The Good People by Hannah Kent Page B

ails him? That noise he’s making. Why is he carping like that? Can he not talk?’
    ‘He’s delicate, is all,’ Peg said softly.
    ‘Delicate,’ Mary repeated. She edged backwards until her hands were resting on the doorframe. ‘Is it catching?’
    Nóra made an animal noise in the back of her throat. ‘You’re a bold girl to ask a question like that.’
    ‘Nóra –’
    ‘“Is it catching?” Do you hear her, Peg? The cheek of it.’
    ‘No, I don’t mean. Only, he does not seem . . .’
    ‘Seem what?’
    ‘Nóra. She has a right to ask.’ Peg spat on a corner of her apron and scrubbed at Micheál’s face.
    ‘Only . . .’ Mary pointed at his legs, exposed where the dress bunched up about his midriff. ‘Can he even walk?’ Her lip trembled.
    ‘She’s just a girl, Nóra,’ Peg said quietly. ‘Come here and see for yourself, Mary Clifford. He’s not got a catching sickness. He won’t harm you. He’s just a child. Just a harmless child.’
    Mary nodded, swallowing hard.
    ‘Go on. Take a peep at him. He’s a dear thing, really.’
    Mary peered over Peg’s shoulder at the boy. His eyes were half shut, gazing down the length of a snub nose, and his mouth was slack. Gurgled breathing came from his throat.
    ‘Is he in pain?’ Mary asked.
    ‘He’s not, no. He can laugh, and he can sit up a ways by himself, and he can move his arms sometimes to play with things.’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘Well, now,’ said Peg. ‘He’d be four years now, isn’t that so, Nóra?’
    ‘He likes feathers,’ Nóra breathed. She sat down unsteadily on the creepie stool opposite Peg. ‘He likes feathers.’
    ‘Sure, four it is. And he likes feathers. And acorns. And knuckle bones.’ Peg’s voice held a forced liveliness. ‘’Tis just the legs of him.’
    ‘He can’t walk,’ Nóra croaked. ‘He used to be able to, but now he can’t.’
    Mary eyed the boy with apprehension, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Micheál? My name is Mary.’ She glanced over to Nóra. ‘Is he shy?’
    ‘He can’t talk to tell us.’ Nóra was silent for a moment. ‘I should have told you.’
    Mary shook her head. Her hair had curled in the damp air of the walk back to the cabin and she looked young and frightened. Nóra felt sudden self-loathing. She is just a girl, she thought. She is just a child herself, and here I am shouting at her. A stranger.
    ‘Well, now. You’ve come all this way and I’ve not even given you a drink. You must be thirsty.’ Nóra stood and replenished the pot of water on the hearth from the well pail.
    Peg gave Mary a little squeeze on the shoulder. ‘Let’s set him down there. On the heather. He won’t go far.’
    ‘I can take him.’ Mary sat down next to Peg and lifted the boy onto her lap. ‘He’s all bones! He’s light as a bird.’
    The women watched her as she pulled the cloth of Micheál’s dress down around his legs, then took off her own shawl and used it to swaddle his feet. ‘There now. Now you’re easy,’ she murmured.
    ‘Well. ’Tis a pleasure to have you amongst us, Mary Clifford. I wish you well and God bless. I’d best be on my way.’ She gave Nóra a meaningful glance and shuffled out the door, leaving them alone.
    Mary tucked Micheál’s head against her collarbone, her arms awkwardly clasped around his body. ‘He has a tremor in him,’ she remarked.
    Nóra poured out two piggins of buttermilk and began to prepare potatoes for their dinner. There was a tightening in her throat, as though a rope had been pulled against her neck, and she did not trust herself to speak. Several minutes passed before she heard Mary’s quavering voice behind her.
    ‘I’ll do my best for you.’
    ‘I’m sure you will.’ Nóra choked on the words. ‘I’m sure you will.’
    Later that evening, once Mary and Nóra had finished their quiet meal and called the hens in for the night, they turned out the settle bed, placing a rough mattress of woven straw and a blanket