SHORT STORY: HUNGER

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXVII, Issue 19314, 15 October 1932, Page 9

SHORT STORY: HUNGER

ICHAEL JOYCE sat on one ! side of the earthen hearth. His son Mickccn sat opposite, balancing

himself on a three-legged stool. They were completely idle and silent, not looking at one another, nor looking at anything in particular. Their eyes were listless and dead. A small mound of turf burned in a heap of white ash. Now and then the wind puffed down the wide chimney sending clouds of smoke and ash into their faces. The man and the little boy were very like one another. They had the same S high cheekbones, and long, narrow ! heads covered with closely-cropped black hair. The man’s lips were tightly compressed they were only a thin straight line, but the boy’s mouth was soft and curved and youthful. They both wore an expression of unnatural patience, the boy, gently patient, the man a little sullen, a little more hopeless. Their shoulders drooped; their hands hung idle. Their clothes were of the same cut; rough white flannel jackets and grey homespun trousers, ragged at the edges with much wear. Mickeen’s feet were bare. Now he thrust them forward and curled his toes into the warm white ash. The heat made his chilblains ache and itch, but it was a luxurious heat, and he did not take his feet away. Thinking there would be no more fire when the turf had burned out, he spread his hands to catch all the warmth he could. It was a good thing to be getting yourself warm on a day like this, when the east wind was whipping the sea into a white cream and racing over the stony lands and unsheltered fields. Everything was grey with the cold wind. Mikeen thought the wind must be grey too, dirty and grey like ice. In summer the wind would be blue, and in the hot evenings, when the sun was dipping into the sea, it would be rosecoloured and scented like flowers. Nobody but himself had ever remarked the different colours there would be in the wind. He shifted his stool nearer the fire, but the legs tipped up on the uneven mud floor, nearly thowing him off. He stood up and arranged it firmly, then sat down again.

His father took no notice of him. He pulled up the long legs of his trousers and watched his legs mottling with the heat. Delia Kelly always came to ! school with her legs red and mottled j like that; but the Kellys were well-off people and had a big fire in their house from morning till night .Delia could toast herself all through the winter. No wonder she was fat, the way she was always laughing and eating. Nearly every morning she had a halfpenny for sweets. She would buy liquorice and eat it while the children watched her. never giving any of it away. Mickeen thought if ever he got a halfpenny stick of liquorice he would cut it into eighteen bits and give a bit to every boy in the school. He would not give any to the girls’ side. The thought of the liquorice made him terribly hungry- He wondered if his mother would bring any bread. There were a few potatoes in a bag in the dresser, but it was no use thinking about them. They were for seed. March was a hungry month right enough, and it couldn’t be helped. Rich people bought flour from the mainland —but you had to have a lot of money to do that. His shoulders fell into a more patient droop. There was no complaint in his heart because they had no money. There it was: they hadn’t any, and other people had plenty. He was well used to it. He was well used to the dirty peat-stained walls of the kitchen, the leaking thatch over his head, the laziness of his father, and the bitterness' of his I mother. j The door opened and she came in; a 1 tall, thin woman, old and sorrowfullocking. though she was scarcely middle-aged. She was thinner than the man and the boy: her face was ugly because it was so thin. Her lips

seemed to have shrunk away, leaving her gums pale and exposed above discoloured teeth. There were deep channels beneath her eyes, as though her flesh had been -worn away by tears. Michael and Mickeen looked up at her with hope. “My God!” she said, wearily. “Will you sit over the fire till it dies out?” Mickeen jumped up from his stool; his father stirred uneasily.

“There’s no more turf in it,” they excused themselves in chorus. “Well, if there isn’t, go and find some other fuel. Take the bucket this minute, Mickey, and gather some dung from the fields.” “I’ll take the sack,” Mickeen said, in a broken voice. He hated to be seen with a bucket gathering dung. A sack could be more easily hidden; people might not know what he was getting. He rummaged about behind the potatoes in the dresser to find the sack, wondering passionately if his mother had brought food. He could not go out until he knew. With his hand on the latch of the door he watched her. She drew out two small parcels from under her shawl. “I got pence apiece I for the four eggs,” she said. “Did you bring bread?” Mikeen asked, in a shamed voice. “I did net: flour I got. I’ll have a hot loaf for your tea when you come in.” After that he went light-heartedly. With the sack folded up small under his arm he ran past the neighbouring houses. All the cloors were shut because of the cold. Perhaps nobody would be looking at him. The wind was like an icy fire. It scorched his eyes until they streamed with tears. It caught his breath and mads him j cough. He ran along the high road j where Patrick Coyne drove his cows | night and morning. He might find what ;he wanted there. But there was only a litter of small sharp stones along the road. They stung his feet at every step. That Was the worst of getting yourself soft and tender at the fire. He had to go the two miles to Coyne's field. With fear in his heart he climbed the high, loose stone wall. He would die of shame if Patrick or any other one were to catch him now. There was a rough shed in one corner where the cattle sheltered. Here he was able to fill his sack quickly. When he got back to the road he felt safe j and triumphant. If he were to meet | Patrick Coyle now, or Delia Kelly, he need not let on what was in the bag; but he met nobody. He was thankful to the awful wind for keeping the people in their houses. He was thankful to be alone on his shameful, poor errand. Now he did not mind the stones or the cold. He ran so that he would reach home as quickly as possible, thinking of the hot loaf. He hoped it would be baked. It would be terrible if he had to wait an hour. His stomach was so empty it felt full and painful. Oh, if anyone were to tell him now it was a mistake about the hot bread he would die of disappointment. After supper that evening it was like heaven. Mikeen was warm inside and out. He had drunk tree mugs of black sugarless tea, and eaten enormously of hot plain bread. There

