The Girl from Ballymor. Kathleen McGurl

But there weren’t enough places on them, or they were badly managed, or they weren’t running in the areas where the poorest people lived. The people here, like so many across Ireland, depended on their potato crops. They failed several years in a row in the late 1840s, with the blight making the few potatoes that could be salvaged almost inedible. And without the potato crops the people had nothing.’

      ‘What I don’t understand is, why did they only grow potatoes? Surely if they’d grown other crops and not been so reliant on potatoes, the blight wouldn’t have affected them so badly?’ I felt a bit like a schoolkid on an educational visit, but I’d need to understand this properly for my book.

      ‘The farm workers only rented a tiny patch of poor land from the big landowners – it’s all they were allowed to have, to grow their own food. You can still see evidence of cultivated land where the Kildoolin inhabitants grew their potatoes – halfway down the track on the right you can just make out lines and ridges in the heather. Potatoes are a high-yield crop; they’ll grow in the poorest soils and are very nutritious. There aren’t many vegetables you can live on if you’re not eating much else, but potatoes you can. On the big farms, plenty of other crops were grown – wheat, barley, maize – and cattle were reared. The great tragedy is that Ireland was producing enough food to feed itself, right through the famine years. But the majority of it was exported, mostly to England, and sold to make money for the English landowners.’

      I felt guilty, as if I should apologise on behalf of all English people. ‘Did the landowners not realise what was going on, or how bad it was?’

      He gave a small shrug. ‘Some did, some didn’t. Many were absentee landlords who hardly ever set foot on their Irish estates. Others were well aware of what was happening. To be fair, some tried to help by donating food. But some people were too proud to accept charity, preferring to work for their money. And there was the option of workhouses, but those of course were the last resort.’

      I shook my head. ‘You’d think if your children were starving you’d do anything to save them.’ As I said it I wondered if that would be true for me – would I do anything to save my child? Was I capable of self-sacrifice? To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure. It was presumably something that came with maternal instincts, and I did not believe I had those. I wondered if my own mother had ever considered this question. I could not imagine her sacrificing herself to save me. She’d never really given up anything for me.

      Declan was looking at me oddly. ‘Are you all right there, Maria? You look as though you’re fretting about something. If you want to talk . . .’

      ‘No, it’s all right. I was just thinking about these poor people, what they had to go through. You’re very knowledgeable on it, Declan. Thank you for explaining things; it’s very helpful.’

      ‘Ah, to be sure we’re all taught about the famine in history lessons in Ireland. It’s one of the big events that defines our nation. That and the 1916 uprising and fight for independence.’

      I made a mental note to buy myself a book on the history of Ireland. It’d all be good background information for my biography of Michael McCarthy. From my thesis I knew plenty about his painting techniques, his style and his subjects, and his later life in London, but so little about his early life and the land of his birth.

      We sat and chatted a while longer, then walked back to Ballymor together. He pointed out where the potato fields would have been, part-way down the hill, beside the track. I must admit I could not see much evidence, but maybe the heather was kind of growing in rows, following the lines of old potato ridges.

      Declan left me in the centre of town. I wanted to start making some notes for my book, and had a long list of questions to research on the internet. Declan had told me about a good bookshop in the town, where I might find some local history books, and the prospect of a light lunch in a coffee shop followed by an hour or so browsing the bookshop felt like a good plan for the rest of the day.

      I found a pleasant-looking café which overlooked the town square and ordered a sandwich and a pot of tea, then pulled out my phone. There was a text from Dan, which I opened nervously. Any decision yet? I still love you. xxx

      Tears pricked at my eyes as I read the text. I’d been such a rubbish girlfriend to him and felt so guilty. As I ate my lunch, I recalled the events of last Sunday night, two days before I’d left for Ireland and one day before I’d booked my tickets.

      Dan had surprised me by taking me out to eat at a swanky restaurant. It wasn’t one we often went to – only on very special occasions. He’d even reserved us one of the best tables – by the window, overlooking the river. At this time of year, it would be light till almost ten o’clock, so we’d be able to watch the sunset over the water as we lingered over our meal.

      I’d made an effort and put on a floaty summer dress, some strappy sandals and a bit of make-up. It made a change from my usual jeans and paint-spattered t-shirt combinations that I wore when teaching art.

      ‘You look gorgeous,’ Dan said, as I came downstairs ready to go out to the restaurant. ‘Really pretty.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said, giving him a kiss.

      We walked to the restaurant – it was only about twenty minutes away and the evening was warm and still. Dan insisted on holding my hand the whole time. I felt as though we were teenagers on our first date. There was a slight tenseness about him which was unusual. He was normally so easy-going and relaxed. I wondered if he had problems at work. He worked in IT, and I knew he was under pressure to bring forward delivery dates on his current project.

      But it wasn’t that at all that was making him tense and preoccupied during our walk to the restaurant. As we were shown to our table, and took our seats each facing the window at an angle, he ordered two glasses of champagne. The waiter brought them, along with the menus, almost immediately.

      It wasn’t really what I wanted to drink – I’d have preferred a refreshing glass of sparkling water – but I lifted my glass to clink against his anyway. ‘Champagne, how lovely! Well, cheers then!’

      He shook his head gently. ‘Not yet, Maria. There’s something I need to ask you first.’ He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small box. Inside was a ring – white gold, diamond and ruby. Delicate, pretty, modern, and perfect. Exactly what I would have picked myself. He knew me so well. ‘Marry me?’ he said.

      I was lost for words, and gaped for a moment.

      His nervousness made him fill the empty silence. ‘Registry office or church. Or hotel. I honestly don’t mind – whatever you want. All I want is you.’ He smiled and reached for my hand.

      I found myself blinking at him while a thousand images raced through my mind – us standing at an altar exchanging vows while my mother, Jackie, watched disapprovingly (she disapproved of everything I did); Dan and I pushing a pram through a park together with another dozen children hanging off our arms; us aged ninety sitting opposite each other with nothing to say, in an old people’s home. Was this my future flashing before me? Was it the future I wanted? I loved Dan, with all my heart, but the whole marriage and children thing felt far too terrifyingly grown-up for me to contemplate. I loved him, no question, but could I agree to all this, right now, just like that?

      I must have looked unsure, because his face fell and he removed his hand from mine. ‘You don’t need to answer now, Maria. But don’t say no straight out – think about it, please.’

      I nodded mutely. I could promise him to think about it at least. I felt so sorry for him. My reaction surely had not been what he’d have hoped and dreamed for, but it was at least an honest one. Finally, I managed to squeeze some words out. ‘Dan, darling, I love you, you know that. This has been a bit of a shock. We’ve never before talked of getting married. Of course I promise you I’ll think about it.’ I took his hand again, and stroked it with my thumb.

      ‘I know we’ve never spoken about it,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been together five years now, we’re so good together, and I suppose I always assumed we would marry, like it was some