The Corktown Missus

The Corktown Missus

Never assume they were passive downtrodden victims, dominated by their rough canal-worker husbands. 

Peter Way,

Common Labour 

“How many?” Regan asked.

He knew she knew. He wouldn’t dare pretend otherwise. It happened far too often now that they were blasting layers of jagged limestone from the mouth of the beast where Canal and River would meet.

She could tell by the interruptions. Gaps in an otherwise steady pattern of distant roars. Protracted silences always meant the same thing. Something had gone horribly wrong … just as it had that afternoon. Strange how as a child she’d always been afraid of thunder. Now it was its absence she dreaded most.

“Brody, I asked how many.”

And there was the stench of whisky on her husband and the rest of the crew after a “dark shift” that fused with the ever-present smell of sulphur and black powder. The pungent odour accompanied him like a sombre friend, helping to shoulder his grief, perhaps. Finding its way into every inch of their single-room shanty (she would never call it a cave, even if the hillside served as one of its walls).

If that weren’t enough, the news was clearly visible on his face. The shadow over his normally sparkling eyes, and tight lips always a dead giveaway. At first he would simply dismiss her questions, or lie outright. “It’s nothing,” he would say. He knew better now. 

“Brawny,” he said bluntly, looking straight at her. “It was Brawny.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, allowing the name to hang in the air.

“Oh,” she said, finally.

Randall Bronson, how old would he be? Twenty-one, maybe? He, his new wife and young son were only a few shanties away. Short but stocky with a powerful build, though a gentle soul in many ways. So polite and soft-spoken, with a rich baritone voice that could fill a room whenever he was moved to song. Which was often.

And such hands, so massive and strong, you would think they could cleave rock all by themselves.

“Still, we were lucky,” he said.

Brody always tried to find the positive. She hated him, and loved him, for that.

“Randall was the only one,” he went on. “No one else even got hurt. Near as we could tell, he was lighting his pipe close to some powder. Before anyone knew, there was this terrific explosion. When the smoke cleared … well,” he stopped, choosing his words carefully, “Randall was the only one missing.”  

Nothing more needed to be said. Her Brody was home safe. Nothing could be done to change what had happened.

The conversation was kept brief. Her husband was always worn down and rarely lasted much past dinner. Besides, she had a hunch that Vivian would be by with some of his magic poteen, as he was wont to do on days like this. More details would be shared. Without her having to ask.

“Girls,” she said, turning to the two children in the corner. “Come greet your father!” She didn’t need to interrupt their play. She could tell that they were listening and only pretending to amuse themselves.

“What are you two up to then?” Brody asked, surveying their latest clay creations. “Building some new furniture for your poor mother?”

His eyes widened, and his countenance changed so that there was no longer any trace of anguish.

“Or maybe some delicious pies for your next tea party with the Queen…. ”

The youngest stifled a giggle. No, not the youngest, she corrected herself. Younger. It was only the two, now.

“Or,” he added, “perhaps a magic castle with a deep moat, filled with great fish and water faeries … RRrrawrrr!”  He yelled, grabbing onto both.

Both were laughing now, more amused by his antics and inflections than by the words themselves.

“Liam, would save us if he were here!” Bridgit, the older one said.

“Yeah,” young Bronwyn agreed, catching her breath. “Do you miss him, Mam?”

Dear Liam. Lost before the leaves had fallen. It had come on so sudden. Swamp Fever they called it. He didn’t suffer. The sickness had caused him to slip into a deep sleep from which he mercifully did not wake. There was no pain. The agony had been hers to endure. Her and the other mothers. Six children lost in total.

Since then, the dry clay penetrated the creases round her husband’s eyes and cheeks set a little deeper, causing him to look older than his thirty-one years. Perhaps she had aged as well.

The children seemed to have adjusted. To everything, for that matter. Even the filthy dugout that had served as home going on nine months now. No small miracle given it amounted to little more than a cave, roughly carved into a deep cut that would become the east bank of the Canal.

Although at ten feet wide and eight feet deep, it wasn’t all that much smaller than the tiny cottage they’d left behind in Waterford.

If Regan were being completely honest, it was the bland darkness that disturbed her the most. She tried everything to bring in as much light and colour as she could. Even if they were just little things. She‘d hung a simple drapery over a small mirror to give the appearance of a back window, and alternated two red tablecloths that she did her best to keep clean.

