one spoke to her as she drew close to the flame and warmed her hands. It was as if life was flowing back into her. She gazed into the embers, not speaking, a strange calm spreading through her as the warmth crept into her body. Sheâd been cold for so long.
âYouâll join us for something to warm the cockles of your heart as well, wonât you, child?â asked a woman. She looked at Bridie with sharp blue eyes, and a network of little wrinkles creased her face as she smiled. Bridie stared disbelievingly and drew her wooden bowl and spoon out from under her dress and held it up. The woman nodded approval.
The big pot was taken off the fire and everyone gathered round. The delicious smell made Bridie feel faint. The woman ladled out the rich broth.
âNow you mind, little one, not to eat too much nor too swift. When youâve been fasting, your bodyâs not used to the shock of a good feed. Some poor souls kill themselves trying to eat too much too fast.â
Bridie took tiny little sips of the broth and felt the warmth of it through every part of her body.
âAnd now youâve supped with us, youâll not tell anyone what youâve had,â said the old woman.
âIt was a stolen sheep, wasnât it?â asked Bridie haltingly. âCan I take some for my mam and my brother? Just a peck of something. If you give me a bone with a bit of meat left on it, I could fix something for them.â
âAre you the little girl from the hut, west of the village?â
âTo be sure, but weâre from Ballyickeen, above Dunquin,â said Bridie, finally finding herself again. âWe came to Dingle to be with my Aunt Mairead but sheâd gone to America. Then my little brother died and Mam wouldnât stay in the hut âcause she said itâs where Paddy caught the fever and surely weâd all die if we stayed there, so weâre sleeping in a ditch up beyond the dunes.â The words tumbled out in a rush.
âBridie?â came a voice through the mist. âBridie OâConnor?â
Mrs MacMahon stepped around from the far side of the fire. Bridie hardly recognised her. Theyâd not seen each other since the day her father had lain on the lid in the MacMahonsâ cottage at Dunquin. âWhereâs your mother, girl?â
The fog was lifting and the harbour was azure in the morning sun as they walked over the dunes. Bridie led Mrs MacMahon to the ditch by the roadside. Curled in a huddle of rags at the bottom lay Mam and Brandon.
Mrs MacMahon knelt down beside Mam and stroked her hair. âMaire, itâs Kitty MacMahon. Weâre going to Tralee, Maire. You and your little ones must come along with us. Thereâs nothing here in Dingle for any of us, nothing but misery and grief â but the workhouse in Tralee might take us all in.â
Mam gave a short cough, almost like a laugh. âHeaven help me, Kitty, I couldnât walk to Tralee, Iâm bound for the long road. But the children must go. Take the children. If I should get my strength back, Iâll follow you. Youâre a fine friend to me, Kitty, a fine good woman, you are,â she said, and then she lay back down in the dirt, trembling.
Mrs MacMahon rested one hand on Mamâs brow and stroked it tenderly. âNow, you lay there a minute longer and rest yourself, Maire. Muiris and I wonât be leaving until all the mists have cleared. If you find your strength, you could join us.â
Mrs MacMahon took Brandon by the hand and tried to lead him up out of the ditch, but he looked wild and tore his hand away, kneeling down beside his mother and burrowing his face against her side. Mrs MacMahon looked down and shook her head.
âWeâll wait on the beach for the children,â she said, moving away from the edge of the ditch.
Bridie knelt beside her mother and looked straight into her dark eyes. âMam, we can wait until youâre stronger.