Paupers Graveyard by Gemma Mawdsley

him.
    â€˜Who’s dead?’ The whisper seemed like a shout in the quiet of the kitchen and they all turned and looked at him.
    â€˜Ireland, lad,’ the old man said. ‘It’s Mother Ireland that’s dying. Can’t you smell it in the air around us?’
    They all murmured in agreement, and went quiet again, until Mr Ryan spoke.
    â€˜You’re all to go home.’
    The men began to rise and Timmy, unsure of what to do, asked, ‘Me, sir, should I go too?’
    â€˜Yes, lad,’ Mr Ryan stopped and ruffled his hair, ‘you go too.’
    Timmy was delighted, although the old man’s words were strange and everyone was so miserable. He had been given his first day off work.
    It wasn’t until he was clear of the Hall and getting near to the cabins that haphazardly dotted his world, that Timmy stopped smiling. The smell was worse there, and from the hill where he was standing, he could see all his neighbours running into the fields where the lazy-beds were. His mother’s words came back to him now and he, too, started to run. He found the cabin empty, but he knew exactly where to go.
    His mother and brothers were busy digging in the plot behind the cabin, as little Rose sat watching. There was nothing sinister in this; it was the sight of his father on his knees raking the earth with his fingers that chilled his blood. His father never came in from the fields during the day. Even when his mother had been near death in childbirth, his father had refused to come. When Father O’Reilly had sent for him with the message that she could be breathing her last, he still stayed at his work. Now there he was and the sun barely up, digging with his bare hands. Without asking, Timmy took the shovel and waited to be told what to do. His mother was on her knees pulling at the stalks, and he could see her fingers bleeding from the effort.
    â€˜Ma, let me do it.’
    The earth released the first group of potatoes almost gladly, and he watched as she leapt upon them and rubbed away the soil. The first one she picked did not please her and she moved on to the next. It was the same with this; it was cast aside, as she scrabbled in the dirt for another one. Timmy didn’t know what to think. He reached for the potato she was holding. She was staring at it as though it was a foreign object. He almost had to prise it from her hand, and gasped in disgust, as he felt his fingers sink into its slimy, stinking softness. Standing up, he looked at the sodden mass, and for the first time realised what had happened.
    â€˜Is this it, Ma? Is this what you felt?’
    â€˜Yes, child, this is what I felt, though I never in all my life thought it would be this bad. I imagined some loss of life, but this is death for all of us.’
    A shadow blocked the sun. His father was standing over them. Usually he would berate them for slacking and Timmy waited for the chastisement. But instead of his fearsome father, there was a broken human being, holding a fistful of decaying potatoes in front of him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at his wife for words of comfort, anything that could appease the terror he was feeling.
    She got up, and for the first time, Timmy saw his mother take his father in her arms. ‘I know, Pat, I know,’ she murmured.
    The potatoes were bad, but did that really matter so much? Two-thirds had already been dug up, and were still stored in the deep pits, until needed. What did it matter if some had died? More would grow next year. They could plant the good ones, and the following harvest would surely yield a better crop.
    He became aware of the sounds coming from the other fields. At first it seemed like a low keening, which he had heard many times before at wakes, when the women cried for the loss of a loved one. Then it intensified in volume until it filled the air. Timmy gathered his siblings closer to him and they huddled together, listening. The keening gave