But she had long given up on holding to any standards of cleanliness insofar as the girls were concerned. Or herself for that matter, save for when she did the weekly laundry run for Captain Morrison’s wife.

“Help your mother put a meal together, please,” she told them.

“But we just did a meal for Mrs. Murphy yesterday, Mother.” The youngest replied. 

“It’s not for Mrs. Murphy, smarty britches,” she said playfully. “Enough of your lip, now, and fetch me two pieces of bread and some butter from the bucket outside.”

Mrs. Murphy. Hard as it had been on them, the last few months were devastating for her. She was now all that remained of a family of six that had succumbed to The Fever the past fall, all in the span of nine terrible weeks.

Oh, she was fine and well, Mrs. Murphy would say. And each day she would smile her hellos to passers-by, and every day she would return to her full-time pursuit of sweeping the mud and dirt from the walls and floor of her own dugout.

The settlement, or rather the women of the settlement, had rallied to keep her well, physically at least, taking turns setting aside small portions that would appear unannounced on her front stoop. “We can keep her body nourished,” they concurred, “but the rest is in God’s hands.”

Winter had been cold, but at least the food kept, and the variety of rancid smells abated somewhat. They would return soon enough, of course, and it would be impossible to remain clean.

Still, every season had its curse. But you coped. You simply found a way. What choice was there?

She’d soon be bracing herself for the coming spring thaw, and the sombre reminders that would reemerge. Any week now, the melting snow would begin to reveal the clusters of small crosses on the opposite bank.

“Has your pay come in yet?” She asked, seeking a distraction from her thoughts.

“No, next week, they said.”

He clearly felt her stare without seeing it, because he added, “Not to worry, dearest, I’ll build you your mansion. All I need is a shovel big enough, and I’ll start digging out the guest room.”  

———————————-

As expected, Vivian arrived not long after, just as Regan was returning from her drop-off to the Bronsons. Or rather, Mrs. Bronson’s.

Good old Vivian. Viv, the elder statesman, twice fired for talking back to his foreman and then injured in a blast that left him unable to work.

But his gift of the Blarney remained intact, and even Regan found him entertaining — albeit in small doses. The tell-tale banging of his wooden crutch against their makeshift door always followed by the standard refrain “Deoch Ar Diat Anseo!” 

Drinks are served here.

Even on one leg, Vivian was an imposing figure. At well over six feet, he needed to duck his head just to fit inside. Since losing his job he had turned to his favourite hobby, becoming a full-time distiller of, in his own words, “The finest nectar anywhere in The Canadas.“

Although it always tasted different, according to Brody anyway, Vivian maintained that his poteen was derived from an ancient recipe and reflected the perfect mix of barley, potato and yellow squash.

“A laudanum fit for The King himself,” in his words. Upon entering he would customarily offer Regan a drink that she would always decline.

If she drank at all, it was only to celebrate, and there was little occasion for that. Besides, if there were two things they had in excess it was death and the drink. Though Vivian’s long-winded sermons also made it onto her list of things in excess.

“You see, lad,” (he would always begin with “You see,”) “the problem is the powder. It’s far too volatile.”  

Her husband didn’t know what that meant but nodded anyway.

“Now, for example, the canals in India. The difference is it was English soldiers doing the work. Not us navvies they couldn’t give a rat’s arse about. Pardon the language, Ma’am.”

Regan sat in the corner, half listening, working the mud from her nails and hair in preparation for next morning’s laundry run. Vivian was still droning on a good half-hour later when she looked up to see her husband, his head tilted back, fast asleep.

“Now, when I was speaking with the good Colonel himself, I made mention to him of this. Did you know the Royal Engineers receive no less than six weeks’ training ….”

“Time you were off, Vivian,” she said. 

Vivian, glancing over, seemed confused, if not taken aback by the remark.

“Madam, this is an important conversation we are having.” 

“Well,” she replied, “when Brody wakes up, I’ll be sure to have him come see you for any pearls of wisdom he might have missed. Now good night to you.” 

Vivian turned to look over at his companion, who was very much asleep. Eyes closed, Brody was almost invisible in the dim light, his soiled face matching the contours and colour of the mud wall against which it now rested. 

Vivian bowed sheepishly. “Indeed. Yes, of course, good night, Madam,” he uttered, and exited as quietly as a large one-legged man can through a small opening.

