the lough, she remembered she hadn’t had time before school to fetch water from the well. There might be some left in the bucket but even if there was, there was only the remains of yesterday’s bread and neither jam nor butter to put on it.
She felt suddenly tired as they turned off the broad track and began to make their way up the well-trodden path to the main group of cottages and outbuildings. The door of their own cottage was open and for a moment she was alarmed.
One of the many things she had to learn when she first arrived in Ardtur was that there were no locks on doors. Neither were there any thieves. Patrick’s explanation was that there was nothing worth stealing, but her nearest neighbour, Sophie O’Donovan, had explained more fully that if there was no one at home a neighbour might come to leave something on the table, an item they had borrowed, or a jug of milk, or butter that had been asked for. As often as not, in a village of open doors, they did not close the door behind them unless it was raining hard or the wind had got up.
There was indeed something sitting on the table as they came in together. Three things, in fact. As the children hung up their schoolbags she lifted the lid on a familiar covered dish and found a large pat of butter.
‘You’re in luck, children,’ she cried. ‘Aunt Mary’s sent us down our butter. Shall we make some toast with yesterday’s bread?’ she asked, as she peered at the other large item, her own baking bowl that contained chopped-up potatoes.
For a moment she was puzzled. The potatoes were not peeled but they had been cut in pieces.
‘Of course,’ she said to herself, smiling as she remembered the message Daniel had made the two boys memorise earlier in the day when they’d sat in the sun at playtime. She tried to recall it: You’ve divided up a whole lot of numbers and planted some rows of words … if your potatoes do as well you’ll have plenty to put aside for the winter… Well, something like that, she decided, as Sam asked if he could fill the kettle for her and Rose began to fetch mugs from the dresser.
A moment later, Patrick appeared at the door, his face streaked with sweat, a second, slightly smaller baking bowl in his hands.
‘Da, are ye plantin’?’ cried Rose.
‘Can I come and help you, Da? asked Sam. ‘When we’ve had our tea and toast,’ he added quickly.
Patrick kissed them all and then met Hannah’s gaze.
‘We got finished quicker than we thought and yer man let us go early,’ he explained, ‘an’ I foun’ yer father’s letter waitin’ on the table. Ye’ve not looked at it yet,’ he went on, glancing at the brown envelope, sitting just where he had left it. ‘He wants us at the end of next week.’
Hannah’s heart sank. ‘So soon?
‘Aye, well it’s not far off the usual. The season’s a wee bit earlier in your part of the world, but I thought I’d better make a start on the tatties, seein’ we’ve a wee bit more groun’ since old Hughie died.’
She nodded and took the water bucket from Sam who had fetched it from the cupboard. There was just about a kettle full left in the bottom. The seed potatoes and the plans for next week could all wait till they’d stirred up the fire, made the tea and sat round the table exchanging the news of the day from Casheltown and Tullygobegley, over toast and Aunt Mary’s butter.
Cutting the seed potatoes to create an ‘eye’ in each portion was not a very skilled job, but Patrick, always cautious by nature, and knowing the children would want to help as soon as they came home, had made sure they were done properly by cutting the pieces himself and leaving them ready on the table.
Now, when he went back to the work of planting the main crop, Rose and Sam followed him, knowing exactly what they had to do. As he turned over the soil, they would place the cut portions, eye side up, where he pointed. Without their help the continuous bending would have made the job both painful and exhausting.
Hannah was grateful that the children were now old enough to help him with the planting. As she began to clear the table and think what needed doing next, she was equally grateful that she had an empty kitchen. There was quite enough to do to catch up on the day’s tasks, but now she also had to give her mind to all the extra things that needed doing to get ready for Patrick’s departure.
Part of her mind was indeed focused on what had to be done right now – making up the fire, fetching drinking water and washing water and making champ for their supper – but, try as she might, she could not stop thinking about the experiences of the morning.
She had been quite amazed at Daniel’s capacity to teach so effectively despite his disability. She’d always assumed Marie had done most of the work and Daniel had confined himself to Irish history and storytelling. Then she thought of how amazed she’d been to find he had such a command of English. But, most of all, what simply would not leave her mind was the unbearable thought that should he not manage to get his pension reinstated, he’d not only have to give up the school, and his dream of teaching his pupils English, but he might have no option but to go into the workhouse.
And then her eyes fell on the napkins, still waiting to be hemmed.
The napkins were the least of her worries. It was true that the draper, expected tomorrow, would not pay for an incomplete dozen, but given the rest of her month’s work, baled and wrapped ready in the dust and smoke-free safety of the bedroom, that was no cause for worry. She’d almost finished her full assignment. He would take all she had done, make a note of the missing four and pay her for that complete dozen when he came next time.
When he handed over the money for this month’s work, she’d already have enough to pay for the meal and flour they bought regularly, the milk from her neighbour and the butter from Aunt Mary. The delayed income on the final dozen would not leave her short this month.
She took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. She reminded herself that it was not just a question of money. She always felt anxious and unsettled when Patrick was going away and this was the way it usually showed itself. She’d simply worry quite unnecessarily about something or other.
‘Surely, after all these years, I should be used to it,’ she said aloud in the empty kitchen.
Of the two of them, she was the more practical one. She was certainly better at ensuring they always had enough money for food and the essential clothing for Patrick she couldn’t make herself, the heavy trousers and the underwear he needed till the weather got warmer, the boots that got such hard wear, the cap he wore both winter and summer.
Compared to most of their neighbours, especially those with five or six children, they were well off. She saved in the summer when Patrick sent home money every week and had it by her if there was no work for him over the winter. Of course, this last winter there had actually been some work on the roof of the farmhouse at Tullygobegley so she had not had to dip into so much of last summer’s savings.
Sometimes too, her father sent her a gift of money after the harvest, but this she never used. The gold coins rested in a small fabric bag she’d made for them and were kept in a box that had a place in the hard earth under their bed.
Patrick had smiled and shaken his head some years back when she’d asked him to dig a hole to hide the old wooden box. Sometimes, since then, he would make her laugh