By NINA CONDRON

was nothing in the world could have I tasted better. His mother made a j lovely fire of the dry dung and the j three-legged stooi. “It’s no use talking,” she said, as she | broke it up, “we must have heat on a : night like this. By and by, we can j bring in a fiat stone and whitewash it ; j it will be better than the stool, after all.” Mikeen didn't care. He sat on the j floor drowsy with food and with j warmth. The grey wind was shut out I and defeated. An oil lamp was hung j upon the wall. It made the room look | soft and golden. His mother moved i about gently, busying herself with • small, mysterious tasks. His father i sat with closed eyes, patient, stupid. ! and inert. The truth was Michael Joyce had long given up the uneven struggle with existence. The wild sea and the barren fields of the island had beaten •him. Other men might strive endlessly with poor fishing and thankless husbandry for the bare necessities of life, but Michael was a little more intelligent. a little more cowardly, than those ethers. If they were to die of hunger and misery, let them die quickly, himself and his family. The world was a relentless place, and he would not plead with it nor coax it. Life offered him nothing. Very well, he would have nothing. What was the use of making a fuss? His wife looked at him now with hatred in her eyes. There was no meek appearance in her attitude to their circumstances. “Ah, Michael Joyce,” she said, in a spitting sort of voice, “you are a lazy man; good for nothing. Is there naught you can do but sit with your hands folded and your eyes closed? Look at Mikeen’s feet —destroyed with the cold. Where are the pampootles you were to make him this two weeks?” He got up slowly and stretched himself. “You can scold now out of your full belly, I suppose. It would be as well for me to be going out. I promised to see Flaherty about something.” “Something! Something! I know your something. Something in a pint pot likely enough. With me fine Peter Flaherty writing it u]> against you till he has the roof taken from off our heads.” But Michael was gone; the doer slammed behind him. Mikeen watched his mother fuming round the house like a hen with ruffled feathers. He was not disturbed by her anger. Mildly he wondered what it would be like when Peter Flaherty went away with the roof. Suddenly his mother ran at him and began caressing his head. “Your little cold feet. Ah, God help .you, your little cold feet,” she said, in a tone of awful sadness. “I declare I'll cut those shoes for you myself. Get me down the cow skin from the loft, astoir.” It was a great evening, Mickeen thought; with all the tea they had and now the new sandals of cow skin his mother was to make for him. He watched her pondering over the small piece of dried black and white pelt. How clever she was. She made h'm feel safe and happy and warm in his heart. With the sharp knife raised , in her hand, she began to cut.

She looked at him apologetically. “I can't help it, astoir. Bad as he is, I must keep enough to make a pair for your father as well. His seeks are down on the stones already. She turned quickly from the disappointment in his face. Delia Kelly had leather shoes from j Galaway. Shamus O'Brien had lovely I yellow boots, high and laced. Every child had pampooties that matched one another. He would be a disgrace tomorrow at the school with one white sandal and one black. It couldn’t be helped, his mother was doing her best. But suddenly all his joy was gone. He wanted to weep and weep. He felt weak and very tired. Without any envy in his clear, innocent heart, | he sat and thought of the other child- | ren and the prosperity they enjoyed. Wistfully he acknowledged to himself that he might never hope to be like they were. But the acknowledgement brought him too much pain, and he comforted himself by making a wonderful story of a fortune that came to him. It was a bag of gold, a big bag. He found it one day mixed with the wrack j cn the west shore. He ran home to i his mother, and her face was red and ! delighted when he told her. He took I her on the steamer to Galway, and they bought every kind of thing you could want. He had new brown boots and a j check suit like Tom Hurley wore when j he came back from America. He bought meat and salt fish and white bread and a tin of bull’s-eyes. He bought a big black horse, and he used to ride to school on it every day! The children marvelled at him and thought he was a great person. “You are half asleep, my son,” said his mother’s gentle voice; “let you go to bed and get your rest.” The pampooties were finished and she laced them on his feet to see if they fitted properly. They were very warm and snug. She promised him thick stockings to go with them. He went to bed happy. But in the morning the grey wind reigned again. There was no fire, j The burned out dung lay dead and j cold in the draughty hearth. Mickeen ! hurried to get ready for school, his teeth chattering. The hungry pain I was in his stomach again. It was I terrible the way hunger came back so j soon after you had eaten. lie watched his mother with wolfish eyes to see if she would produce any breakfast. She poured out a little cold tea from the pot and put it before him. “There’s nothing else,” she said, looking away from his questioning face. “I kept the heel of the loaf for you last night, but himself rose early and took it and went out; God curse him!” Her voice was thick with misery. “Sure I'm not one bit hungry, Mamoa," he lied gallantly. 1-Ie ran down the road to warm himself. greeting the other children with stimulated cheeriness. The white pampootie was terribly white and the black one terribly black, but he hoped they would not remark on it. His legs were warm anyway in the stockings. Miss O’Mara, the head teacher, saw him beating his hands together when 1 he entered the door, and she called him

