A Woman Undefeated Read online

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Innocence Lost

  The Polish Connection

  A WOMAN

  UNDEFEATED

  VIVIENNE DOCKERTY

  Copyright © 2010 Vivienne Dockerty

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1848764 880

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Aldine401 BT Roman by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s Note

  FOREWORD

  I have never understood why my father didn’t visit Ireland in his lifetime, as he always seemed proud to tell me that he was second generation Irish and all his ancestors were from the Emerald Isle. He would sing “ Danny Boy” and “ I’ll take you home again, Kathleen” and other haunting songs that I never knew the titles of ; he would show me how to dance the Ceilidh and tell me stories of the ancestors that we were descended from. My favourite story was of how a Great Aunt had rowed up the River Dee estuary, with a handful of golden sovereigns sewn into the hem of her dress. I could imagine this doughty woman seeking a new life for herself, when things had got tough in her homeland.

  One day he took me to a place called Denna Point, near the village of Neston on the Wirral and showed me the site where Irish immigrants camped out under a canopy of leaf laden trees, before setting off to the town of Birkenhead, or city of Liverpool, to find employment, or settled down to labouring jobs nearby.

  I decided to visit this land of my childish imagination, to trace my heritage as far as it would go. I found an “ Irish stew” of spectacular scenery, quiet country roads, glittering loughs, tumbling waterfalls, mystical legends and learnt some of the island’s turbulent history whilst I was there.

  I feel sad that my father never made it to the Emerald Isle. He missed out on all the beauty that could have calmed his troubled soul. But he left me with a wish to write this story, the one that my Great Aunt Maggie would have liked me to tell.

  Vivienne Dockerty.

  Chapter 1

  The blackening clouds that heralded more rain, gathered menacingly over the west coast of Ireland. Blown in from the Atlantic they looked down upon the small hamlet of Killala, where a row of windowless cabins sat on the grassy headland overlooking the River Moy.

  Maggie knelt at the side of her mother’s bed in one of those poor cabins, deep in prayer as she rotated each bead on her rosary. She was oblivious to anything that was going on around her, so jumped in surprise when a gentle hand touched her shoulder. It was Jack, her childhood friend, who stood behind her, gazing down with sympathy in his eyes.

  “Jack,” she whispered, reluctant to even tear herself away for a precious moment from the task of praying on the behalf of her sick mother.

  “Yer not here again over the leaving, are yer? I’ve told yer I’ll think on it, but not just yet.”

  She turned her face away from him and shifted her knees more comfortably, as her legs were beginning to feel numb. She wished he’d go, he was intruding into this time of peace and prayer.

  He hovered, seemingly unwilling to wait until she’d finished her praying.

  “What did the priest say?”

  Maggie sighed wearily and dragged herself up to face him.

  “He says there’s little hope and to expect her passin’ in the next day or so.”

  Jack nodded grimly.

  “Aye, yer mother was never strong, never got over yer father and then young Bernie running off like ‘e did.”

  He put his large work- roughened hand out to steady Maggie, as she got up and took a few jerky steps.

  “Easy now. ‘Ave yer eaten today or did yer give that broth me mother sent te Molly?”

  Maggie’s face brightened at the mention of her sister.

  “Aye, I took a sup, but most was given to Molly. She can keep food down now the fever’s broke. Wish I could say the same for me mother. She’ll only have a little water, says her belly’s past it.”

  She turned away, suddenly embarrassed. Jack had a strange expression on his face. As if he was drinking in the sight of her, like one would covet a rare picture on a wall. The look was unexpected. She knew from peering into the speckled mirror which belonged to her mother, that her face was drawn and her green eyes dull, that her long chestnut hair was tangled and her clothes were all raggedy. So why was he looking at her, like a girl he would wed if he could?

  It was true that Jack’s thoughts were following in that direction, he wanted to possess her, offer to wed her, take her away from this dying hamlet to a new life over the sea. But deep down he felt an anger. Anger at Maggie’s blind and stubborn faith in the God she worshipped. The God who had allowed the main source of sustenance to the poor people of Ireland to wither and blacken for the second successive year. The God, who was allowing whole families to die slowly and in pain from the effects of the hunger in their lives. His shoulders drooped as his feelings turned to helplessness. Once he had gone from Killala, there’d be no one to look out for her. Jack didn’t believe like she did, that God would be there to care.

  Maggie knew that he was desperate for her to leave the hamlet with him, as leaving had been the only thing he had been able to talk about for the last few days. Recently though, his attitude had seemed to change from caring friend to possessive suitor. She knew she should be flattered. Any girl would be proud to walk out with such a strong young buck , but not Maggie. She had no intention of tying herself down at the tender age of sixteen.

