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

be on the other side of the bank before we could even get close. So Brian started making cardboard traps instead. He’d tie a string to the crow’s feet when he caught one and let it fly off just as far as the string would let it go. The crow would flap vigorously mid-flight, but, unable to move forward, it would struggle before falling towards the ground.

      Now my father knew of Brian’s interest in birds and was concerned about him climbing trees all the time, fearing he might fall. So one day he came home with a turkey for Brian. Needless to say, Brian was overjoyed at having a pet, something that he could look after and care for. He guarded his turkey tirelessly, never leaving it out of his sight. We young ones weren’t allowed to come close to the turkey, let alone play with it. Brian defended his turkey like it was his own child. Tara would dearly love to have played with the turkey but was too afraid of Brian. We were all afraid of Brian when he lost his temper. Brian could be very vicious when he was angry.

      One day Brian went out with our father and Floss to catch rabbits, leaving me, Tara and Colin to amuse ourselves.

      ‘Come on,’ Tara urged. ‘Let’s get the turkey. They won’t be back for ages.’

      ‘Brian’ll be mad if he finds out.’ I was worried.

      ‘He won’t find out,’ Tara insisted. ‘He’ll never know as long as we put it back when we’re finished.’

      So Tara picked up the turkey and headed towards the riverbank where there was open ground to play on, while Colin and myself followed close behind.

      We were all thrilled to be playing with the turkey at last.

      ‘I want to see it fly,’ Tara shouted. She grabbed the turkey and tossed it into the air, running after it as the turkey flapped its wings but landed, running rather than flying. We all chased after it and grabbed the turkey again, then threw it up into the air once more and then again, and again.

      ‘Why doesn’t it fly? Why is the turkey doing that?’ Tara panted, breathless from all the running and throwing. We couldn’t understand why the turkey wouldn’t fly. We kept tossing it in the air, repeatedly, and even tried doing it from raised ground. We kept at it for ages, trying to make it fly until suddenly the turkey dropped to the ground.

      And stayed there.

      ‘The turkey’s dead. Oh my God, we killed the turkey! What are we going to do? Brian is gonna kill us when he finds out!’

      Tara was a bundle of nerves. We all were – I trembled at the thought of Brian coming home to his dead turkey. We all stood staring down at the lifeless bird, too shocked to say anything.

      Finally, Tara made a decision.

      ‘We have to leave it here and pretend not to know anything about it,’ she insisted. ‘We have to or he’ll kill us.’

      We all agreed and returned to the wagons, leaving the turkey at the riverbank where it had dropped dead. We went about our business as normally as we could, though our hearts raced with anxiety.

      Later that afternoon Brian returned and went straight to see his turkey. He looked everywhere around the campsite but he couldn’t find it.

      ‘Where’s my turkey?’ he asked all of us, including my mother. He was panicky and worried. We all shrugged, innocent.

      ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got to look for it.’

      So we all pretended to be looking around until eventually my father and mother found it where we’d left it by the riverbank. Brian burst into tears, distraught.

      ‘Never mind, I’ll get you another one,’ Daddy said, patting Brian’s shoulder. We all felt terrible – we knew how much Brian loved his turkey.

      ‘No! I don’t want another one. It’s not the same!’ Brian screamed back.

      ‘I know that Tara killed my turkey. She always wanted to get at it. I’ll drown her in the river if I find out that she has done it,’ Brian sobbed as he held the limp bird.

      ‘Now, Brian. Tara didn’t do it,’ Daddy soothed. ‘You can bring the nestlings back to the wagon and look after them.’

      Later that night my father buried Brian’s turkey – a sombre moment but also one filled with overwhelming relief that none of us got found out. We never did tell him the truth.

Chapter 3

       Harsh Reality

      Looking back now, I realise those first summer months in the wagons were the best. We played and explored with abandon, never realising the hardships that would come with the change of seasons. But as every week passed and the summer turned to autumn, a crisp chill filled the air and the days grew shorter and harder. At first there was work to be done – my father, older brothers and sisters went back to the farms to harvest the crop. Crowning the beets, they called it. Claire and Bridget hated the work, complaining how cold it was in the early morning to pull the beets out of the hard frosty ground. Their knees were sore. Their backs ached from all the bending, up and down. The work was hard and the blistering wind chilled them to the bone.

      Us young ones also had to work since we now had to make a lot more trips gathering wood to keep the fire going throughout the day and night for warmth. Mammy simply got on with her jobs, cooking on the stove instead of outdoors, to keep the wagon heated. Of an evening she’d make us all mashed potato followed by our favourite dessert called Goody, which was just milk, bread and sugar, but we all loved it. Occasionally we got a sausage or a side of bacon but mainly she saved the meat for Daddy, who got fed separate from us kids.

      Once the beet had finished and the horse fairs were all done for the year, Daddy was at home a lot more, and, with the short days, we noticed that lately he was quick to anger. He couldn’t bear to be around all us kids making a noise all the time, so often he’d throw us out of the wagon.

      We’d stay at the other wagon while we listened to his raving and screaming at my mother. You couldn’t help but listen. Sometimes we could hear my mother trying to calm him down, her soft voice almost drowned by his shouts. There were days she could soothe him, but other times she couldn’t and he’d take the horse and cart to the village pub where he’d drink himself silly. But no matter how much he drank, Polly the piebald always managed to take my father back home. We’d see them coming down the road, Polly clip-clopping away, my father flat out on the cart, one leg dangling free, fast asleep, with the ever-faithful Floss still at his side.

      We preferred it that way – I would rather have my father coming home asleep than when he was still awake drunk to his eyeballs. Then he terrified us so much that we all ran out of the wagon and hid in the ditches before he could make his way up.

      We had seen him giving our older brothers a good hiding and we knew he could fire up a fearsome temper. Those times we’d crouch in the ditch, hearing my mother screaming and pleading for my father to stop until, eventually, everything went quiet and Mammy would give us the go-ahead to come back and we’d creep back to the wagon. He would be fast asleep by then. She, black and blue.

      At first Daddy’s temper came in short bursts, but as the long winter dragged on they became worse and worse.

      ‘Are you trying to poison me, woman?’ he growled at my mother one day, throwing a plate of bacon and mash out of the back of the wagon. Floss, who was never far from Daddy’s side, eagerly set upon the discarded food as we all looked on longingly at the fast-disappearing meat.

      ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Mammy replied calmly.

      ‘There’s poison in that food you’re giving me, you wicked woman!’ he railed, furious.

      ‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Mammy shot back. ‘You’re pure paranoid!’

      But Daddy was serious. Silence filled the air between them.

      We knew there was only a few seconds before he’d be up