Black Harvest (5 page)

Numb, but sagging with relief, Oliver slithered off the roof and staggered towards the water barrel on weak legs. The priest filled the first bucket, and Oliver carried it to John O’Malley who doused the flames under the van. One wheel and the steps were burning too fiercely to be saved, and to stop the fire spreading upwards the farmer brought out a rusty axe from inside and chopped them away, leaving them to burn themselves out on the scorched earth.

The bonfire of kindling wood was still flaring wildly. Bucket after bucket of water was hurled over it and eventually a thick white cloud enveloped the caravan, shrouding everything but the tin chimney.

The old man reached the brow of the hill alone and stared down at the fire. From where he stood the flames were still quite high and his home wreathed in smoke. The dog yapped and whined at his feet and tried to get under his coat. “Husht now, husht,” he whispered to it, gathering it into his arms like a baby. Then the breeze wafted another noise up to him, the terrified sobbing of a child.

Old memories stirred in Donal Morrissey then. He gazed numbly at the scene at the end of the track, his home in flames, the men going to and fro with buckets, the boy helplessly crying. Tears ran down his crumpled face and made dark splashes on the earth.

T
HE CHAPEL RUIN
was the most peaceful place Prill had ever been in. She never forgot those last few moments of darkness, scrambling up after Colin and his bobbing ring of torchlight, then bursting up into the sunshine and flinging herself down on soft grass.

Perhaps it was sheer relief. She hadn’t liked the tunnel much, it was much longer and harder to climb than Kevin O’Malley had made out. But it fascinated Colin. He couldn’t wait to come back and have another look with a better flashlight. “We might find something really interesting in there,” he said as he fished about in the picnic basket for something to eat. “Next time we’ll—”

“We’ll
nothing
,” Prill said. “Include me out, anyway. The Ballimagliesh kids have been coming here for donkey’s years, according to Kevin’s mother. Didn’t you see all the sweet
papers and the initials carved on the walls? Shouldn’t think there’s anything much in there.”

Mrs Blakeman had taken the grassy, zigzag path up on to the headland and was waiting anxiously for them. She looked most relieved when their dirty faces popped up out of the crack. Alison was bawling again.

“It’s no good,” she said, only half-listening to Colin’s raptures about the tunnel and Prill’s explanation about Oliver going back. “I’m taking this child to the doctor’s tomorrow, there
is
something wrong with her. She’s only happy when she’s asleep. The minute she woke up she started yelling. She’s usually so good-tempered.”

Colin lifted the wriggling baby out of the canvas carrier and dumped her on the grass. She couldn’t walk yet but she was a demon crawler. “Watch her, Mum,” he warned. “She’ll be down that hole in a minute.”

Mrs Blakeman picked her up and walked over to the main ruin with Prill. Nothing was left of the chapel but a few low walls of crumbling stone and one massive arch that must have held a window. You could still see the delicate tracery on the great columns at each side. Through the arch the sea glittered. Apart from Alison’s constant grizzling everything was very quiet. In the long grass, where the main aisle must have been, was a pool of clear water.

“How odd,” Prill said, trailing her hand in. “There’s a kind of spring here. But it must have been right in the middle of the church.”

“It was, according to that priest who dropped in on us,
that Father Hagan. It was their local miracle or something, hundreds of years ago, in a drought, he said. It was the only water for miles around.”

“Wonder why they deserted it?”

“Oh, places do fall into disuse. I suppose it happened when they built a new church in Ballimagliesh.”

“Those graves must be ancient,” Prill said, looking across at Colin who was scraping away with his penknife at something in the grass. The leaning tombstones had been eaten away by years of mild, wet weather into strange mossy lumps. Lichens had woven themselves across in silent trellises of yellow-green and burnt orange. Words that had once proclaimed names and dates and manners of death had mouldered away, and only tantalizing fragments of odd letters remained.

But though the dead lay all around them Prill didn’t want to go back to the bungalow. She felt safer out here. “Do we have to go back now, Mum?” she said as her mother manoeuvred the baby back into the sling, which was now on Colin’s back. “No,
no
, Alison,” she was saying snappily. “Stay with Colin now. Colin’s going to carry you home.” The baby tried to stand up in the sling and grabbed at her mother’s hair. Mrs Blakeman stuffed the arm back quite roughly and the child howled.