  She turned away from his gaze and went to lean over the wooden cot, where her sister, Molly, lay sleeping. She kissed the small child’s brow, then listened anxiously to her breathing. To her relief it seemed better than it had been all day. She wasn’t as hot, her waxy skin felt cooler.

  Perhaps her fever was really on the mend.

  Jack’s manner though became insistent as Maggie rose from covering the girl with a threadbare shawl. He placed his calloused hands upon her shoulders and began to shake her gently.

  “But Maggie, don’t yer see, this is yer only chance of gettin’ away. Once the winter comes you’ll never be able to leave this place. The sea will be too rough, yer’ll be cut off here in the snow and how’ll you care fer Molly then? Look, come with us and leave yer mother and yer sister to the relatives. Your Aunt Tess would be up to looking after the pair of them and take Molly in after yer mother’s gone.”

  He must have known from the look on her face that he had gone too far with his pleading. She shook off his hands and went to the cabin door looking flushed and angry. At that time Jack could have taken himself off to the ends of the earth if he wanted. Her duty was to remain in Killala and make her family as comfortable as she could. He followed sheepishly, knowing that he had pushed her too far, knowing that she could dig in her heels once she had made up her mind.

  Words didn’t usually come easily to Jack and it must have been a blow to his vanity to be shown the door, but Maggie knew where he’d be off to. He’d be seeing if his mother, Alice, could find a way to get her to change her mind. Alice could deny him nothing and would sell her own husband if it would please her son.

  Maggie listened as Jack’s footsteps faded into the distance. She knew that he was right. Life would become even harder now that the potatoes had rotted. There was no future for anyone living in the poor hamlet now. Most of the neighbours had gone, either left or succumbed to the fever that was raging through the land.

  Her Pa had died three weeks before. He had been a fine strapping man until the hunger. Now his wasted body lay buried in the churchyard at Ballina, the nearest town, and it looked as if her mother would be joining him very soon. Her heart twisted in sympathy as she went back to sit by the sick woman. Her mother had simply lost the will to live, though why would she want to? What a desperate s
tate her little family had found themselves in.

  As Maggie continued her vigil, she began to think back over the years of her childhood. It had not been an easy life, as they depended largely on things they could grow. The most abundant crop had been potatoes. Rows and rows of the plant had grown profusely on their small piece of land, fertilized with seaweed gathered from the shore and manure from the wild ponies that came down from the hills. That had been until two years ago.

  She felt sorrow as she remembered her Pa’s words, when they had all lent a hand to plant the seed potatoes into their drills. He had boasted of the fine crop that they’d be having. Enough to sell at the market in nearby Ballina, with all of them having a rare day out. They’d buy new clothes, well, new to them from a stall on the market, as they couldn’t afford Hegarty’s, the outfitter’s prices. And maybe there would be a bit of money left over, for a jug of porter from one of the taverns in the town. That was the measure of her father, he’d spend first on his family and then he would think of his own needs.

  He had been a good man, a good husband and father. He hardly ever touched the drink, not like some of the men in the area, when sometimes it could be days before their wives would see them again. But that had been in the days before the famine came. Not many could afford to frequent a tavern now.

  Her Pa had worked hard for his family, wresting a living from the ungrateful earth, or fishing from the small boat that belonged cooperatively to the people of Killala, or sold on some of their produce at the market and helped his neighbours when they needed a hand.

  Maggie looked down sadly at Mairi, her mother. The woman lay on her palliasse waiting for death to release her from a cruel and heartbreaking world. She’d been a clean living and God fearing woman, who had only lived for her husband and family. Each Sunday she’d insisted that they all made the hazardous trek to Inishpoint across the headland, where they worshipped in a little church overlooking the dark Atlantic. Waves crashed onto the shore below, leaving seaweed and debris in its wake and fascinating them all, as they picked their way carefully along the narrow coastal path.

  In those days Bernie, Maggie’s young brother had been with them. He had always been a happy boisterous child, constantly getting up to mischief and setting Mairi’s heart across her, when he ran too near the cliff edge. The cliff was dangerously eroded due to centuries of battering by the sea. They would attend Mass with the other “cottiers”, peasants renting small pieces of land. The staff from the Big House and farmers who were tenants on acreage belonging to the local landlord worshipped alongside them, all united in the purpose of worshipping the God who had given them their living and their homes. After church they’d wend their way back home for Sunday dinner, where tatties roasted slowly in pig fat and a rabbit simmered gently in the big pot hanging over the fire.

  Mairi began to stir, which brought her daughter back swiftly from her happy memories. She looked upon Maggie with hollow shadowed eyes.

