The Good People by Hannah Kent Page A

and rocks, avoiding the toothed leaves of nettles.
    ‘Were you not afraid of coming such a long way in the dark?’ Nóra asked.
    ‘I had my brother,’ Mary answered simply.
    ‘You’re a brave girl.’
    She shrugged. ‘There’s so many of us. I didn’t dare move for fear I’d miss a job. I would have stood there all day.’
    They followed the road in silence then, through moor ground and small swathes of trees, already bare in the steady approach of winter; past the dark, lacquered shine of holly. The grass by the roadside was browned and long and beyond, in the distance, the mountains patched with heather and rock stood silent against the sky. Spirals of smoke from turf fires accompanied them as they walked.
    It was late afternoon by the time the two women reached Nóra’s cabin, and the sun had started to falter. They stood for a moment in the yard, panting after the trudge up the slope, and Nóra watched the girl assess her surroundings. Her eyes passed over the two-roomed thatched dwelling, the small byre beside it and the scattered hens. Nóra wondered whether Mary had expected something more, perhaps a larger home thatched with wheat straw rather than reeds. Perhaps the stumping mass of a pig in the yard or signs of a donkey rather than a quiet home with one tiny window stuffed with straw, the whitewashed walls greening with moss and a stony scoreground of potato.
    ‘I have a cow. She keeps us in milk and dirt.’ Nóra led Mary to the byre and they stepped into its warm darkness and its smell of flank and piss, the dark outline of the cow on the straw at their feet.
    ‘You’re to water, feed and milk her in the mornings and churn the butter. Once a week, you’ll churn. I’ll do the evening’s milking.’
    ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Brownie, we . . . I call her.’
    Nóra watched as Mary brought her chapped hands down to the cow’s head and stroked her ears. Brownie slowly shifted her weight, her bony haunches rolling.
    ‘Does she give much milk?’
    ‘Enough,’ replied Nóra. ‘God keep her well.’
    They stepped back into the soft light and walked the wet path to the house, the chickens running towards them over the yard. ‘Decent hens,’ Nóra said. ‘Here, give them the chickweed. Sure, they’re mad for it. They’re not laying as much now, but I have my faithful few and they give their eggs right through the winter.’ She shot Mary a stern look. ‘You’re not to take any. No eggs or butter. You’d be eating the rent. Do you eat much?’
    ‘No more than I can help.’
    ‘Hmm. Follow me now.’
    Nóra pushed open the half-door and greeted Peg O’Shea, who was sitting by the fire with Micheál in her lap.
    ‘Peg, this here is Mary.’
    ‘God save you and welcome.’ Peg gave Mary an appraising look. ‘You’ll be a Clancy girl, with the red hair of you.’
    ‘Clifford. I’m Mary Clifford,’ the girl said, eyes flicking to Micheál. Her mouth slipped open.
    ‘Clifford, is it? Well, God bless you, Cliffords and Clancys alike. Is it far you’ve come?’
    ‘She set out to the rabble fair in the dark of this morning,’ Nóra said. ‘Annamore. Twelve mile or more.’
    ‘And the walk all this way too? Musha, you’ll be dead on your feet.’
    ‘She has two strong legs.’
    ‘And two strong arms from the look of things. Take him, will you? This is Micheál. I expect Nóra’s told you about him.’ Peg gathered the boy up and motioned for Mary to come closer.
    Mary stared. Micheál’s nose was crusted and spittle had dried in the corner of his mouth. As Peg held him out to her, he began to groan like a man beaten.
    She took a step back. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
    There was silence, broken only by Micheál’s guttural moaning.
    Peg sighed and placed the boy back down on her lap. Casting a knowing look at Nóra, she scraped the dried saliva from the boy’s face with a fingernail.
    ‘What do you mean, “What’s wrong with him?”’ Nóra’s voice was dangerous.
    ‘What