The Whitest Flower. Brendan Graham
At these words, there was much shuffling of nervous feet in the church. Father O’Brien pressed on in the same emotionless voice, careful not to betray the unease he felt inside:
‘While there is no conclusive proof of the arrival of the potato blight in Ireland, the advice the Archbishop gives, having consulted with some experts in this area, is that it would be wise not to delay the digging of the crop until October but to lift the potatoes immediately.’
He paused to let the message sink in.
‘I would therefore suggest to you that when you return home from this Mass, you should immediately commence digging your crops. The Archbishop hereby grants you all a special dispensation so that this work can be done today.’
This was serious, thought Ellen, as frightened whisperings filled the church. To work on a Sunday was to bring seven years’ bad luck; it went against the strict code of the Catholic Church regarding the observance of the Sabbath. She drew the children closer to her. The rest of the congregation looked as fearful as she felt: wives and children turned in their seats, seeking reassurance from husbands and fathers across the church.
Father O’Brien raised his voice to make it heard above the commotion as he read from the copied extract given to him by the Archbishop: ‘The Dublin Evening Post of ninth September reports that: “There can be no question at all of the very remarkable failure in the United States, and with regard to Holland, Flanders, and France, we have already abundant evidence of the wide spread of what we cannot help calling a calamity.”’
The priest read on, translating into Irish as he went: ‘“It is in the densely packed communities of Europe that the failure would be alarming and in no country more, or so much, than our own.”’ A deathly silence descended on the church. Father O’Brien wet his lips with his tongue before continuing: ‘“But happily there is no ground for any apprehension of the kind in Ireland.”’ Ellen, along with the rest of the congregation, exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘“We believe that there was never a more abundant potato crop in Ireland than there is at present, and none which it will be more likely to secure.”
‘So you see,’ Father O’Brien concluded, ‘the picture is not yet clear. On the one hand, if you lift the lumpers now, they will not be fully grown. On the other hand, if you do not lift them for another month, they may be diseased.
‘Considering everything, the Archbishop’s advice is as follows: when Mass has ended, you should go immediately and dig your potatoes with all haste. Now, we ask the all-knowing God for His guidance and, if it be His Divine will, that the crops might be saved. May God bless the work.’
With these words Father O’Brien returned to the liturgy of the Mass.
As the people filed silently out of the church, Ellen paused to cross herself with holy water. A figure in black stood waiting within the corner of the porch. Waiting for her. With a start she realized it was Sheela-na-Sheeoga.
‘The blessings of God and His Holy Mother and the Infant Jesus, be on you, Ellen Rua. I see you are in bloom,’ she said in a half-whisper.
Ellen made to move on. She did not want Michael and the children – or the priest for that matter – to see her talking to the old cailleach. But Sheela caught her by the arm.
‘Be not hastening away from me now, Ellen Rua. Wasn’t it yourself who was quick to hasten to me over the mountain, not a woman’s time ago?’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Remember the words I spoke to you then: “When the whitest flower blooms, so too will you bloom.” Go now with your husband, and lift the fruit of the whitest flower.’
Of course, thought Ellen, how could she not have seen it? The whitest flower was the flower that blossomed on the lazy beds. It was so obvious, she had missed it.
‘But the whitest flower will be the blackest flower,’ Sheela-na-Sheeoga continued. ‘And you, red-haired Ellen, must crush its petals in your hand.’ She paused, gauging the effect of her words. ‘Remember and heed it well, Ellen Rua.’
Ellen instinctively drew her hands about her body where her unborn child was. She could read nothing from Sheela-na-Sheeoga’s face; the old woman’s eyes stared back at her, ashen and grey, like a dead fire. Ellen was about to ask what the riddle meant, and if it had something to do with the news they had just heard, when she heard footsteps approaching. She turned her head for a moment and when she looked back again Sheela-na-Sheeoga had vanished. In her place stood Father O’Brien.
‘Was it waiting to speak with me you were, Mrs O’Malley?’
‘No, Father, thank you. Just wondering what’s to become of us all.’
‘I don’t know …’ Father O’Brien said. ‘We must pray and put our faith in the hands of the Lord, He will provide.’ Then, echoing the words of the old cailleach, he advised her: ‘Best go home now, Ellen, and take up the potatoes with your husband.’
Michael was waiting outside. He knew by the way she pulled the shawl closer about herself that something troubled her, but he waited for her to break the silence.
‘Do you think that the priest is right about the potatoes – that they’ll be bad, that the bad times are surely coming?’
‘Well if they are itself, I still don’t think it’s a right thing the priest said, to lift them today, on a Sunday.’
Ellen looked at him, understanding his reservations about ‘Sunday work’ – a taboo that went back generations.
‘Well, if it troubles you, Michael, then we’ll wait. The children and myself will gather for you in the morning,’ she said.
They were approaching the crest of the hill. It was there, with their valley opening out before them, that Ellen had planned to tell Michael about the child. But now the time seemed all wrong. The bad news from the priest, the meeting with Sheela-na-Sheeoga, had created a sense of foreboding that was somehow bound up with her being pregnant. To talk about her pregnancy under these circumstances would, she felt, be harmful to the baby in some way. By her silence, therefore, she was protecting her child.
Suddenly, as if coming face to face with a force beyond which they could not pass, they both stopped walking, stunned at the sight below them in the valley.
There in the fields were the men, women and children who had left the church before them. All furiously digging for the lumpers, pulling them up by the stalks, shaking them free of the earth, twisting and turning them – until as one they joined in a great mad shout that rose up to greet Ellen and Michael where they stood:
‘They’re safe! They’re safe! Praise be to God, the potatoes are safe!’
Next morning Ellen was up early, as usual, only to find that Michael was ahead of her. Quickly she tended to the children. The Lessons would have to wait. There was more important work to be done.
It was a bright September morn, with just the hint of autumn chill in it – a good day for the fields. Together they set out for the dig. Michael carried his slane – a kind of half-spade used for digging out potatoes. If you were skilful enough in its use you could lift the tubers without damaging the next cluster along the lazy bed. Ellen and the three children each carried a sciathóg – a basket made of interlaced sally rods. The lumpers would be placed in this rough sieve and shaken to remove any excess clay.
They weren’t the only ones out in the fields. Obviously, despite the Archbishop’s dispensation, some in the village had decided to respect the old ways and not work on the day of rest. But they were in the minority: in the fields adjacent to their own, Ellen and Michael could see where the lazy beds had been dug the previous day.
They were fortunate, she thought, having the two acres. Most of their neighbours had only the ‘bare acre’. An acre, even with a good crop of potatoes,