  “Will you get me some water, child?” she said with some difficulty, in a voice so low that her daughter had to bend closer to hear her.

  Maggie gave her a drop of water from the stone pitcher.

  “Only a little now, Mammy. Just to dampen yer throat, too much will start yer belly aching again.”

  “Me belly’s aching already, Maggie,” Mairi replied, a rueful smile playing on her cracked and swollen lips. Then trying to prop herself up on one elbow, she tried to see how Molly was, who was still sleeping somewhat fitfully nearby.

  “Molly’s doing fine now, Mammy. Yer to lie back, yer need yer strength. I’m here to see to me sister if she needs me.”

  “Yer a good girl, Maggie,” her mother said. “I couldn’t ’ave wished for a better daughter, but I’ll not be getting up from this bed again, I’ll soon be joinin’ yer Pa.”

  “Hush, Mammy, don’t speak like that. You’re sure to get better, I promise.”

  Maggie’s words were meant to be comforting, but her heart felt full of despair.

  Mairi sank back thankfully onto her straw filled palliasse. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she went to join her husband in Heaven. She wasn’t afraid of death, she welcomed it. Just the thought of seeing Pat’s face again made her beating heart race. She knew she was being selfish, she should make an effort, try to eat, or her daughters would be left without her. But her thoughts were constantly with him, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. He was waiting, she could feel his presence. He was waiting to guide her to a pain free place.

  Did Pat remember when she had been a young maid in Sligo? In the days when they’d been carefree, but he’d had itchy feet and an urge to see the world. He’d been good looking, a man any girl could fall for and follow to the ends of the earth. He was seventeen and had left his parents’ land to seek out pastures new. The work on the land was just enough for his Pa and a younger brother, so his aim was a passage to one of the new colonies. But first he had to work to get some money for his fare. Any odd job he could set his hands to.

  Seeing Mairi was Pat’s downfall. He spied her as she scurried through her master’s kitchen with her box of polishes and cloths. He looked up from where he was fixing a wobbly table leg and his heart was smitten. Pat thought she was the most beautiful colleen he had ever seen. One look at her pink rosy cheeks and her warm velvety eyes and he forgot his reason for being there. Mairi was impressed by Pat’s handsome looks and boyish smile and decided to throw her lot in with this charming stranger. They were married three months later, from her parents’ home in Sligo.

  The couple still could have gone to the Americas if Mairi had been willing, but she was a home loving girl and from what she had heard about his home in Killala, it sounded much like what she had been used to before. She was welcomed heartily into Pat’s family, especially as their marriage had brought the wandering son home. His father spoke up for Pat to the landlord’s bailiff, so a turf cabin was built on an acre of land. The neighbours brought gifts: a piglet, a chicken and a barrel of seed potatoes to give the newly weds a good start.

  They lived quite well. The pig was, in fact, a sow, and was always getting in the family way by the trotter from next door. Pat was a good shot with his father’s gun and game was prolific; there was also a surplus of wheat in Ireland that kept flour prices low.

  Life was good and Pat was happy to have settled down.

  Mairi gave birth to Maggie in 1830, followed by the birth of Bernard in 1832. Then, Mairi remembered sadly, things started to go badly wrong. Another fine boy was delivered a year later, but three months on he died. There seemed to be no reason for his death. She had put him in the little wooden cot that Pat had made, when Maggie was born and the next morning when the family awoke, the poor little soul had gone. Her mother-in-law had said that it was just the will of God. Perhaps there was a shortage of cherubs in Heaven and the boy had been called to help out up there!

  Mairi was not comforted by the thought. She believed it was the foul air in the cabin that had killed him, now that there were five people sharing and no window to let in fresh air.

  From that day on, she kept Pat at bay when the urge to make babies came upon him.

  The pain of losing a child decided her against being caught again. If it meant roasting in Hell for eternity, she wasn’t going to go through all that pain again. Then as time passed by and she saw that Maggie and Bernie were growing into fine and healthy children, she welcomed Pat back to share her palliasse. A year later Mairi gave birth to twin girls, Collina and Bridie.

  They wondered what on earth they had ever done to deserve the next tragedy. The family had tramped home in the pouring rain from their weekly trip to Mass. Both babies were well wrapped up, one in Mairi’s shawl, the other in Pat’s oilskin, but within a day of each other, two small souls had gone. She could still remember the tearing pain in her heart, as the two little coffins were lowered into the grave, on top of the coffin that held her tiny boy. Their loss affected her deeply. She lost weight and her pink cheeks were replaced with a pallor, her beautiful chestnut tresses hung limply around her shoulders and her eyes took on the look of deep despair.