A Slip of a Girl Read online

off the loom.

  “I should have taught you,”

  she says.

  Blaming herself?

  She totters to the loom,

  loops one stitch over the other.

  I see.

  I put my hand over hers.

  “I can do this.”

  I take the shawl off the loom.

  It’s finished,

  a gift from Martin’s sheep.

  It isn’t the Aunt’s anymore.

  It isn’t mine.

  It belongs at the Big House.

  “You’ll bring it to the cook

  at the back door,”

  she says.

  “Of course, the back door,”

  I answer with bitterness.

  The Kitchen

  I take Nuala’s face

  in my hands.

  “Stay with the Aunt,”

  I tell her.

  She nods, hesitates.

  “I take care of her.”

  Still at the loom,

  the Aunt smiles.

  “We’ll take care of each other.”

  I don’t bother to see

  if the Aunt has shoes.

  I’ll go to this house

  as I am.

  Let them see

  what they’ve taken

  from us.

  Outside,

  the gravel is hard

  on my soles.

  The Englishman’s house lies ahead,

  almost like the earl’s.

  Madra follows me.

  He stops at the half-open gate.

  At the kitchen door,

  I knock.

  No one answers.

  I kick the door open.

  There’s no one in the kitchen.

  I think of Martin’s words:

  a hundred books.

  I fold the shawl

  over the back of a chair,

  then tiptoe along the hall,

  glad my feet are quiet.

  An open door.

  I look over my shoulder.

  No one there.

  Inside,

  I run my fingers

  over the books.

  A letter rests

  on the table.

  I look quickly.

  “Charles Parnell in Parliament

  tells tenants

  to hold back the rent.

  Michael Davitt in Mayo

  urges them not to pay.

  Even in North Longford…”

  North Longford?

  Us?

  I hear voices now.

  I can’t tell what they’re saying.

  I frown, thinking.

  Do I know one of them?

  But I can’t be caught.

  I rush down the hall,

  slide into the kitchen,

  without being seen.

  The cook runs her hand

  over the shawl.

  “Ethna did this,”

  she says.

  “Beautiful, as is all her work.”

  I nod, thinking of the letter,

  trying to place that one voice.

  Who is it?

  A broadside from 1881 urging tenant farmers to support the Irish National Land League movement

  (This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland EPH E124.)

  My Book

  THE Aunt is at the loom.

  Nuala sits on the floor

  and plays with the wool.

  My chores are finished.

  The hens are out back,

  the cow in the field.

  I talk to my book in my mind.

  “Dear book,

  we’ll go to the lough

  and spend time with each other.”

  And that’s what I do.

  I throw the Aunt’s old shawl,

  over my shoulder,

  stitches laddered.

  It must have been made

  before I was born,

  but still warm enough

  for me to huddle at the lough,

  against the wind,

  with winter coming.

  My hands hold the pages flat.

  I read the old friends,

  words I know by heart.

  I try not to think of home

  and Liam

  with the few moments I have.

  I don’t hear the footsteps.

  I don’t hear the voice

  until it’s too late.

  The Lough

  A shadow in front of me,

  covers my book.

  “I knew I’d find you,”

  the voice says.

  I look up.

  It’s the earl’s aide.

  But why here?

  If only Madra were with me.

  The aide grabs the book

  from my lap,

  raises his arm.

  Before I can do something,

  do anything,

  he tosses it into the lough.

  I stumble up.

  Throw myself into the water.

  Feet.

  Knees.

  Waist.

  I try to gather pages

  as they float away.

  I’m screaming,

  wild with grief,

  with rage.

  I pick up only one page.

  The rest are gone.

  “Payment,” he says,

  “for the earl’s daughter.

  We’re even.”

  I reach out with both arms,

  hitting,

  punching.

  And still he laughs.

  “News from home,”

  he says.

  “Your father is in the house.

  And the priest is telling him

  not to pay the rent.

  They say all of your townland

  is up in arms,

  up to devilry.”

