Little Drifters: Kathleen’s Story. Kathleen O’Shea

Go and lie down on the beds.’

      We were so tired from all the running around that we didn’t even argue. I lay down on the bottom bunk bed, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves clip-clopping as they hit the tarmac, echoing like a lullaby, and the swaying of the wagon was so soothing and serene that before long I fell asleep.

      I woke to a different feeling. We had stopped and I stretched out my arms and legs before poking my head out the wagon. Daddy had pulled us off the road to a spot near the river with a bit of woodland for shelter and firewood. It was now late in the day and the warm orange glow of the dipping sun filtered through the branches in a patchwork of light. Daddy set the wagons close together and untied the horses from the shafts. Aidan and Liam helped take them to the river for a drink before letting them loose to graze in a nearby field. They tied a rope around the horses’ back legs so that the horses wouldn’t wander off too far for my father to get them when he needed to. Claire and Bridget came and helped us down from the wagon.

      ‘Come, we’ll go get the water and the wood so we can get the fire going and get some food into us,’ said Claire as she handed me a pail.

      We collected firewood, tied them into bundles then carried them on our backs to the campsite, which was near the farm where my father was due to be working the next day.

      My father got the fire going while my mother prepared a vegetable stew. By tea-time it would be pitch black but for the glow from our campfire. I felt peaceful and safe in the woods with all my family by my side. But after filling my belly with warm, soupy vegetables I could barely keep my eyes open. Exhaustion soon got the better of us all and we clambered into the bunks for the night, all of us young ones curled up together on the one bed.

      In the morning our mother shook us gently awake and I was filled with excitement once again at the thought of being in a new place, far away from the cottage. We each had a slice of bread and cup of tea before heading up to the beet field to join a group of other farm hands waiting for the farmer to arrive with the sack of tools so we could start work.

      Brian, Tara, Colin and myself stayed at the fringes of the field as my parents and older brothers and sisters spread out to work in rows. We watched closely as my mother showed us how to thin the beet, trimming the excess leaves off the stalks from each plant. It didn’t look difficult so we started helping out, just tearing the leaves off with our fingers. Of course it wasn’t long before we got bored and started messing around so Daddy told us to go play somewhere else.

      ‘Just don’t be causing no trouble,’ Mammy called after us as we cantered off towards the campsite.

      ‘We won’t,’ we yelled back, keen to get as far away as possible.

      Now, with our family in the field all day, we were free to do whatever took our fancy, and it was Ginny the goat who bore the brunt of our exploits at first. We tortured the life out of that poor creature. We’d get under her, pulling at her teats, squirting her milk into our mouths for a drink and then all over each other. Brian had this notion of riding on top of Ginny like a horse. Brian got on her back, one hand grasping her beard and the other holding on to her horn. Alarmed, Ginny legged it, bucking as hard as she could as she felt his weight on her back while we ran behind, laughing our hearts out at the sight of Brian riding on top of the goat. He held on tight, trying to stay on for as long as he could.

      ‘Go on there now, Gin! Go on!’ Brian shouted. He was in fits of laughter as he rode Ginny, with a stick flailing in his hand, shoving and pushing Ginny to move faster and faster. But Ginny had other ideas. She headed straight for the ditch full of nettles and bucked him off, head first. The sight of Brian emerging, muddied, stung all over and with his blond head covered in twigs and leaves was the funniest thing we’d ever seen.

      Now Ginny ran away from us whenever she saw us coming and it was getting more and more difficult to fetch her. But Brian refused to give up. One day he came up with this idea of putting on my mother’s headscarf and coat.

      He wrapped the colourful scarf round his head and the long brown coat hung off him as he called out in my mother’s voice: ‘Come on now, Gin Gin. Come now to Mammy!’

      Brian looked so comical with the coat hanging off him and the silly headscarf, we never thought for a minute that Ginny would oblige, but she did! We were surprised but pure delighted as Brian had fooled her and we got to join in the fun. As soon as he managed to hold on to her horn, he was up riding off like a cowboy again. Off and away they went and the rest of us followed behind until Ginny bucked him off again to the same painful ending.

      One day my mother came back from milking Ginny. She was rather disappointed at the amount that she’d got from our goat lately and asked if any of us had been at her. Innocently, we recounted how we’d been tugging at Ginny’s teats for her milk and how Brian was riding on top of Ginny and all the chasing we’d done – the full scenario in fine detail. We thought she would find it as funny as we all had. But she was so horrified and appalled that she gave Brian a good hiding, telling him that he could have broken Ginny’s back.

      ‘Leave Ginny in peace!’ she warned us. ‘Stop tormenting the goat. How would you like it if someone was at you all the time?’

      She was incensed at what we’d done.

      It didn’t matter. We started exploring further and further from the campsite, miles away, and we only came back when it was time for our dinner. The four of us would wander off into fields, rooting about the hedges, woodlands and everything else that we stumbled upon. When we came across an old ruin or barn, we’d spend hours playing in it. Occasionally, as we wandered across the fields, we’d catch a whiff of the awful stench from the feral goats as they came down from the mountain and we’d run away, screaming, laughing and holding our noses against the unbearable stink.

      Sometimes, when we were by the river, we caught frogs and raced them. Our older brothers had shown us how to find hollow reeds to use as straws. We’d stick the straws into the frogs’ behinds and blow into them until the frogs inflated, their fat bodies all puffed up as their little legs stuck out at the corners. Then we’d all get in a line and pull the straws out from the frogs’ behinds at the same time and away they’d shoot, up into the air, as they deflated. The frog that flew the furthest won.

      After each race we’d scramble about trying to retrieve our frogs, but as we went to pick them up again they’d often make a horrible squawking sound.

      ‘Oh, don’t touch that one!’ Tara would warn. ‘He’s putting a curse on you.’

      So I’d find myself another frog and we’d start the race again.

      Aidan and Liam loved building rafts. And once built, they’d tie a rope to the raft while we little ones sat on it and we’d ride through some fast-flowing water while our older brothers ran alongside the bank, holding the other end of the rope. Our older brothers also used to bring us to the rock quarry where they tied us up with ropes and we scaled up and down the sides. The drop was tremendous. We’d have died if the rope snapped. Sometimes we’d play by the railway lines, throwing stones to try to break the white cups on the electricity wire as we walked the line. There were plenty of occasions when the Garda came to pick us up and bring us back to our parents.

      My father would erupt at my mother: ‘Look at the lot of your feckin’ bastards. Always causing trouble!’

      He promised the officers that he’d give us a good hiding but he never did. We played dangerously, fearlessly, never realising the harm we could come to. We were wild, free and happy. There were never any toys to occupy us, no kisses and cuddles at the end of the day, but it didn’t matter. We were uncomplaining and self-assured – we’d been raised to look after ourselves and that’s exactly what we did.

      For the most part Brian was our leader. Since he was the eldest of our group we usually played the games he wanted and explored the places he found curious. And what Brian loved most was birds. He was wild about them and we were forever following him up trees, looking at the birds, their nests, the eggs when they hatched and all the little nestlings when they were born. We’d walk miles into the woodland looking for crows. Brian was always high up the trees checking