to the fire to warm himself. She herself always sat near the fire at her high desk. Mikeen watched her a little enviously; when she turned about the flames were reflected in her thick j spectacles two min ature fires burning ; and crackling above her red cheeks. It was kind of her to let him warm himself. Sometimes he thought he was a pet of Miss O'Mara’s. She was very easy on him. and hardly ever slapped him or kept him in. Geography class started, and he went to his seat colder than ever after the brief comfort cf the fire. M ss O’Mara was pointing to the map of Ireland and making a long speech. He tried to listen to her, but it was difficult to keep his mind steady. His head felt weak and watery inside. Dcl'.a Kelly, on the girls’ side, was giggling. Maybe she was laughing at his pampooties. He Lucked his feet under the desk, trying to hide them. Suddenly Miss O’Mara pointed her stick at him, and commanded him to recite the counties of Leinster. He stood up and began in a sing-song voice, "Louth, Meath, Dublin. Wicklow, Wexford,” then he couldn’t remember any further. Miss O’Mara said she was ashamed of him and told him to come here at once. Ah, he was all wrong imagining he might be a pet of her’s. Her face was hard and angry. Down the long room he went, thinking with agony all the time of his white and black feet. Now everybody would be sure to see them. He hardly felt the two slaps she gave h'm. When he went back to his seat he fainted and rolled on to the floor with a soft little thud. He woke up on a hard oilcloth sofa in the teacher’s sitting-room. Miss O'Mara and Miss Curran, the assistant. were looking down at him. “I beleve that child is starved,” Miss O'Mara was saying. Mickeen sickened with shame. “Are you better, astoir?” she said, in a soft slippery tone. “I I am, miss.” he whispered; but he did J not want to move. lie hoped she ■ would not ask him to move for a long \ time. “Tell me, Mickeen, are you ; hungry? Did you get any breakfast j this morning?” Her voice was confidential and very kind. Mickeen moistened his lips with his to ague and laughed a careless 1 ttle laugh. “To tell you the truth, miss. I did not,” he said, in a great hurry. "I was late getting up and I had to run for me life the way I would be in time for school. My mother had the tea wet and the eggs down in the pot ; to boil, but I couldn't wait for them.” i “There new. I knew the child was i hungry,” Miss O’Mara turned to her i companion triumphantly. “It was not j the slap made you faint at all,” she j said to Mikeen in a reproving way, 1 “but if you told me you had no breaki fast I would have excused your inatI tention. You had a right to tell me. | Now I will give you half my own lunch j and you will be fine. There will be no i call for you to mention to anybody the j slap you got or the weakness you took.” ! “Sure I wouldn’t mention it, miss I'd j be ashamed,” Mickeen assured her. I They left him in the room alone with [ the food before h : m; a lovely rich room j with a coloured picture of the Pope on the wall, and a big calendar printed in Gaelic lettering of green and gold. ; There was a wicker arm-chair heaped | with cushions, a thick woollen rug. and j a silver vase filled with paper tulips, j The fender before the piled-up fire I was gold and glittering and polished. Mickeen saw these things with awe. Then he turned to his lunch with a sigh of expectation. Here was such food as he had never seen before, sweet cake and milky cocoa. lie lifted the drink to his lips, them put the mug down suddenly, making a wry face. He an over to the fire and spat the cocoa into the flames. He had never tasted ouch queer stuff; sweet and bitter it was, like the medicine the district nur e gave him the time he had fever. Sadly he looked into the thick brown iquid, then pushed it away. It was no good: he was afraid to go drinking i thing like that. He broke off a jiece cf cake and sniffed it cautiously. It had a strong, lemony smell. Gingerly he nibbled at it. It was dry and Pawdusty and strange. The little needs in had an awful taste, worse than the cocoa. Oh, why in God’s name didn’t Mi is O’Mara have decent fry bread for her lunch, dry bread that a person was accustomed to? He nould fill liin belly with dry bread, so ne could. He wouldn’t wait to chew it at nil, only swallow it down in whole 1 mouthfuls until he was full. But this strange food tantalized and terrified him. Desperately he gulped a meuth•ul of the sweet cake. His stomach ! revolted and heaved. He put h's head down cn the table and wept bitterly.