  “Good,” I yell.

  “You’ll be gone one day,

  and we’ll have ours back.”

  He turns toward the Big House.

  He flinches

  as I throw a stone.

  My aim is poor.

  It smashes into the gravel.

  Lough Ree, outside of Athlone, County Westmeath

  (This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_05267.)

  What I’ll Do

  MY skirt drips water

  from the lough.

  Absently I bend and squeeze

  out the hem.

  I’ll keep this last page

  forever.

  I don’t have to decide.

  I know what I’ll do next.

  I whisper to Mam,

  “Nuala has found a home.

  She loves the Aunt.

  The Aunt loves her.

  I couldn’t even take her away.”

  I go up the road,

  and turn off at Martin’s house.

  He’s in front of the shed,

  looking surprised to see

  the state I’m in.

  “Will you…,” I begin,

  hardly able to talk.

  “Anything,” he says.

  “Take care of the Aunt

  and Nuala?

  Watch out for the hens

  and the cow?”

  He nods.

  “I’m going to Longford

  to take back my house.”

  “Of course,”

  he says.

&
nbsp; The Trip

  I tell the Aunt,

  “I must go home.”

  And to Nuala,

  “I love you.”

  They both nod and smile.

  “Say hello to home,”

  Nuala says.

  She knows

  this is her home now.

  She’s happy to hold the Aunt’s hand,

  as I pack up a few pieces of food

  to take with me,

  and ask if I can take the old shawl.

  The Aunt shakes her head.

  “Leave it,” she says.

  She goes to her room.

  From under the straw pallet,

  she takes a lovely ivory shawl,

  its stitches intricate and fine.

  She reaches up to wrap it

  around me.

  “You’ll make a fine weaver,”

  she says.

  I put my arms around her,

  Nuala holding us both.

  “Dia Duit,” the Aunt says.

  Go with God.

  “I will,” I say.

  I hold Madra for a moment.

  “I love you both,” I say,

  and realize it’s true.

  I touch the sodden page

  at my waist.

  I will keep it always,

  and remember

  how I learned to read.

  I will never forget the aide,

  his bulging blue eyes,

  his laughter,

  his cruelty.

  I’ll be strong

  to get back what belongs

  to us,

  what has always belonged:

  our house,

  our land.

  Going Home

  I leave the house,

  the Aunt and Nuala.

  From his field,

  Martin raises his hand.

  I raise mine back.

  Out of sight,

  I pick up my skirt and run.

  Never mind my feet

  as they clump onto gravel.

  I’m going to see Da.

  I’m going to put my arms

  around him,

  and tell him where I’ve been.

  “Remember the fish in my apron?”

  I’ll say.

  “Remember boarding up the glass

  together?”

  I pass Athlone.

  I know now where I’m going.

  The lough is to my left,

  and I’ll follow the Shannon River above.

  I think of home:

  the rush chair,

  the hearth,

  all of us together.

  I say their names

  as my feet hit the ground:

  Mam and John,

  Willie and Jane.

  Nuala.

  Da.

  And Liam.

  Of course, Liam.

  They won’t take my house

  from me.

  The River Shannon, outside of Athlone, County Westmeath

  (This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_05256.)

  Almost There

  I hardly sleep.

  I beg a chunk of brack

  from a friendly woman.

  I run,

  walk slower,

  stop for only minutes,

  bent, my hands on my knees.

  I start again.

  At last,

  I see Liam’s house,

  the door banging open.

  The man in the bowler hat

  must be gone.

  The man who tried to steal

  our hens?

  I stumble as I pass

  the Donnellys’ house.

  Almost home.

  Almost.

  Moments later,

  I call:

  “It’s me, Da.

  Anna.”

  He’s out the door,

  down the boreen toward me,

  tears on his cheeks

  that match my own.

  Arms out,

  we hold each other.

  How thin he is.

  Is his strength gone?

  I hear him whisper,

  “Nuala?”

  I whisper back,

  “Safe.”

