Paupers Graveyard by Gemma Mawdsley Page B

drank what she didn’t manage to get from him. It was only by going through his pockets when he fell into a drunken stupor, that she got the odd shilling or sixpence. He never mentioned its loss to her, imagining that it had fallen from his pocket in the tavern.
    Was it a wonder so many men drank, working all the hours God sent and for what? A cabin that is no more than a hovel, hoards of hungry children to feed and growing old before their time. And if they did manage to scrimp and save, what could they ever hope to buy, to own? The gentry made sure that land was out of their reach. A Catholic owning land, and maybe doing as well as them!
    But, to hear the priests tell it, they were blessed; theirs was the One True Faith. Hungry men, women and children filled the pews each week and listened to the words that kept them downtrodden. Work hard, they preached, have more children, honour God, but fear him more. Fear him more? She almost laughed. She feared everything. She feared the coming of each day, feared the look of want in her children and the knowledge that it would only get worse. It was lucky that the women of Ireland did not take to the bottle, for then the country would surely collapse.
    Once inside she dropped the heavy basket and got Peter out of his wet clothes. She took the blanket off one of the beds and wrapped it around his shivering body. She wiped at his hair with a piece of cloth to remove as much of the rainwater as she could, unaware of the sodden skirt clinging to her legs. Peter, as usual, was ravenous and wolfed down the four potatoes Timmy put in front of him, along with a bowl of buttermilk.
    Her husband sat coldly watching without saying a word. It was only when Timmy took the last basket of turf to the pile in the corner and upended it onto the growing mound that he finally spoke.
    â€˜That stuff is so wet, you’ll be lucky if it dries enough to burn.’
    Peter stopped eating for a minute to stare at his father, Timmy stood with one leg on the turf pile in stony silence, and their mother, who was holding out her steaming skirt in front of the fire, just glared at him. It was probably the hatred in her eyes that sent him away to bed without another word.
    She had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself crying again. What would it cost him to say something kind? Even one small word could help to lighten the darkness for her and the children.
    Timmy laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Ma, sit down. I’ll make you some tea. That’ll warm you up in no time.’
    She allowed him to lead her to the chair and watched as he set about mashing the old tea-leaves, trying to beat some flavour from the damp, black clump, before pouring steaming water over them.
    â€˜There’s to be a killing up at the Hall tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘The herdsman said I should bring a sack, and maybe there’ll be some offal and bones left over.’ He hadn’t meant to tell her, wanting it to be a surprise, but he was glad that he did, when the sadness faded from her eyes. Bones meant beef broth and nourishment for them all, especially the younger ones. He handed her the cup and she gazed down into the weak, amber liquid, sighing.
    â€˜Aye that would be grand, lad, a sup of beef tea would drive the cold from all our bones.’
    Peter’s head drooped as he nodded off from the heat of the fire. She motioned to Timmy to help him to bed. After he had done so he came back and knelt before her. ‘Will you try and eat something, Ma, just a bit of bread?’
    â€˜No, son, I’m tired out, and I don’t want to waste it. You can take some of it to work with you tomorrow. Lord, but I’m tired,’ she whispered into the flames.
    Timmy reached up and felt her forehead.
    â€˜Ah, I’m all right, son,’ she stroked his cheek. ‘Just old and tired, that’s all.’
    But Timmy was worried. He knew that his mother wasn’t old. She was about the same age as