Prill was amazed. Her mother must be really worried. She decided she had better take charge of the dog and stop moaning about going back. She called her over but Jessie was drinking noisily at the little pool and just wagged her tail
cheekily. At last she persuaded her to come away and together they followed Mrs Blakeman down the cliff path. Colin, with the baby on his back, was trying to bend down and have a final squint at the headstone he’d found half buried in the grass.

Mum was already well ahead. “Oh, come
on
, Colin!” she shouted. “Leave it, whatever it is. This is the quickest route back, not so pretty as the way we came, but I
must
phone a doctor, and we’d better find out what Oliver’s up to.”

“Hope he’s OK,” Colin said thoughtfully, catching up with Prill. “Wonder how his hole’s getting on?”

“He said he’d get our tea,” Prill reminded him. “Some hope.”

“I’ve got hunger pains,” Colin said suddenly, putting one hand across his stomach. “Hope it’s something good.”

“You can’t be hungry now,” Prill said in disgust. “You’ve just eaten an apple and a great hunk of cake. You’re just greedy. You’ll get fat.”

“Leave him alone, Prill,” Mrs Blakeman shouted. “And stop dawdling. I want to get back. You really shouldn’t have let Oliver go home, you know.”

She was worrying now, not just about the baby but about him too. The boy was her responsibility and he wasn’t very strong. That long spell of illness couldn’t have improved his health. She’d told them to keep an eye on him. She didn’t want to get back and find he’d collapsed or something.

It was only when they reached the crack at the bottom of the cliff that she discovered he’d been left behind.

“That boy needs watching!” rang and repeated in her head like a gong. She walked ahead of the two children, trying to shake off a steadily growing anxiety. Nothing was really going right on this holiday, in spite of the marvellously equipped bungalow and its glorious setting. The baby was ill and the other two had complained of feeling unwell. Oliver didn’t seem to approve of anything or anybody. And it was much too hot. The moist, sticky atmosphere was becoming unbearable. Something was wrong, with everything.

When they were about half a mile from the bungalow they met Kevin O’Malley on the cliff path. Under the thatch of dark curly hair his usually reddish face was very pale.

“Mrs Blakeman,” he began uncertainly. “Mam says will you come up to the house? There’s been an accident.”

“Oh God no,
Oliver
!” Her voice was a harsh shriek. The sheer helplessness in it, out of all proportion to what the boy had said, frightened Colin and Prill. It was so unlike their mother. Kevin put out his hand awkwardly. “No, missus, he’s all right, only there was a bit of a blaze you see, in Morrissey’s field. His van nearly went up, and the boy was there. If you could just come…”

“What on earth made you do it, love?” Mum whispered, taking a cup of tea from Mrs O’Malley. She had to say something, though Oliver’s face was all red and puffy from crying. “If you really thought the old man’s vegetables needed looking at you only had to—” then Mrs O’Malley shook her head and frowned. They’d been through all that once.

The farmer sat at the kitchen table brooding over his tea. He was a short, stocky man with curly hair like Kevin and a permanently anxious look. He was very grave.

“Y’see, missus,” he said quietly, “Oliver here thought it was for the best. He thought Donal’s crop had got the potato beetle and that burning the tops off was the surest way to get rid of it.”

“I tried to tell him,” sniffed Oliver. “He just wouldn’t listen.”

“I don’t know if the boy was right. There’s nothing left of the plants. It’s a pity you emptied your jar on to the fire, Oliver. I’ll have to report this, you see. I could have shown it to them. Everyone round here will have to be told and put on the alert now. We do get pests from time to time, of course; farmers have to be on the lookout for them. But
potato beetle
, well that’s more or less a thing of the past with all the modern pesticides. But of course it’s no laughing matter. Let’s hope you were mistaken, anyway.”

“They weren’t just… big ladybirds, were they, Oll?” Prill said. She was only trying to be helpful.

“
No
,” he said, with a look of withering scorn. “I know what a ladybird looks like, you know.” And Colin knew they weren’t ladybirds, he’d seen them feasting on green leaves in the middle of the night. But he said nothing.

