Black Harvest Page 9

  “I thought I’d walk into Ballimagliesh. I’m going to see if there’s another doctor around, someone who could look at Alison. I’ll find someone to take you to his surgery. Perhaps someone runs a taxi service. They often do, in remote places like this. I’ll buy some bread and stuff, if anywhere’s open.”

  She didn’t try to stop him. He just heard an expressionless, “Oh, all right. I hope you won’t be gone too long though.” That was odd in itself, she would normally have cross-questioned him about how far it was, and whether he had enough money. She would have told him not to thumb lifts.

  He was going to do that anyway, if anything came along, but the road was empty. In the distance, under some big trees, he saw two small figures silhouetted against the pale sky, their arms thrust out into the road. When Colin walked past them they stuck out their hands aggressively, almost as if they were trying to get hold of him.

  “Don’t think we’ll be lucky, do you?” he said. “Shanks’s pony, I should think, all the way to the village.” But they didn’t reply; they just opened and shut their mouths at him, and yet no words came out. Funny folk, he thought, and something about the way they stood there made him shiver slightly. But he hadn’t got time to stop and talk to them, he had to get to Ballimagliesh.

  At eight o’clock Prill and Oliver faced one another across the kitchen table. Between them they had managed to weigh the baby on the bathroom scales. First Mrs Blakeman had stood on them with Alison, then she’d given her to Prill and weighed herself again. Oliver had made them do everything twice and written the figures down in a notebook.

  She wasn’t the kind of mother who kept neat photo albums or baby books, but she did know what Alison should weigh, and according to Oliver she’d lost half a stone. “She can’t have lost that much,” said Prill. “Seventeen take away three…then from that you deduct…” he muttered, doing rapid mathematics. “Oh, do shut up, Oll,” Prill said. “We don’t need all those facts and figures.”

  He really was peculiar. Last night he’d been so lovely with Alison, calming her down when nobody else could. Now, with these brisk calculations, he was frightening her mother to death. How could he be so thick-skinned?

  Mrs Blakeman had already packed a suitcase and a bag of baby things. She came into the kitchen with her coat on, and Alison stuffed under one arm like a parcel. She said quietly, “Of course, now we’re going to see another doctor she’s decided to calm down. She’s like Jessie, contrary. Listen to her, guzzling that biscuit!”

  It was reassuring to hear Jessie crunching away again, but the two children were concentrating on Alison. She may have stopped griping but she looked dreadful. Her pink baby chubbiness had gone and there was an unhealthy transparency about her skin. Her face had shrunk somehow; she looked more like a little old man than a young child.

  Mrs Blakeman stood by the window watching out for Colin. They’d had nothing to eat yet, and Oliver’s stomach was rumbling, so was Prill’s. “Is there any breakfast?” she said.

  “I found some tins in the back of a cupboard. You could open those. There are some tomatoes, I think, and those baked beans with sausages. I don’t want anything.”

  Her voice was toneless and flat. She didn’t even turn round to look at them. It was as if what strength she had left, after the sleepless days and nights, had all been sucked into Alison. There was nothing left over for them.

  “Come on, then,” Oliver said. Tinned tomatoes were his chief hate, baked beans a close second, but they had to eat something or they’d all be ill. He started getting saucepans out. “By the time these are ready, Colin may be back. Hope he’s got some bread.”

  The day was muggy and quite dark, and all the kitchen lights were on. Oliver bustled round, filling the electric kettle and turning on rings. Then there was a loud click and everything went off together. “Oh no! Not an electricity cut. I wonder if it’s just the fuse? If I knew where the box was I could probably—” Then Mrs Blakeman said, “Here’s Mr O’Malley.” She didn’t seem to notice about the electricity.

  The farmer looked unusually smart in a speckled tweed suit, a new hat and highly polished shoes. “I just came to tell you about the power,” he said. “Last night’s storm did a lot of damage, there are lines down all over. The electricity board’s on with the repairs already, to be sure, and that’s why the supply’s off. It’ll be back on this afternoon, about five, I’m thinking.” He flicked a cotton thread off his suit and pulled his tie straight. “We’ll not be here ourselves; we’re away for the next couple of days. Got to go down into Galway. Donal usually keeps an eye on the place for us. We go every year, about this time. We’ve got family down there.”

