The Good People by Hannah Kent

Her brother’s cheeks were flushed with humiliation.
    ‘And is your mother or father here?’
    ‘My brother and I walked the road ourselves.’ She paused. ‘Mam and Da are at home with the young ones and the work.’
    ‘Are you well? Has there been any sickness in your house?’
    The girl blushed. ‘I’m well, missus.’ She opened her mouth to show Nóra her teeth, but Nóra shook her head, embarrassed.
    ‘Can you milk and churn then, Mary?’
    ‘I can. I’ve a good hand for it.’ She held out her palms as though Nóra might be able to see evidence of ability in her swollen knuckles, the hard skin on the pads of her fingers.
    ‘And you are used to minding children?’
    ‘I’ve always helped Mam with the babies. There being eight of us, so.’ The girl took a little step forward, as if afraid she was losing Nóra’s interest. ‘And I’m a fair spinner. And an early riser, too. I wake before the birds, my mam says, and I do her washing and card and I’ve a strong back. I can be beetling clothes all day.’
    Nóra couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s solemn eagerness. ‘Have you been hired before?’
    ‘I have, missus. I was hired at a place north of here for a term this summer gone.’
    ‘And did you like it?’
    Mary paused, running her tongue over dry lips. ‘’Twas a hard place, missus.’
    ‘You didn’t care to stay on, then.’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m after a different farm.’
    Nóra nodded, fighting a sudden headache. Martin had always hired what help they needed, and she was unused to so baldly interrogating a stranger. The men Martin had brought home had been quiet, hard workers who were uncomfortable indoors, holding their arms close to their sides as if afraid they would break something. They ate quickly, skinning a potato with their eyes already on the next. They mumbled the rosary, slept on the floor and woke before dawn; rough-nailed, yoke-backed men who smelt of hay and mayweed and rarely showed their teeth. Some came back every year, others did not. There had never been any need to hire a girl.
    Nóra allowed herself a moment to study Mary’s face and the girl looked back at her, clear-eyed, jaw clenched against the cold. Her clothes were thin and too small for her – her wrists extended well beyond the cuff of her blouse and the seams were tight around her arms and shoulders – but she seemed clean. Her hair was cut to her chin and combed, with no sign of lice. She seemed anxious to please, and Nóra thought of the eight other children at home in whatever damp bothán her parents had raised her in. She thought of Johanna, the whispers that rippled back to her about her daughter begging food off neighbours. This girl had the same hair as her. The same as Micheál. A light copper – like a hare, or pine needles drying out on the ground.
    ‘Will you come for a term with me then, Mary? I have my daughter’s child to care for. How much do you want for the six months?’
    ‘Two pound,’ Mary said quickly.
    Nóra narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re too young for that money. One and half.’
    Mary nodded and Nóra placed a shilling in her palm. The girl quickly tucked it into her parcel and cast her eyes to her brother, giving him a solemn nod. He had been abandoned by the farmer who had examined him and now stood alone amidst the crowd and the smoke. He watched them leave, and at the last moment raised a hand in farewell.
    The journey back to Nóra’s house was a quiet one. The sun emerged and the bright splatter left by cartwheels and footprints was clear on the road. The district’s tramping to Killarney with hoof and flock had left the path churned. Mud glistened.
    Nóra and Mary made slow work of the journey, but Nóra didn’t mind. She was relieved to have the business of hiring done with. She walked close to the lane ditches, stooping now and then to pull starry clusters of chickweed for her hens. Mary, noticing, began to look too. She stepped carefully between the mud