barley stored in huge cereal bins. The work continued on long into the summer evenings, till the exhausted workers finally went home at sunset to sleep.
Michael unharnessed and patted the big oldfarm-horses who were now the heroes – they well deserved their tin buckets full of oats and the respect of those who worked with them on the estate.
‘’Tis a grand harvest,’ said Brendan.
‘Better than last year even,’ agreed Michael.
‘Lord Henry will be rightly pleased.’
Brendan nudged Michael and pointed at Markey, the donkey, who trotted past them pulling a small cart. ‘I see they even have Markey working hard. ‘Tis about time!’
Michael chuckled. The donkey’s only job in recent years had been to keep the racehorses company. Any of them that got lonely or seemed to be acting up always improved if they had the old grey donkey to share their field or paddock with them.
Rolling up their sleeves and pulling on their caps, Michael and Brendan ran to help unload Markey’s cart.
Michael could remember a time long ago when he was only a small boy helping his father, bending low to pick up stray blades of wheat scattered on the ground. He could almost see the curly, dark head, as black as his own, the powerful shoulders, the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to the muscles, and then the laughing voices of his mother and two sisters, Eily and Peggy, as they ran across the fields with a jug of cold, cold water from the well and boiled potatoes wrapped in a cloth and still warm from the pot in their home at Duneen.
‘Are ye all right, Michael?’ enquired Brendan, looking anxiously at his friend who had suddenly stopped working.
‘The sun is blinding me, that’s all,’ said Michael softly, unwilling to banish the childhood memory and the comfort it gave him.
Finally, one night as the sun sank and the fields lay trim and gleaming, the field-mouse scurrying to find her lost mate, the corncrake safe with her young in a small uncut patch, the host of small birds fighting over the feast, it was time for the workers to be rewarded.
The kitchen staff had been busy for days and the whitewashed laundry rooms had been cleaned. Huge trestle tables were set up for the harvest supper. There were roasted meats and huge bowls of floury potatoes, trays full of griddle cakes and oat biscuits, jugs of thick brown gravy and boiled carrots and baby cabbages they called sprouts.
Michael ate and ate, his stomach so full in the end he felt it would surely burst. Mercy laughed at him, as she avoided the glances of the farmers’ sons, her eyes twinkling only at him. Outside there were barrels of porter and ale and a punchbowl for the womenfolk and lemonade for the children. Lord Henry and his wife, Martha, joined them all, dressed in their finery, while their daughters, Rose and Felicia, in matching pink dresses, giggled with excitement as they took inthe scene and mingled with the tenants. Felicia spotted Michael and made him shove up on his bench so she could sit beside him. She gabbled on about the high jinks they were having and pointed out her cousins, and her uncle Robert who was home from India.
The empty coach-house was soon filled with the sound of the fiddle and pipes as Dermot and Dinny Callaghan, two old bachelors who lived down by the river, began to play.
Old men and young men alike twirled the women around the room, dancing to their hearts’ content. Michael grabbed hold of Mercy, never letting go of her hand for a minute the whole night long. ‘Isn’t it grand!’ she laughed as they danced together, keeping in step with the lively music. After a while the coach-house became too hot and crowded, so like many of the younger folk they found themselves dancing out under the stars. Mercy uncoiled her thick plait of wavy brown hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders as she waltzed with Michael O’Driscoll, the boy she loved.
It was late by the time the Callaghans stopped playing and the company began to break up.
Michael unharnessed and patted the big oldfarm-horses who were now the heroes – they well deserved their tin buckets full of oats and the respect of those who worked with them on the estate.
‘’Tis a grand harvest,’ said Brendan.
‘Better than last year even,’ agreed Michael.
‘Lord Henry will be rightly pleased.’
Brendan nudged Michael and pointed at Markey, the donkey, who trotted past them pulling a small cart. ‘I see they even have Markey working hard. ‘Tis about time!’
Michael chuckled. The donkey’s only job in recent years had been to keep the racehorses company. Any of them that got lonely or seemed to be acting up always improved if they had the old grey donkey to share their field or paddock with them.
Rolling up their sleeves and pulling on their caps, Michael and Brendan ran to help unload Markey’s cart.
Michael could remember a time long ago when he was only a small boy helping his father, bending low to pick up stray blades of wheat scattered on the ground. He could almost see the curly, dark head, as black as his own, the powerful shoulders, the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to the muscles, and then the laughing voices of his mother and two sisters, Eily and Peggy, as they ran across the fields with a jug of cold, cold water from the well and boiled potatoes wrapped in a cloth and still warm from the pot in their home at Duneen.
‘Are ye all right, Michael?’ enquired Brendan, looking anxiously at his friend who had suddenly stopped working.
‘The sun is blinding me, that’s all,’ said Michael softly, unwilling to banish the childhood memory and the comfort it gave him.
Finally, one night as the sun sank and the fields lay trim and gleaming, the field-mouse scurrying to find her lost mate, the corncrake safe with her young in a small uncut patch, the host of small birds fighting over the feast, it was time for the workers to be rewarded.
The kitchen staff had been busy for days and the whitewashed laundry rooms had been cleaned. Huge trestle tables were set up for the harvest supper. There were roasted meats and huge bowls of floury potatoes, trays full of griddle cakes and oat biscuits, jugs of thick brown gravy and boiled carrots and baby cabbages they called sprouts.
Michael ate and ate, his stomach so full in the end he felt it would surely burst. Mercy laughed at him, as she avoided the glances of the farmers’ sons, her eyes twinkling only at him. Outside there were barrels of porter and ale and a punchbowl for the womenfolk and lemonade for the children. Lord Henry and his wife, Martha, joined them all, dressed in their finery, while their daughters, Rose and Felicia, in matching pink dresses, giggled with excitement as they took inthe scene and mingled with the tenants. Felicia spotted Michael and made him shove up on his bench so she could sit beside him. She gabbled on about the high jinks they were having and pointed out her cousins, and her uncle Robert who was home from India.
The empty coach-house was soon filled with the sound of the fiddle and pipes as Dermot and Dinny Callaghan, two old bachelors who lived down by the river, began to play.
Old men and young men alike twirled the women around the room, dancing to their hearts’ content. Michael grabbed hold of Mercy, never letting go of her hand for a minute the whole night long. ‘Isn’t it grand!’ she laughed as they danced together, keeping in step with the lively music. After a while the coach-house became too hot and crowded, so like many of the younger folk they found themselves dancing out under the stars. Mercy uncoiled her thick plait of wavy brown hair, letting it tumble around her shoulders as she waltzed with Michael O’Driscoll, the boy she loved.
It was late by the time the Callaghans stopped playing and the company began to break up.
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