  Prill stared at him and words formed silently. “Please don’t go,” she wanted to say. “Please don’t shut up your friendly farmhouse and leave us at the mercies of that smelly old man. Please don’t leave us here.” Instead she said coldly to Oliver, “That’s our breakfast finished then. We can’t even heat those pans up now.”

  Mr O’Malley saw the empty tins on the table and listened to Oliver explaining that there was no food in the house. “This won’t do at all,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll send Kevin straight down with something, so I will. And how are you for the milk?”

  “We’ve not got any,” Mrs Blakeman said. It was the first time she’d spoken. “I had to throw yesterday’s away last night. It was off again; it had turned almost solid. I think the dog drank some of it too. It was sick.” She hadn’t told the children about the milk, that frightened Prill, so did her voice. It had a dangerous edge to it, it was barbed, not like her mother’s voice at all.

  John O’Malley turned pink and glanced at the big red setter as it crept back under the table. It had a biscuit in its mouth but its eyes were glassy and its coat dull. If it was his dog he’d get the vet to it. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t know what Donal’s playing at these days. I’m very sorry, missus, indeed I am. I’ll speak to him.” He paused. “Er, there’s a vet in the village. His name’s Keen. Get him to have a look at the dog, if you’re worried.” He looked at his watch. “We’re going soon but the boy’ll be right down with some food. Don’t want you to go hungry.” He smiled rather nervously and tugged at his collar. He was annoyed about the milk. Donal Morrissey was too old to help in the dairy. He’d have found someone else years ago, if it hadn’t been for his wife Eileen.

  Colin passed the farmer on his way down the track. The old blue pick-up bumped past him shedding bits of straw. It was about as respectable as the “taxi” he’d found in Ballimagliesh.

  The only sign of life in the village had been the string of fairy lights above Danny’s Bar. Inside he’d found someone sitting behind the counter, eating breakfast.

  “Come in, come in do,” a voice shouted. “You’ll be from the bungalow? And how’s the little baby now?” It seemed that everyone knew everything in Ballimagliesh. Mary Malone ran Danny’s Bar. She was seventy, very short, and weighed seventeen stone. She was tucking into a huge plateful of bacon and potato cakes. Colin’s mouth watered. He mustn’t go back without food, but first to business.

  She wiped her mouth as he explained what he wanted, then said placidly, “Young Danny’ll take her, don’t you worry. He’s a driver. He does trips when there’s nothing else on. I’ll speak to him now.”

  There was a telephone on the bar counter. She picked the receiver up. Things were clearly arranged so that she only walked about when strictly necessary. “Where is he?” Colin said.

  “Upstairs in his bed, if I know anything. Danny!” she bellowed. “Get down here, will you! There’s a boy here, his mother wants to go to Sligo General. Their baby’s sick. Move yourself.”

  She scrubbed at her plate with a piece of bread. “He’ll be down. He’ll get your mother to Sligo. Might have to get the car filled up first, might take a while, it’s early yet. Would you like to wait here?” Suddenly all the lights went off. “Oh, Jesus Mary, wonder how long we’ll be off this time? Danny won’t like missing h
is rashers and potato, I’m thinking.”

  Kevin O’Malley left a basket outside the bungalow door and went away. His parents were in the pick-up, having words about Donal Morrissey. Dad thought the lady was quite angry about the milk and Kevin didn’t want to speak to her. The basket contained fresh milk, two new loaves, and a cake his mother had made for Aunt Mary in Knockferry. He’d been looking forward to a bit of that himself.

  Colin brought the basket in with him. As soon as she saw him his mother picked up the suitcase, grabbed Alison, and pushed past him into the hall. “Did you find anyone?”

  “Yes. At the bar. It was the only place open, but there’s a man there who drives a taxi in his spare time. He’s coming. He was still in bed so I started walking back. I thought he’d have caught up with me on the road. Anyway, she says Sligo’s the nearest place with a hospital, she said go there.”

