The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 28 April 1910, Page 643

The Storyteller

THE CREAMERY GIRL

The Creamery Girl, as Michael Kilrush had learned to call her, going the road to Curraclough Creamery of a May morning, was fresh as the dew and sweet as a May blossom. She was dressed always in cool, clean prints, blue as her eyes or pink as her cheeks. With a sunbonnet a-top of her , neat, shining hair and little brogans on her feet, with blue worsted stockings knitted by her own clever hands, she was as pretty as a picture. . -Even Michael Kilrush, the hard-headed, shrewd, practical ‘ strong ’ farmer—a ‘ strong ’ farmer being in Ireland a prosperous —found the neat figure uncommonly pleasant when he passed it , two or three times a week in the early morning, he being on his way to fair or market, while she was at the creamery to receive the milk as it came in and to pour it into the wide shallow pans on the dairy shelves, ' ‘That ’ud be the girl for my money,’ the old fellow said to himself one morning, his set mouth relaxing from its grimness. ‘lf it was to be the like of her now, and not that girl that went to America in the spring, that omadhaum of a son of mine was -to be after lookin’ to marry ■ It was on the morning when the Creamery Girl had taken a stone out of the mare’s foot for old Michael. Michael always drove a rather antediluvian jaunting car, but the mare had a bit of blood in her, and although she was old could yet show a clean pair of heels to her younger rivals.

It was in the first golden hours of the day, with the dewdrops glistening on all the wet’ grass blades, and Michael, in a great hurry ■to Tullybrackey Fair, where he had a few' bullocks to sell; was fuming While he tried to hammer the stone out with another picked up on the road. , ‘ Is it a stone she’s got in the hoof of her, the creature?’ asked the softest 'voice, just by his head. Michael stood upright, his face very red from his exertion, and stared at the Creamery Girl, who this morning was attired in a lilac print, prettier even that the blue and pink ones, though Michael had thought they could not be improved upon. j : ; • W ,i ■ * She has,’ he said, ‘ an’ lon the way to the fair. Sorra a bit of me can stir the ould stone. What am I to do at all, at all?’ ‘ Let me,’ said the girl; ‘ls it you?’ said Michael, with , rough gallantrv. ‘ What would a little girl like you know about how to take a stone from a horse’s hoof?’ Whisking her lilac skirt aside, revealing a stout linen pocket suspended from her waist under her skirt, she felt among its contents for what she wanted, and brought out a penknife, which seemed to have many uses besides the ordinary one. She opened something which revealed itself as a kind of hook. Stooping down, she lifted the mare’s foot and looked into it. Old Michael stared in amazement. The mare did not usually permit liberties to be taken wdth her by strangers. Then with a deft twist of the little instrument the stone rattled on the road. She put down the foot gently, and slipped the knife into her pocket again. Old Michael looked at her in wonder and delight. He had never seen her so close before. She was wonderfully bright and shining, her skin of a satin smoothness of texture, and the w r aves of hair under her bonnet and about her ears like yellow silk. ‘ ’Tis the clever little girl you are,’ he said, and it’s a very nate conthrivance you have in that knife of yours.’ _ ‘ ’Tis nothing,’’ she said. ‘’Twas bought for me : in Limerick.’ \ ‘.’Twas a rale box of tools you had in it!’ said Michael. ‘ An’ now,' my girl, supposin’ you get up the other side of the car, an’ I’ll lave you at the creamery gates in no time. ’Tis wettin’ your feet you’ll be crossin’ the fields.’ ‘ ’Tis very kind of you, sir,’ said the girl, without hesitation, pulling down the other side of the car and stepping up on it lightly. ‘ I’ll give you a lift any time at all I’ll be cornin’ this way,’ said Michael. ‘ ’Tis a bit of a walk across the fields an’ a heavy dew' most mornings.’ ‘ Thank you kindly, Mr. Kilrush,’ said the girl. ‘So you know my name, acushla?’ - ‘Doesn’t everyone know Mr. Kilrush?’ said the girl, with an air of innocent audacity. Michael did not ‘Object'to the flattery. It was true that he was well known’ and W'ell respected, a man who had a good balance at the bank besides shares in this or that company, and had plenty of gear as'well as money. His long low white house with the stockyard behind it was a comfortable sight. He had eight horses for his farmwork, plenty of cattle and sheep and pigs. All his fortune he had made with his own hands and head. And to think that that foolish boy of his had wanted to bring home a girl from a bankrupt family, and had threatened to go away out of it to America after her! He was getting over it, the father thought, though at first he had been sulky and - rebellious. As though the man who made the - money hadn’t a right to a word in its ultimate disposal! Still,