  I smile.

  “With the Aunt.

  They love each other.”

  We walk arm in arm,

  taking the few steps

  across the wide stone

  in front.

  We cross into the house

  I thought I’d never see again.

  Da sits in the rush chair,

  and I at the hearth,

  in the dim light,

  smelling the peat

  that smolders

  in the fireplace.

  I warm gruel for us both.

  We scoop it up,

  feeling its warmth,

  tasting its goodness.

  Home.

  “Now begin,” Da says.

  And I say the same thing.

  Da tells of being left

  to walk home.

  And I?

  From our own long walk,

  to safety,

  and love.

  The Beginning

  IN the morning,

  a new aide is at our door.

  “Tomorrow, Mallon,”

  he says.

  “You’re out of here.”

  I move in front of Da.

  “No.”

  He looks surprised.

  “You’ll pay the rent then.”

  I shake my head.

  It’s a firm shake,

  even though my heart beats

  almost loud enough

  for him to hear.

  “There are sheep to graze,”

  he says.

  “More grateful than you.”

  His face is miserable,

  his mouth twisted.

  “But not more needy.”

  He glances at the house.

  I try to close the door,

  but he holds it open

  with one hand.

  “We’ll come with a ramming rod,

  and take down the beam.

  The house will fall,

  raising dust.

  You will leave,

  never to come back.”

  Da puts his hand on my arm.

  But he can’t stop me.

  “You cannot make me leave,”

  I spit out.

  He goes then.

  And I sink down at the hearth,

  trembling,

  fierce,

  determined.

  A battering ram used during an eviction on the Vandeleur Estate, Kilrush, County Clare

  (This image is reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland L_ROY_01772.)

  The War

  The Priest

  FATHER Tom comes late that night

  as we hear the church bells chime.

  Imagine a priest at our hearth.

  “Your name is on the list of evictions,”

  he tells us.

  Da’s face is pale.

  His eyes fill

  as he looks around our room.

  “I know we’ll have to leave,”

  he says.

  “Not this time,” I say.

  Do I mean it?

  How can I stop them?

  I think of my promise to Mam.

  The house.

>   The land.

  Ours.

  The priest clasps his hands.

  “Not this time,” he echoes.

  “Listen to the bells.”

  The sound is almost joyous,

  I think,

  as he goes on:

  “They’ll peal all night

  and into the morning

  without stopping.”

  I lean forward.

  “People will come from the villages,”

  he says,

  “from across the fields,

  from the farms,

  and the townlands.

  Our Irish.”

  Morning

  IT’S just dawn.

  The bells still chime.

  Above them is the beat

  of a drum.

  I touch the page of my book

  whose words have disappeared

  in the lough water.

  I hear a thunder of footsteps,

  a roar of voices,

  coming closer.

  I run to open the door.

  There’s the blacksmith

  from Ballinalee,

  and McClellan,

  the farmer from Drumderrig,

  I see the Stakems,

  the Donnellys,

  and the McNamees.

  The schoolmaster raises his hand,

  waving to me.

  People I’ve never seen before,

  hold sticks or spades.

  Some carry pitchforks

  over their shoulders.

  The boreen is crowded:

  women,

  men,

  girls filling their aprons

  with stones from the road.

  A grandmother hobbles along

  with her cane.

  Our house is surrounded,

  three deep, four deep.

  How can I be afraid?

  So many people are here.

  Still, I’m afraid.

  But I will be part of this.

  The bailiff and his men

  come from town.

  Da and I slip out the door,

  to be with the people

  who have come to save us.

  We are many

  against the bailiff’s few.

  We take our places

  in front of the ditch.

  I wish I were behind the rocks,

  hidden and safe.

  But I tell myself we’re fighting

  not only for my house,

  but for all the neighbors.

  The bailiff comes toward us,

  a big man with a dark beard.

  He’s stopped before he can get past.

  I’m close enough to see

  the gray of his eyes.

  Is there fear in them?

  “We will let you pass,”