Paupers Graveyard by Gemma Mawdsley Page A

way to screaming, and little Rose tried to burrow beneath his jumper in fright. His mother hurried them from the field.
    Once inside the cabin, she started to light the fire, although she usually did this only when it was cold or to cook. Timmy went over to the turf pile, took some sods from it and carried them back to the fireside. She was kneeling on the hearth blowing the kindling to help it catch fire, and his hand brushed against hers as he laid the turf beside her. She felt cold and her skin was whiter than usual. His father sat in his chair and said nothing, but his eyes had a faraway, haunted look. The children were mute; they knew there was something wrong, but had no idea what it was. Placing the sods carefully on top of the kindling, she watched until she was sure they would light. Then she went to the pile of potatoes in the corner and picked out enough to feed them, carefully looking at each one as though weighing and measuring it to assess its value. She scrubbed them free of dirt, before sending Timmy to the well. He took the bucket and ran off, glad to be free of the overpowering silence. He returned quickly and his mother emptied half of the water into the large black pot. She laid the potatoes inside before finally hanging the pot on the blackened firearm and swinging it over the blaze. They all listened to the crackling of the fire and watched as flames reached up and caressed the pot’s sooty bottom. His mother also watched from her chair, mesmerised by an action she had seen countless times before.
    If Timmy had closed his eyes, this could be any normal day and the events of the past hours only a dream. But there was a fire lighting, when there should not have been and they were going to eat at a time when they never did. The meal was eaten in silence. When they had finished, Timmy got up and started to clear the table, but his mother stopped him.
    â€˜Be a good boy and take your brothers and sister for a walk.’
    His brothers were up in a flash, but Rose was cranky. She wanted to sleep; the unexpected meal had made her content and drowsy, and she wanted to cuddle up with her mother.
    â€˜Come on, lazybones,’ he teased her. ‘We can go to the stream and see if there are any fish there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
    She looked up at him doubtfully.
    â€˜Listen,’ he draped an old scarf around her shoulders and knotted it beneath her chin, ‘we might even see a fairy fish with golden scales and a silver tail. Wouldn’t you like that?’
    She smiled happily. Timmy led her outside and they started across the fields towards the stream. He made up stories about fairies and imps and faraway lands as they walked. His father said that Timmy did too much dreaming, and that he could not imagine how he found his way home at times with his head so far up in the clouds. His mother insisted there was nothing wrong with dreaming, and that some of the best things ever had started with a dream.
    It seemed that many of the other parents had the same idea, as Martin called out to him to wait. He had his six siblings in tow, and Timmy could see other children walking towards them across the fields.
    â€˜So,’ Martin caught up with him, ‘they sent you out too?’
    â€˜Yes, they seem to be very upset by the loss of the potatoes.’
    â€˜By God,’ Martin snorted, ‘you’d think the world was coming to an end.’
    â€˜Did you save most of your crop?’
    â€˜Yes, that was done over a month ago. That’s why I can’t understand it.’
    Reaching their favourite spot on the bank, they sat down. The smaller children threw stones or trailed branches in the water, while the bigger ones climbed trees and swung upside down from the branches. The older ones came and sat beside Timmy and Martin and all the questions were the same. What was going on? How did it happen? Where did it come from? They frightened each other with stories of