not one for fisticuffs. There would have been murder if Padraig wasaround, and anyone touched his ma. I carried Mrs. Aherne back to her cottage, and the village so in turmoil and roaring, that Mr. Arkwright with his tax box and his men beat a hasty retreat, leaving behind their ramming machine for the time being. The silence of rural Sligo came back with the soughing sound of the sea as the wind turned. I noticed then that the knuckles of my hand were torn and bruised and that swollen, that some must have been missing their teeth in the night.
What had Mr. Arkwright meant by saying that his lordship knew Mrs. Aherne? I remembered Father Conlon’s snide words, how Mr. Arkwright had never once come to her to collect taxes. There was surely a mystery here, but I would never be able to ask Mrs. Aherne, never.
I had washed her face, which was bruised and bleeding, and in one hand three of her fingers were mangled and purple, with marks of hobnails on her wrist and palm, where the man had stomped. It was impossible to see how deep the punctures were. I tried to wash the dirt from her hand but she kept it clenched. Opening her fist would ease the pain, I pleaded, opening it slowly in the cool basin of water I had got for her. But she looked lost in thought, keeping her palm tight shut, refusing to relinquish whatever it was in her mind, making a fist—it came to my mind—making a fist at Destiny itself. I added some drops of lavender, ever her favourite perfume, but she could not unclench that fist in the cool water of the basin. She was oblivious of all my ministrations. The blood in Mrs. Aherne’s tight-curled fist refused to melt and remained a clotted stigma. She waved me away, went to her bed, turned her face to the wall, without bidding me goodbye, and closed her eyes. The child clung to her like a cub, silent and watchful by wild instinct.
I knew from her breathing that Padraig’s ma was not asleep,nor likely to be anytime that night. I could not get rid of the smell of blood and the faint stench of black potato rot from my head, and shut the door after her and went home.
• • •
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe
The words gonged repeatedly within my head, those lines from Mr. Blake’s poem.
In every cry of every man
In every infant’s cry of fear . . .
I was haunted by the pictures of the heap of rubble left in the wake of the tumblings, knowing there would be more. For the next three days I stayed brooding at home, and Mr. O’Flaherty stayed in bed, recovering. It was on the fourth day when I could bring myself to tell Mr. O’Flaherty of the depredations in the village. He listened, with evident displeasure at my delay in telling him, and decided that we must go immediately.
“I need to see Maire,” he said, uncharacteristically short with me.
I felt guilty about not having made any queries about Mrs. Aherne in all this time, for I had simply assumed that she was mending, as were my mangled knuckles, and like all the Irish of the land, we were making the best of what was left for us.
We went slowly, for Mr. O’Flaherty with his blackthorn stick seemed to poke at the world at every step before trusting his footfall.He was yet too proud to take my elbow although I would have gladly offered it. I could see his white hairs and pink pate as he bent to read the path before him. In his hurry, he had forgotten his hat.
It was a shock when we finally reached Mrs. Aherne’s door to find it ajar. To be sure, I had not expected the shop to be open, what with such want and hunger all about us. I entered and was astounded, for the store had been looted. It was not the kind of wild looting as if there were a riot, but it had been emptied, trays bare, drawers pulled open. Some useless fragments lay on the usually spotless floor. It was as if thieves had come by night, and heavy objects removed—sacks of seed potatoes, jars of biscuits and sweets, barrels of apples, rolls
What had Mr. Arkwright meant by saying that his lordship knew Mrs. Aherne? I remembered Father Conlon’s snide words, how Mr. Arkwright had never once come to her to collect taxes. There was surely a mystery here, but I would never be able to ask Mrs. Aherne, never.
I had washed her face, which was bruised and bleeding, and in one hand three of her fingers were mangled and purple, with marks of hobnails on her wrist and palm, where the man had stomped. It was impossible to see how deep the punctures were. I tried to wash the dirt from her hand but she kept it clenched. Opening her fist would ease the pain, I pleaded, opening it slowly in the cool basin of water I had got for her. But she looked lost in thought, keeping her palm tight shut, refusing to relinquish whatever it was in her mind, making a fist—it came to my mind—making a fist at Destiny itself. I added some drops of lavender, ever her favourite perfume, but she could not unclench that fist in the cool water of the basin. She was oblivious of all my ministrations. The blood in Mrs. Aherne’s tight-curled fist refused to melt and remained a clotted stigma. She waved me away, went to her bed, turned her face to the wall, without bidding me goodbye, and closed her eyes. The child clung to her like a cub, silent and watchful by wild instinct.
I knew from her breathing that Padraig’s ma was not asleep,nor likely to be anytime that night. I could not get rid of the smell of blood and the faint stench of black potato rot from my head, and shut the door after her and went home.
• • •
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe
The words gonged repeatedly within my head, those lines from Mr. Blake’s poem.
In every cry of every man
In every infant’s cry of fear . . .
I was haunted by the pictures of the heap of rubble left in the wake of the tumblings, knowing there would be more. For the next three days I stayed brooding at home, and Mr. O’Flaherty stayed in bed, recovering. It was on the fourth day when I could bring myself to tell Mr. O’Flaherty of the depredations in the village. He listened, with evident displeasure at my delay in telling him, and decided that we must go immediately.
“I need to see Maire,” he said, uncharacteristically short with me.
I felt guilty about not having made any queries about Mrs. Aherne in all this time, for I had simply assumed that she was mending, as were my mangled knuckles, and like all the Irish of the land, we were making the best of what was left for us.
We went slowly, for Mr. O’Flaherty with his blackthorn stick seemed to poke at the world at every step before trusting his footfall.He was yet too proud to take my elbow although I would have gladly offered it. I could see his white hairs and pink pate as he bent to read the path before him. In his hurry, he had forgotten his hat.
It was a shock when we finally reached Mrs. Aherne’s door to find it ajar. To be sure, I had not expected the shop to be open, what with such want and hunger all about us. I entered and was astounded, for the store had been looted. It was not the kind of wild looting as if there were a riot, but it had been emptied, trays bare, drawers pulled open. Some useless fragments lay on the usually spotless floor. It was as if thieves had come by night, and heavy objects removed—sacks of seed potatoes, jars of biscuits and sweets, barrels of apples, rolls
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