Regan smiled. Closing the door behind him, she gently lowered her husband to the ground and returned to her hairbrush. Finally satisfied, she secured her bonnet to her head and made a last check on the children before nuzzling in beside him.

Next morning the little ones were dispatched to a neighbour’s while she prepared herself to set off. Regan enjoyed her work as a laundress. She especially liked the company of Mrs. Morrison, with whom she seemed to get on quite well.

Perhaps it was because they were about the same age. Or it was the faintest Irish accent she discerned in the woman’s speech, although she would never ask. Not that Mrs. Morrison would have minded. Despite being the wife of an Army Officer and all, she was very approachable, and they had come to converse freely.

Although perhaps, if she was being entirely honest with herself, it was the absence of mud that she savoured most, along with the opportunity to sit for a brief cup of tea. Last week had been the most frank discussion to date.

“You are settling in alright then, Regan?” Mrs. Morrison had asked. The words so elegantly spoken overtop a fine china cup held in pristine, white-gloved hands.

“We make do, Ma’am,” she had said, at first anyway. But before she left, she had shared many of her concerns over the irregularity of her husband‘s pay and the numbers of men who never came home at all.

On arriving this time, Regan was directed into the massive front room where she was greeted by Mrs. Morrison. A brief but amicable exchange of pleasantries followed as she collected the next batch of clothes to be taken to the laundry barrel in back. For the next few hours, Regan worked scrubbing the barely soiled clothing. Children’s trousers with dirty knees and backsides, a military tunic to be brushed, not washed. Lovely dresses that seemed already clean.

She worked diligently, removing every trace of dirt and scrubbing every stain as best she could. Once hung, she surveyed the washed clothes on the lines that criss-crossed the room, often times re-doing pieces until she was completely satisfied that all items were as clean as they could possibly be. It was, perhaps, her only small victory in the constant struggle against the filth.

Regan was about to leave when she heard, “You will join me again for a cup of tea, I hope?” 

“Tell me more about your husband’s work.” Mrs. Morrison insisted, once they were seated and alone. Regan was cautious at first but, as she sat, soaking in the table service resting on the doily on the tablecloth, all in the colour clean, sipping the lovely hot tea from perfect china, she found herself open up once again, airing her most recent concerns. She expressed how, though she was only a simple country lass, she couldn’t see how such a practice favoured anyone. That things could not go on this way before no workers would be left at all.

Mrs. Morrison had remained quiet through it all, her expression almost stoic. And making her way back home through the mud, Regan chided herself for having said too much.

————————————

Mercifully, the sound of explosions continued without interruption for the next several days. The sun was also growing warmer, and the children were able to play outside without their overclothes. Regan took to sitting out with them, making the most of the increased warmth and light. 

“Regan. You’ll not believe this!” she turned to see her husband running towards her. Smiling. Why would he be smiling?

“What is it?” Good news happened so rarely. 

“Alright, now listen,” he said, catching his breath. It seems that Vivian was making his weekly delivery to McGuinty’s Tavern the other day, and he overheard Captain Morrison having a pointed conversation with the foreman.”

“Really?” she replied. “What about?” She could feel her heart rising in her chest as he spoke.

“Well,” he said, taking a second to swallow. “I don’t know exactly, but it was something to the effect that,” he made his most official-sounding English accent. “You will not receive another shilling from me until I have proof. Not assurance, mind you, but actual proof, that these men have been paid in full.”  

“Wonderful,” she replied, adding, “Come, let’s sit outside now. The children are next door, and I want to be within earshot.”

An hour later, Brody was off to the Tavern for a quick pint when there was a sharp knock at the door. Regan opened it to see a hard-looking man, roughly dressed, standing in front of her. 

“Missus, this be for you,” he said, thrusting a pay envelope and a clipboard, which he instructed her to make her mark with the pen provided. 

She scowled, removed the money from the envelope and counted it carefully, twice, before taking his pen and signing her name in clear cursive. The man held his stare, though it was clear the glare that he had been meeting with for the past hour had eroded whatever intensity he had begun with. He swallowed hard and bowed before departing.

“And try to be on time with the next one,” she yelled after him. 

Stopping, he turned and raised his head slightly, staring down at her. His reply was slow and deliberate. “If there be a next time, Missus.” 

