Free Away by Jane Urquhart Page B

chickens … but he wanted more.So he moved on to piglets, but he still wanted more. He stole cattle, and wanted more, so then he stole fine silver from the gentry … but he wanted more. In the meantime he fell in love with a virtuous girl who wanted him to be virtuous too. But she knew him well – that he always wanted more – so she told him of a golden hand that she’d heard of that was buried in a bog and that it was the most of everything and that he should try to find it. Encrusted with jewels and all that.”
    “Did he find it?”
    “No, but he was kept honest trying.”
    “Was it there?”
    “Osbert, this is folklore.”
    “Yes, but a golden hand is undoubtedly a Celtic artifact. Probably the story contains
some
historical accuracy. They often do, you know. Did Flanaghan happen to mention which bog the girl was referring to?”
    “He did … but I’ve forgotten.”
    “I’ll ask him then.”
    “Yes … I’ve it written down somewhere but rather than have me hunt it up it would be faster if you ask Flanaghan. He and Boyle think it will happen here as well.”
    “What … golden hands in the ground … robbers?”
    “No, this potato disease.”
    There was shouting out in the garden where some of the men were working, followed by a chorus of laughter.
    “O’Donovan must have arrived … the young one …” said Granville after a pause. “The men are teasing him. He’s to be married.”
    “Ah,” said Osbert, squinting at his watercolour of the shell, “and a good thing, too. He’s a wild one.”
    “They’re all wild at that age, and the girls, too.”
    “But charming.”
    “Yes … quite. What about O’Malley’s wife who was away. Have you seen her about? Will she ever speak about it, do you think?”
    “They say never … and she won’t do cures.”
    “It’s a shame, I mean that we can’t record her experiences. As for this disease, it won’t come here.”
    “No … why not?”
    The shouts in the garden had stopped and the surroundings were quiet except for the sound of a rake, quite close, near the window.
    “Because this is Antrim. Our peasantry are fine. Look at the cabins Father provided. Listen to them sing. And
we’re
here. The landlords in the West are all absentees. We look after our people and they have the ‘Tenant Right.’ “
    “A good thing, too,” said Osbert, watching as his brother dipped his pen into thick blue ink. “A good thing since they eat nothing but potatoes, as well.”
    “And some oatmeal, and milk. Did I tell you, by the way, that at last we’re to get a National School.” Granville would talk all morning rather than revert to the listing of Latin terms. “And about time, too. They’re everywhere else, all over the country.”
    “A National School? Then what’s to become of O’Malley’s establishment
en plein air?”
    “Perhaps he could teach in the National. Better than worrying all the time that the inspector would come and shut him down. And a reliable salary. He’s a good man. Perhaps they’ll hire him to teach there.”
    “Unlikely … he’s Catholic … and a great companion to the island priest.”
    “Oh yes … Catholic … I’d forgotten. It’ll be the farm for him then, all the time. And his father the hedge schoolmasterbefore him. What a shame … still, I suppose it’s all for the best. Except we’ll probably get someone from God knows where with small Latin and less Greek.”
    “No doubt.”

 
    W HEN pressing the few linen napkins that had been owned by Brian’s mother, Mary always watched the patterns and pictures emerge from the wrinkles as the fabric smoothed and stiffened under the iron. Three connected castles, a shamrock, a Celtic cross, a hand.
    She loved doing this. Brian had said that he had no real knowledge of how his mother had acquired these objects, which suggested privilege, table manners, and banquets, but that they were used only on special days – those few