cloud seemed lower now. The hard rain would be upon us in an hour, I feared, with the Atlantic gusts skirling overhead. The keening had started again. The women had all known Brigid from when she was born, and the rocking and the bitter cries rose from their hearts. Mrs. Aherne stood, a little apart from Father Conlon, her grief carved on her sleepless face. She had a look of helplessness. That was the last word I would have thought of, ever, to describe Padraig’s ma.
Father Conlon stepped up to her. “I am that sorry, Maire, for my hard words. Where is Padraig . . .” His voice trailed off. I was amazed to see this, but Padraig’s ma put her head down on his shoulder. She did not weep. Then she stood back and faced the coffin on the ground. The grave had already been dug. After the prayers, the coffin was lowered. Padraig’s ma moved aside and the priest came and stood by her.
“The child’s early, Father, much too early.”
“You are there to take good care of it. I have faith, Maire, you will pull her through, God grant that.”
“ ’Tis hard, Father, for she won’t feed. We tried giving her milk, but her wee face is puffed and broken in a rash. She is too tiny to keep it down and is fast sinking, I fear”—her voice quavered—“andno one here just now to give her pap. Someone heard of a woman beyond Collooney. She has also birthed, but then, even if she agrees, the weather’s turning so, it would take two days at least.”
We could hear the neighbours drop handfuls of sod where they fell with a hollow sound on Brigid’s coffin. The wind was rising.
“Whatever shall we do then?” said Father Conlon. His distress for the doomed baby was written all over his unshaven face. His Adam’s apple moved up and down, and he was close to tears. This was not a Father Conlon I had known either. “Where’s the baby now?”
“Mrs. Hanrahan down the lane is sitting with her, by my fire, till I return.” Mrs. Aherne clutched at Father Conlon’s sleeve. “Will you . . . will you come and give her the last words, Father?”
But before anyone could say a word, there was a wild despairing cry. Startled, I looked and saw an older woman, black shawl fluttering, hobble and run, her mouth open. Her hands were flailing, but her progress was slower than her flinging arms made it look. Padraig’s ma ran towards her, screaming, “Where’s the baby, where? Oh Mrs. Hanrahan, where is my baby?”
The old woman collapsed on the road, panting, words choked in her breathless throat, just pointing back at the direction of the cottage whence she had come. “Aaah, aah,” she panted, bent fingers clawing at her throat. “Aaah . . .” A faint welt, as from a hard blow, was beginning to form on her face.
Mrs. Aherne stood transfixed for a moment, then took off. She was a tall, strong woman, and two nights of sleepless vigil could not slow her. Holding her wide skirts up with both hands, she ran, her feet flying over the stones, and everyone else followed, the men, Father Conlon grunting with effort, the women, and I. But ahead of all of us was the desperate speed of Maire Aherne.
She raced into the dark door of her cottage, her skirts trailing up a swirl of dust from the yard. Motes whirled in the doorway, and then the crowd burst in, jostling to get inside. I stood packed with others.
In the silence of the room with its low red fire, we saw Padraig’s ma on one side of the bed. Then on the bed, as our eyes became used to the gloom, we saw the baby, held in grimy hands, its tiny mouth suckling the nipple of half-naked Odd Madgy Finn, whose eyes were closed in bliss.
Padraig
Dublin
October 8, 1843
As I walked into the unknown city, I realized how one could lose one’s identity here. One could wear any face in its hurrying crowds.
Even such a wondrous variety of bridges to cross the Liffey every few streets amazed and consternated my head. I drank in the sight of the many manners of houses, arches,
Father Conlon stepped up to her. “I am that sorry, Maire, for my hard words. Where is Padraig . . .” His voice trailed off. I was amazed to see this, but Padraig’s ma put her head down on his shoulder. She did not weep. Then she stood back and faced the coffin on the ground. The grave had already been dug. After the prayers, the coffin was lowered. Padraig’s ma moved aside and the priest came and stood by her.
“The child’s early, Father, much too early.”
“You are there to take good care of it. I have faith, Maire, you will pull her through, God grant that.”
“ ’Tis hard, Father, for she won’t feed. We tried giving her milk, but her wee face is puffed and broken in a rash. She is too tiny to keep it down and is fast sinking, I fear”—her voice quavered—“andno one here just now to give her pap. Someone heard of a woman beyond Collooney. She has also birthed, but then, even if she agrees, the weather’s turning so, it would take two days at least.”
We could hear the neighbours drop handfuls of sod where they fell with a hollow sound on Brigid’s coffin. The wind was rising.
“Whatever shall we do then?” said Father Conlon. His distress for the doomed baby was written all over his unshaven face. His Adam’s apple moved up and down, and he was close to tears. This was not a Father Conlon I had known either. “Where’s the baby now?”
“Mrs. Hanrahan down the lane is sitting with her, by my fire, till I return.” Mrs. Aherne clutched at Father Conlon’s sleeve. “Will you . . . will you come and give her the last words, Father?”
But before anyone could say a word, there was a wild despairing cry. Startled, I looked and saw an older woman, black shawl fluttering, hobble and run, her mouth open. Her hands were flailing, but her progress was slower than her flinging arms made it look. Padraig’s ma ran towards her, screaming, “Where’s the baby, where? Oh Mrs. Hanrahan, where is my baby?”
The old woman collapsed on the road, panting, words choked in her breathless throat, just pointing back at the direction of the cottage whence she had come. “Aaah, aah,” she panted, bent fingers clawing at her throat. “Aaah . . .” A faint welt, as from a hard blow, was beginning to form on her face.
Mrs. Aherne stood transfixed for a moment, then took off. She was a tall, strong woman, and two nights of sleepless vigil could not slow her. Holding her wide skirts up with both hands, she ran, her feet flying over the stones, and everyone else followed, the men, Father Conlon grunting with effort, the women, and I. But ahead of all of us was the desperate speed of Maire Aherne.
She raced into the dark door of her cottage, her skirts trailing up a swirl of dust from the yard. Motes whirled in the doorway, and then the crowd burst in, jostling to get inside. I stood packed with others.
In the silence of the room with its low red fire, we saw Padraig’s ma on one side of the bed. Then on the bed, as our eyes became used to the gloom, we saw the baby, held in grimy hands, its tiny mouth suckling the nipple of half-naked Odd Madgy Finn, whose eyes were closed in bliss.
Padraig
Dublin
October 8, 1843
As I walked into the unknown city, I realized how one could lose one’s identity here. One could wear any face in its hurrying crowds.
Even such a wondrous variety of bridges to cross the Liffey every few streets amazed and consternated my head. I drank in the sight of the many manners of houses, arches,
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