he was glad Con was getting over it. They had been everything to each other since the mother died. If the boy would only take a fancy to a ni6e, sensible girl, with a bit of money, if possible, but if —well, Michael Kilrush had not done as well as he had done without being in some ways a bigger man than his fellows. And he had not liked Con to be estranged from him. Time had been when he had looked to Con to bring home a fortune with a wife. But now, since there had been the cloud between them, he had come down in his demands. If there was a girl desirable in other ways, only lacking the money, a sound, decent little girl, not like the wastrel, bankrupt Gillespies he would not say no to the boy again. • After that day when the Creamery Girl took the stone from the mare’s foot, it became quite a usual thing for Michael Kilrush to give her a lift on the way to the creamery, when it happened that their ways were the same. He soon began to look with some anticipation along the sunny road before him between high hedges white with May blossoms for the pretty figure in the cool-colored prints. The third or fourth time they drove together he asked her name and where she lived. ‘ My name is Nora Gillespie,’ she returned. Old Michael gasped. * Nora Gillespie, he repeated. ‘ There" was a family of that name over at Glenacappa.’ ‘ Glenacappa’s full of Gillespies,’ she said; ‘l’ve a lot of cousins over there.’ ‘ There was a family went to America.’ ‘ There was so.’ ‘ They were no great loss. Idle and careless, I heard they were, and not a penny left by the time they got to America.’ ‘ ’Tis true enough,’ said Nora impartially. ‘ The mother of them died when they were young. They were but a lot of boys and girls together, and the father was a soft, easy man. He died on them, too, and the place was sold over their heads. They maybe weren’t so bad all out.’ And tell me, my little girl, where do you come from said Michael Kilrush, turning willingly from the consideration of the other feckless Gillespies to the shining girl the other side of the car. ‘ Is it far you have to come to the creamery?’ ‘ It might be a mile or two. Do you know Cromwell’s Fort, Mr. Kilrush?’ ‘ Ay, well.’ My brother and I have taken it for seven years. There’s a bit of land with it, you know. We’ll see what we can make of it. He’s a very wise boy, is William, though he’s young, and he’s cut for a farmer.’ ‘My poor little girl!’ said Michael Kilrush, looking at her compassionately. ‘ You’ll never make anything out of the land. It grows more thistles than any other bit of land in the country. And ’tis the queer old place for you to be livin’.’ ‘We’re stubbing up the thistles fine,’ said the girl. ‘ And it is a queer old place, but we like it. If you’re passing by one dayany day after next Tuesday fortnight—and look in, you’ll find me at home.’ ‘Not at the creamery?’ ‘ I’ll be done at the creamery then. It was a three months’ course of lessons I took. I wanted to learn the dairy work. The nuns didn’t teach us butter-making at the school. I’ll often think, Mr. Kilrush, how kind you were to me.’ ‘ Indeed, then, I’m not going to lose sight of you,’ said Michael Kilrush, feeling a sudden, dismay at the thought of the long road without the little figure upon it. ‘ I’ll come to Cromwell’s Fort fast enough, though ’tis a good nine miles from my own gate.’ He did find his way to Cromwell’s Fort soon after Nora Gillespie had done with the creamery. It was surprising how he missed the little figure the other side of the car, and how much longer the road seemed now that there was no Nora to give a lift to. > He had only known Cromwell’s Fort as a thick round tower seen in the distance across the fields, with a low, long cottage fixed at its base. It had seemed an unchancy sort of residence for anyone to his mind, let alone that such old places bore a bad name with the peasantry. He would have said that he despised the superstition of the people, being a hard-headed, dogmatic old man, but he was not really far enough away from them to be uninfluenced by their beliefs. There were things he would not do; for instance, stub up the group of fairy thorns that grew in the middle of his best meadow, making it awkward for the machine, let alone wasting good land. It was no use going against old superstitions and customs, although he didn’t believe any harm could come of it— he. He paid a surprise visit to Cromwell’s Fort on the way back from Tullybrackey. He was agreeably surprised. The Fort was set down in the midst of a field, but a garden was in process of being made. Under the windows of the dwelling house ran two long beds filled with annuals in gorgeous flower. He looked in over the half-door. There was the sound of churning and a smell of cream. The kitchen , was bright and shining. There were scarlet geraniums in the deep window. The floor was ochred bright red. The big dishes and pewter jugs on the dresser winked in the sunc light. There was a round iron griddle with cakes baking on

