The Lost Soldier's Song by Patrick McGinley

Author:Patrick McGinley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 1994-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

It snowed heavily throughout the night. By morning drifts had built up against both doors and the quiet kitchen was strangely warm. Declan shovelled a narrow path to the end wall of the house. McColl cleared a patch on the bawn and set up a crude bird-trap made from an old door with a supporting stick and string. Afterwards Declan and Ganly wrapped themselves in their overcoats and set off with Tom Hurley to scrounge what food they could in the nearest hamlet over a mile away. Some of the others went off with back-creels in search of turf to keep the fire going.

Declan was pleased to have escaped the crowded kitchen. It was freezing cold and the sun was glinting with blinding clarity from a sky that had been emptied of everything that could come down. They made their way across a hill above a white wasteland that had lost all recognisable features. Rocks and gullies had vanished and turf stacks became visible only as they drew close. ‘Thank heavens for snow,’ Hurley said. ‘We can forget about the Tans and their Crossleys for at least a week.’

They came back laden with flour, potatoes, turnips, and oatmeal for porridge. They had got enough milk to keep them going for three days but no tea and no meat. Luckily, McColl had caught three moorhens and a blackbird, and they were glad to find Maureen preparing a meal. The four birds would not have made an ample meal for two, so to make them go round she made soup. At first it looked thin in the pot. Then she thickened it with turnip and potato and the shredded flesh of the overcooked birds. As they didn’t have soup bowls, she poured it into mugs and they used it to wash down the potatoes that served as the pièce de résistance.

‘We may go hungry but we won’t die of hunger,’ Ganly said.

‘You can take this soup with an easy conscience,’ McColl told him. ‘It isn’t soup-kitchen soup, you can enjoy it without being called a souper.’ There was a note of hostility in his voice and no one smiled except Ganly. He stirred his soup with a teaspoon and took it slowly as if it were senna, cod liver oil, or some other equally suspect distillation.

Hurley began several conversations that died at birth. Maureen was silent and McColl had a look of injured self-esteem. Quite possibly, he had sustained the injury in conversation with Maureen while the rest of them were out. They all felt relieved when Nolan came in and planked half a pound of tea on the table as if it were a poke of gold dust. Suddenly there was banter and laughter. ‘Soup is all right for a turn,’ Ganly said. ‘For the drinking man there’s nothing to beat strong tea – if you can’t get your hands on whiskey.’

‘Who’s guarding the prisoners?’ Nolan asked, looking from face to face. He listened in silence as McColl told him what had happened.

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