  “But why isn’t he here, Colin? Why won’t anybody help us?” She sounded peevish, like a spoiled little girl. Colin opened his mouth irritably, then shut it again. She must be much more worried than any of them had realized. It had been far worse for her than anyone else, all those hours alone with Alison. He said quietly, “I’m sure he’ll be here soon, Mum. He had to get petrol. Don’t worry.”

  He left her at the front door, staring stonily up the track, and went into the kitchen. Oliver was sitting at the table looking into Eileen O’Malley’s basket. His face was colourless. He said in a whisper, “Colin, I just don’t believe this.”

  “What’s up, Oll? You look like a sheet.” But he knew, even as he said it. There was that mustiness in the atmosphere again, and a sharp, bitter smell he’d met once before.

  “I can’t believe it,” Oliver stammered again. “Honestly, I can’t. But look, and she only made these this morning. They were going to take them to Galway or something.”

  The two brown loaves were spongy and soft, and a green furriness was spreading over them, like hair. In angry panic Colin plunged his arm into the basket and brought the cake out. It was a crumbling, sodden mess, sticky in his hands, and gave off the smell of sickly, over-fermented beer. The milk was in two bottles, but the green foil tops were swollen and cracked across, as if the contents had turned to grey ice.

  Now Oliver knew, and was part of it with them. Now he too had heard the baby crying in the night and felt the unnatural heat. Here in his hands was decay itself. His busy brain ached as he tried to find comforting explanations for all that had happened. But he found none.

  Colin thought he heard someone coming down the hall. He grabbed the basket. “It’s Prill. The taxi’s here. Look, I’ll do the explaining, Oll. Don’t let’s frighten her. I’ll get rid of this lot right now.”

  He took everything outside and Oliver heard glass smashing inside a dustbin. He stayed at the kitchen table staring down at a brown pool of foul-smelling liquid that had oozed out between the mesh of the basket.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “YOUNG DANNY” was fifty if he was a day, little, fat, bald, and cheerful like his mother. Colin felt comforted as he helped Mum and Alison into the car. The baby was actually asleep but the minute she woke up she would probably start yelling, and Mrs Blakeman would need someone to talk to on the journey. It was a long way to Sligo and the ancient car couldn’t have a top speed of more than fifty. Under all the rust it was probably held together with Sellotape.

  Mrs Blakeman promised to try and phone them. Failing that, she would leave a message at Danny’s Bar, and she said she would ring Dad, too. Colin was in charge, and they were not to worry. She was sorry to leave them on their own but they couldn’t all go to Sligo. Anyway, she could well be back by tomorrow night.

  All this was delivered in a flat monotone. She wasn’t really interested in them any more, she just wanted to get away. Prill hugged her fiercely but she almost pushed her out of the way as she shut the car door. It was like touching someone asleep, or dead.

  Prill ran up the track after the car and watched it turn right towards Ballimagliesh. The two children, in their peculiar tasselled shawls, were standing right in the middle of the road with arms outstretched. Their fingers spiked the sky like winter branches.

  Young Danny couldn’t have seen the children because he changed gear, revved hard, and drove straight at them. It was a good road from here to the hill above the village and he may as well pick up a bit of speed.

  Prill screamed wildly, “Mum! Mr Malone! Let them get out of the way! You’ll run them down! Please, stop! What are you doing?” As the car rolled forwards over them she shut her eyes, waiting for the screech of brakes and tyres, for glass shattering, the cries, the bloody mess in the road. But the taxi simply chugged off steadily towards Ballimagliesh, and the quiet of the countryside dropped over her again. When she opened her eyes she could see the two small figures a little farther off, still standing motionless in the middle of the road, their hands stretched out towards her.

  She turned her face from them and tore back along the track, stumbling over stones, tripping up in the dusty potholes. She just wanted to sleep, to lie in the darkness till this nightmare world had lost its hold upon them. She couldn’t fight it any more.