There was an embarrassing silence, broken only by Oliver’s sniffing.

“You see, Oliver,” Mum began again. “What you did was so dangerous, so drastic.”

“It had to be drastic,” he said, his voice suddenly quite firm again. “Drastic things need drastic cures sometimes.” He sounded like a headmaster.

“What do you mean?”

“My father told me all about Ireland, before we came; there was a time when the people went hungry, a million starved to death, they say, because of the bad potato harvests.”

John O’Malley looked across at him and his face cleared with sudden understanding. “You’re right, Oliver, they did suffer, back in the 1840s, all over Europe, and it was at its worst here in Ireland. But it wasn’t beetle, boy, it was blight. Oh, people still look out for it, even today. Sure, it was a terrible curse.”

“What’s blight?”

“Something carried in the air—tiny spores. It attacked the plants and made them go bad, whole fields went rotten, overnight virtually.” He loosened his collar. “Weather like this’d be perfect for it, hot, and a bit sticky. Oh, we think we have a hard time on a tiny farm like this, but I’m telling you, we don’t know we’re born.”

Nobody said anything, there was such passion in his voice. Sensing the embarrassment, he went on uncertainly. “Perhaps you know all about it anyway, from your history lessons? The Hungry Forties it was called.”

“No,” Prill said. “We’ve only reached the Normans.” It sounded so pathetic.

“Old Donal’s the one to ask about what went on round here,” Mrs O’Malley said. “He knows a fair bit of history. He
was quite a scholar in his day and he’s got all kinds of bits and pieces in that van of his. You’ll have to ask him to show you.”

“I don’t suppose he’ll ever want to speak to
me
again,” Oliver said bleakly. He wanted him to, somehow.

“He will, he will to be sure. Just give him a bit of time. He’s kind enough, underneath, but he’s had a bit of a shock… and we all get old.”

“Where’s he gone?” asked Oliver.

“He’s staying with Father Hagan tonight. He’ll be making him have a bath, if I know anything.”

“I’ll pay for the van,” the boy said solemnly. “Whatever it costs, I’ll pay. I’ll… I’ll write to my mother and ask her to send me the money, then I’ll save up and pay her back.”

It would take him years. His father was very stingy about pocket money. “No, Oliver,” Mrs Blakeman said emphatically. “Don’t worry your mother.” She could just see Aunt Phyl coming out on the next boat. “We’ll sort it out. Don’t you worry about it.
And that’s an order!
” And she smiled at him.

The atmosphere was easing slightly. “Did anyone come to the telephone?” Mrs Blakeman asked.

“Yes, missus, you were in luck, and it’s been put right for you. I let them in,” Kevin replied.

“Thank goodness for that. I want to speak to a doctor, Mrs O’Malley. I really don’t think Alison’s too well.”

The farmer’s wife looked at the baby. For once she was quiet and sitting pudding-like on Mrs Blakeman’s lap. “Hmm. She’s a bit flushed, I suppose.” She plucked gently at the tiny wrist. “They always say thin babies are healthier. I wouldn’t
know about that. All mine were little barrels.”

“
Thin?
But she’s not
thin
, Mrs O’Malley? Well, I wouldn’t say so.” She sounded quite alarmed. Prill looked at Alison. She did look thinner, the little bracelets of fat on her wrists weren’t quite so pudgy now, and her hands no longer looked like little paws. Only her face was fat-looking and it was swollen with heat and constant grizzling.

Mrs O’Malley realized she’d said the wrong thing. “Now don’t you worry yourself, Mrs Blakeman, I’ll ring Dr O’Keefe myself. He’s grand. He’ll be down to see you first thing tomorrow, if I know him. Now, how about something to eat for all of you? It’s a long time since you ate, I’m thinking.”

“Oh no, thank you.” Mrs Blakeman got up abruptly. She looked distracted. “No, we’ve got food at the house. It’s not fair to wish another brood upon you. The cup of tea was lovely but we’ll get back now. Colin, can you get Jessie? Come on, Oliver.” All she wanted was to get back to the bungalow and speak to her husband. Thank God they’d mended the phone.

The four of them walked slowly up the track in complete silence. The weather was changing, the sky was yellowish and the moist air stickier than ever. There were mutterings of thunder over the sea.