d picked earlier. The sun was just dipping down behind the hill, but it would be light enough for another hour, for her to make sure he was settled for the night.

      She tapped on the door, called out, and went straight in without waiting for an answer. No need for him to struggle to catch his breath to reply. The fire had gone out again, though the ashes were still hot, so she quickly banked it up and got it roaring again. She put the flowers in a mug of water on the table. Then she turned her attention to the bed in the corner, and the rasping, irregular breaths that were coming from it.

      ‘Well now, Martin, are you feeling any better?’ She knew the answer already, but it was as well to be cheerful. She knew Martin was dying, and he knew it too.

      ‘No, Kitty, I can’t say that I am,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, and his words followed by a coughing fit.

      ‘Hush now, Martin. Don’t speak if it hurts you so.’ She fetched a cloth, wet it and used it to clean the dried spittle from around his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked. She held the cup of water for him to sip from, but he wasn’t able to lift his head. Instead, she found a second cloth, a clean one, wet it and let the water trickle into his mouth from its corner. He sucked at it like a newborn baby. It was better than nothing.

      ‘Not long now,’ he croaked. ‘Not long.’

      ‘Should I fetch Father John for you?’ It was a long walk back to Ballymor this late at night, but she’d do it, if Martin wanted it. Or she’d send Michael who’d be much quicker. She cursed herself for not having spoken to Father John about Martin while she was in town earlier, but to fetch the priest to administer the last rites was an admission that death was imminent, and she had not wanted to frighten Martin or hasten his end.

      He was shaking his head. ‘No, I’ve no need of Father John.’ He reached out a crabbed hand, and she took it. It was cold and thin, but he squeezed her hand with surprising strength. ‘Sit with me, Kitty. It won’t be long. Sit with me, till the end. I don’t want to go alone.’

      Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded. ‘Of course, Martin. I’ll stay, and I’ll do what I can for you.’

      He squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes, letting out a rasping sigh.

      She settled herself into a chair pulled up beside his bed, keeping her hand in his. It might be a long night. She was thankful she had banked up the fire so much when she first arrived. But if this was all she could do for her kind neighbour then it is what she would do. No one should be alone at the time of their passing.

      Kitty watched the light slowly turn to dusk and then dark through the small window. The moon rose, its silvery light slipping into the cottage, caressing everything it touched. She listened to Martin’s laboured breathing, stroked his head and moistened his lips, but otherwise allowed her mind to swim deep into her thoughts.

      An hour or so after she’d arrived, Michael tapped on the door and entered.

      ‘Mammy? We wondered where you were. Grace is in bed. Is there anything I can do? Is Mr O’Shaughnessy . . . is he . . . ?’

      ‘It won’t be long,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing you can do, except – milk the goat. Take the milk back for Gracie. I’ll be staying here.’

      He squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into his arm, drawing strength for the night ahead from his presence. And then he was gone, leaving her once more watching the life slowly leave Martin O’Shaughnessy.

      The old man woke once more, and mumbled a few words, gasping between them. She had to lean close, and strain to make them out. ‘Take the . . . goat, Kitty. Don’t let . . . Waterman . . . have it. Look after . . . young Grace . . . and Michael. Write to my sons, tell them . . . And . . . thank you.’

      After another hour, or was it two, perhaps three, his breathing became irregular, with long gaps between each one. Each time she wondered whether it would be his last. And then finally, one last breath, a gurgle in his chest, and stillness, apart from a twitching muscle near his eye. A minute later that stopped too. Kitty released her hand from his, placed his hands on his chest, crossed herself, and murmured the Lord’s Prayer.

      She sat quietly for a few minutes more. So now there was only herself, Michael and Gracie left in the village. In the morning she would go to Father John, and arrange for Martin’s body to be collected, and buried. She didn’t know whether Martin had any money – if she could find any she would make sure he had a proper burial in the churchyard. If not, he would be put in the mass grave along with the latest famine victims. It was not something she could bear to think on, while she still sat with his mortal remains.

      ‘Bless you, Martin. May you be at peace now,’ she said, and hauled herself stiffly to her feet. It was time to go.

      Outside, the full moon shimmered across the landscape, oblivious to the events inside the cottage. Kitty raised her face to it and breathed in deeply. The air was fresh and clean, damp with the night’s dew but refreshing and cleansing.

      The goat had scrambled to its feet as she came out, and now Kitty untied her. ‘Come on, girl. Come on and I’ll see if I have some eggshells and potato scraps for you.’

      It walked obediently beside her, down the lane back to her own cottage, as though it knew its master was dead. There would be goat’s milk to drink in the morning, Kitty thought, but immediately chastised herself for thinking of her own family’s fortune, when poor Martin lay dead not a hundred yards away.