the fire, and an elderly woman was ironing some of Nora’s print frocks. Nora herself was at the churn, an oldfashioned churn in which one worked the dash up and down. v Her arms were bare to the elbow, and her hands wet with the milk. She was as sweet and fresh in her enveloping apron of brown holland as she had been when she tripped along the road to the creamery. Her face lighted up with pleasure when she saw him. She nodded and smiled her welcome, while the elderly woman came forward and set him a chair. ‘ The butter’s just coming,’ said Nora. ‘ I daren’t leave it.’ He came and took the dash from her for luck, ‘ lest the butter should fly away.’ She gave a few whispered orders to the elderly woman, who laid her iron aside and moved the griddle a little off the fire. Michael Kilrush, having relinquished the dash, sat down in his chair by the sunny half-door, and filled his pipe. He was mentally approving. If she had left the churn now she wouldn’t have been the girl for his money. He . sat and talked while the churn dash gradually eased off. He looked on while Nora took the butter off the churn, carrying it away into an inner room, which he took to be the dairy. He was mentally contrasting it all with his own uncared for establishment, left to the tender mercies of a slatternly hussy. The scents struck even his uncritical nostrilsthe sweet sharp smell of the clove gillyflowers outside, mingled with the smell of the cream and the fresh buttermilk, the browning cakes on the griddle, the warm smell of ironing. At home the hem would be about the kitchen, and the pigs wandering unpleasantly near the door. The elderly woman came in with a freshly-killed chicken, and proceeded to take the feathers off by the simple process of passing the bird over the red cinders. He escaped from the smell of the burning feathers into the little parlor beyond the kitchen, where Nora, having worked the butter, was now free to entertain him. She had pulled down her sleeves, and wore the peculiarly clean, shining look which was so characteristic of her. While she talked to him she spread a cloth on the table, and set out knives and forks and glasses with a civilisation that Michael Kilrush had known little of at home. While she talked he gazed about the room. It was very old-fashioned, but very pleasant. The spotted mirror above the mantel, the few engravings, the corner cupboard for china and glass, the big horsehair sofa, the carpet with its sprawling bunches of cabbage roses, were such as might be seen in many best parlors of Irish farmhouses. But there was something added hereperhaps it was the flowers within and without, perhaps it was the window in its deep frame, perhaps the perfect cleanliness. OrNora herself. Michael Kilrush sat to such a meal, daintily served, as he had not eaten for many a —perhaps never before. It was not the chicken was perfect eating, as only a chicken cooked before it has time to get cold is; it was not the stewed gooseberries and cream, nor the whiskey and water which Nora prepared for him with a miraculous understanding of his liking. No, it was just the colleen herself. As he sat smoking his pipe afterward he acknowledged to himself that she had put the ‘ comether ’ entirely upon him. He wanted to see her sitting ‘ foreninst ’ him as she was doing to-day all his daysas his daughter, Con’s wife. ’ : It might be an unchancy old place, but Nora had banished all the ghosts out of it. She showed him how the door opened just inside the tower, and following her up the winding staircase he looked into her room —a dainty girl’s room, such as he had never seen before. He had always wanted a daughter. Later on he was introduced to Nora’s brother, a wise youth, although in years he was only a boy. He discussed the farming with old Michael Kilrush on more than equal terms. Old Michael smiled grimly as the freckled, redheaded boy derided the old ways of farming, and wondered how it was at all they weren’t all broke out of it. Ah, well, thought old Michael, he’d learn, he’d learn; and yet the boy had his head screwed on the right way. He showed some of the results of his farming, and Michael Kilrush saw that they were good. He drove home thoughtfully, so thoughtfully that he passed by more than one old friend and neighbor, who wondered if the age was coming on Michael at last, or what at all he was up fo. He said very little to Con when he got home. They ate the comfortless evening meal, and though he had never thought of such a thing before, he could not help contrasting the dirty, slovenly table with the one at Cromwell’s Fort. Afterward, when Judy Kelly had put her shawl over her head and departed, they sat together by the light of a dirty lamp, which smelled of sheep oil. The last light was dying off the sky. It would soon be time for them to be going to bed. Con brought out a paper from his pocket. ‘Would you like me to read to you, father?’ ‘ Not to-night, Con. Let us step outside for a breath of air. Turn out the lamp—what at all good is it except to show you the misery of this ould kitchen?’ Con stared, as well he might, at this new fastidiousness of his father. He turned down the lamp obediently, and followed the old man out into the bpreen.