The words chilled her, although she held her stare until he turned and continued on his way. She quickly went inside to the secret spot next to the bookshelf, aptly named since it held only a single tomb … a well-thumbed copy of the Bible, and placed the envelope in a small recess, covering it with several handfuls of mud.

The following morning broke grey and overcast. It was dark, and a soft mist was falling. There were low rumblings in the distance as she watched Brody off to work. These are the hardest days, she thought. Low cloud held the smell of the black powder to the extent it could be tasted in the back of the throat. It will be rancid by mid-morning and hard to breathe by afternoon. But worst of all, a rumbling storm would make it impossible to tell a blast from what was not.

They began soon after he was out of sight.

BOOOM - BOOM!

The first explosion always seemed the loudest. It erupted sharply, without warning. This was quickly followed by another and another and then … silence. She ignored it at first, and then began, as she always did, counting softly to herself. 

“Count to five hundred.” Brody had instructed her “before you start to fret.” She hadn’t gotten past fifty before she was interrupted by a faint rumble … thunder? No not thunder, a smaller blast. Good. Start over then. “One … two ….”

She thought she could smell the powder. Another good sign. The girls were stirring now. They would be awake soon, looking for their breakfast.  Oh God, it’s still quiet. 

“Two hundred ... two hundred and one ….”

“Mommy. Can we have porridge this morning?!”

“I want an apple.”

“Three hundred and seventy-seven …” she was counting slower now. “Sev – en – ty eight” she whispered.

“Mommy, she has more than me ….”

“Four hundred and twelve ….”

“Ma … I’m STILL hungry”

“Five hundred … and sixty-one ….”

BANG BANG BANG!

The sudden knock at the door made her jump.

“Madam.” It was a stern and unfamiliar voice. “Madam, would you open the door please?”

Regan opened the door slightly, tentatively peering out through the small crack to see a young man in the uniform of the Royal Engineers. At any other time she might have been impressed by the elegance of his dress, but now she saw only the colour of his tunic … blood red. She was panting, but not drawing breath. She opened the door.  

“Madam, I have been asked to give you this,” he said, pushing a letter towards her.

She tried to move her arms. Tried to speak. Nothing. The soldier looked at her confused before continuing.

 “Madam, I was also asked to inform you that you need not worry about the welfare of your husband. He and the rest of the crew are fine. Better than fine, in fact.” He then paused, no doubt seeing from Regan’s expression that she was in no mood for talk.

“Work has stopped,” he went on, “until such time as crews have received fulsome training in the use of dangerous equipment. Long overdue, if I might add.” 

Regan’s legs weakened, and she felt the sensation of the ground and walls moving round her. She lifted her hand and, taking the letter from the uniformed messenger, tore it open. Straining to focus her eyes, she read:

Dearest Regan,

My husband, Captain Morrison, and I wish to invite you and your husband to dinner this coming Saturday. He wishes to thank you personally for your candour. 

Sincerely,

Mary

Another simple country lass

Brody was home later than usual, but with none of the usual tiredness. If anything, he seemed more energized than he’d been for some time. He talked nonstop about the events of the day.

He described at length a new man, an experienced hand, brought in for his knowledge of explosives, and time spent learning rules that would certainly help to keep them all safe. “Rules written in the blood of the less fortunate” had been the phrase repeated throughout much of the day.

The storm had passed by the time they finished the evening meal. A gunmetal gray sky, so seemingly endless and severe, had given way to a narrow but growing band of bright amber along its western edge.

They sat facing the setting sun. It’s warmth mixed with a fresh but gentle spring breeze that carried the sounds of Bridgit and Bronwyn playing with the Murphy and Connell children. 

“You know, Regan,” Brody said, “I think, with your permission, I might just take a wee sip from Viv’s bottle.”

He raised himself slowly, sneaking a peek back at Regan below his brimmed hat. It was a cautious movement … a child reaching for a tray of sweets, or a second piece of bread at dinner, not looking for permission as much as the absence of retribution.

Regan, her arms crossed and eyes fixed firmly straight ahead, did not answer. Satisfied, he moved to go inside and pull the bottle from the back corner of the shanty.

“Brody?” She said.

Brody, caught mid-stride, nearly stumbled as he answered.

“Yes, Regan?”

“Perhaps I will have a small glass as well.”