  When she got back the two boys were poking about in the hole. She slipped quietly into the kitchen. Jessie was now stretched out full length in the middle of the floor, unnaturally still. She looked dead. In sudden panic Prill dropped to her knees and flung her arms round the big dog’s neck, rubbing her cheek against its face. Jessie had been a member of the family for a long time now. How many times had Prill turned to this loyal, utterly accepting creature, when everything was going wrong? How many times had the dog’s simple affection given her comfort?

  But now she gave a sharp warning growl, and as soon as Prill slackened her arms she stood up and dragged herself away to the other end of the kitchen, as if she was in pain and wanted to be on her own till it had passed.

  Prill noticed that she’d only eaten one half of one biscuit. The mess under the table suggested she’d simply played with the rest and spewed them out half eaten. Her bowl of meat was untouched, and it was warm in the kitchen. The stuff was alive with maggots.

  Prill’s throat tightened. She closed her eyes and turned away. When she opened them again she was looking up at a shelf. There was Dr Donovan’s pink juice, untouched, almost offering itself to her. The label prescribed two teaspoonfuls for babies under one. Prill was nearly twelve. She found a soup spoon and swallowed four doses. It might just give her a few hours’ sleep, at worst it would make her feel sick, and that would be nothing new.

  She crept into her bedroom, closed the window, and pulled the curtains across. It was hot again, but she was past caring. She took off all her clothes and lay sweating under a single sheet, praying that sleep would come.

  Outside, Oliver and Colin were arguing about something. Prill closed her eyes. She felt pleasantly drunk and quite sleepy. She would definitely drift off now. She hoped she would never wake up.

  Colin was soon pedalling along the road on Kevin O’Malley’s bicycle. It was one of two he’d found in the farmer’s tin garage. On his back was a small rucksack with Dr Moynihan’s flashlight in it, and some food he’d bought in the village.

  He was going back to the Yellow Tunnel, but this time he wanted to explore it from the top end. A framed map of Ballimagliesh and district that hung in the hall of the bungalow showed a footpath running from behind Ballimagliesh Church across the fields to the old chapel. He might have another look round the ruins before going down the tunnel again.

  Oliver was an obstinate pig. His precious hole was quite big enough now and he was making a mess with the soil, but he still wanted to carry on digging. Perhaps he thought he was really a rabbit. He was crazy.

  Colin hadn’t managed to persuade him to leave off. He’d obviously stopped bothering about what was “allowed”, anyway. Prill had gone off to bed and stuck a notice on her door that said “Do not disturb”, so perhaps it was as well that someone had staye
d behind. At least she wouldn’t wake up and find nobody around; and she quite liked Oliver now. They’d be all right together till he got back.

  He sat by the little pool in the chapel ruin munching an apple and swigging milk. The food tasted great in the open air, miles away from that bungalow, and he ate nearly all the biscuits before stuffing the packet back into the rucksack. They should all have come really, it was better out here.

  There was one thing to do before going down the tunnel. As well as a penknife he’d brought some pan scourers from the kitchen. It was some minutes before he found what he was looking for, the mouldering, mossy headstones all looked much alike, but at last he located it, knelt down, and set to work.

  He rubbed away for a good half hour and by the end his fingers were bleeding and his hands raw. The tombstone must be three quarters buried, what he could see was only the top. It was rounded and the design was clearly visible now, a smiling skull with bones crossed underneath and angel heads flanking it at each side. In large Roman capitals was the single word “MORRISSEY” and a date, 1751.

  Colin was puzzled. Mrs O’Malley had told them that Donal Morrissey was from County Donegal. He had come to Ballimagliesh as a young man and been taken on as a labourer on her father’s farm. She could still remember the stories he used to tell her about his grandmother Bridget who’d been widowed young and brought up eleven children in Kilmacrenan.

  Colin stood back and looked at the stone from a distance. Now the daylight fell sideways on the lettering, making it sharper. MORRISSEY. There was absolutely no doubt. He tried to think what had happened in history in the year 1751 but couldn’t think of anything. Yet it was nearly a hundred years before the Famine. And there was something else odd, too. In those days only the rich people could have afforded gravestones. The poor had planks of wood or were simply buried under mounds of earth.