At a gate leading into the fields they stopped, leaning their elbows on the top > bar. / „ ‘ Con, acushla,’ said Michael. His voice had a strange sound of wheedling almost. Con could not see his face for the dusk. ‘ Con, acushla, I was hard on you in regard to the girl you wanted to marry last year.’ ‘ You were,’ said Con, shortly. ‘ ’Twas for your good, ray son. She wasn’t the wife for you. Sure, I’d do anything I could if the girl was the right girl.’ - Con was silent.

‘Sure, I’d be only too willing for you to bring home a wife,’ the old man went on. ‘ Aren’t we lonesome and desolit, the two of us, with only that dirty Judy to do for us! Con, I’ve seen the very little girl to make you happy—and me, too. Her name is . . .’ ‘ I won’t have my match made,’ said Con, sulkily. ‘ Wait till you see her,’ the old man went on patiently. ‘ You might be puttin’ on your new suit o’ clothes, an’ the blue tie, and we’ll drive over to-morrow.’ ‘ I tell you I won’t have my match made,’ said Con, fiercely. ‘Who was talkin’ o’ match-makin’? I only want you to see the little girl. Her name is— a quare chance,, to be sure —the name of the girl you were so took up with — Nora Gillespie. They’re from the same part of the country. There do be a good many Gillespies over there. She only has her brother, Bill. He’s a comical little chap. Con. The consait of him! They’ve got Cromwell’s Fort beyond at Tullybrackey, an’ bedad ’tis the nate little place they’ve made of it. I’m thinkin’ if she were only here ’tis the greatest of comfort we’d have in it.’ ■ He was talking by way of smoothing over Con’s irritation, hoping too to get him to see Nora. If the boy would only see her, ’tisn’t much he’d be thinkin’ of the unlucky namesake of hers. He had his heart set on the matcha wife like that would be better than money. Father,’ said Con in a low voice, ‘I didn’t mean to deceive you, but . . . Norah didn’t go to America at all, at all. She and Bill thought they’d stand by the old country. They were the steady ones. I didn’t know that you knew her. Sure, she wouldn’t let me come to see her, though I knew she was only eight miles away. ’Twas better than America, at all counts. She said you’d come round, and that she wasn’t going to have a hole and corner courting. She’s the proudest little girl ’ An’ the best, an’ the purtiest, an’ the sensiblest between the four seas of Ireland,’ said Michael Kilrush with what was almost a sob of joy. ‘ Sure, I’ve been courtin’ for ye, my boy, these six or seven weeks past. She was learnin’ more than the dairy work, God bless her; she was learnin’ a cross, obstinate old map to love her.’ Con Kilrush was no great scholar to be hurt by this use of a passive for an active verb. He was satisfied with what it conveyed. — Katharine Tynan, in Benzigcr’s.