"They won't."

"You'd lose your position."

"And what of it?" She laughed. "Then I'll sell my body down by the courthouse."

"Don't even say such a thing."

"So are you going to cook them?"

"Oh God, Nuala. I am." She kissed her sister. "Don't tell Father how you got them. Say you bought them."

Though dusk was falling, their father didn't come home for some reason. And several hours passed without any sign of him. Maureen and Nuala were becoming quite concerned.

"Could he have gone out drinking, do you suppose?" said Nuala. "I see the men coming back from work and spending their wages on drink in the town every day."

"Father? Never." Maureen shook her head. "Please God nothing's happened to him," she whispered, so that the younger ones shouldn't hear.

At last, he came. He was carrying something under his coat. Once safely inside, he pulled it out and put it on the table. It was a hunk of meat.

They looked at it in astonishment.

"Father, however did you . . . ?" Maureen was pale with fear.

"Will you cook that for our Christmas, Maureen?" he said with a tone of satisfaction.

"But where did it come from?"

"It was on a cow when I first saw it. That would be about two hours ago."

"You killed a cow?"

"More than a dozen of us. There's nothing left of the beast now. What couldn't be eaten is buried."

There had been numerous incidents of this kind. Gangs of men would go out into the fields after dark, slaughter a cow, and cut it and strip it on the spot, dividing the meat up and vanishing into the night. But it took Maureen a moment to realise that her father had committed a criminal act.

"You could be transported," she said reproachfully.

"If caught." He took his coat off. "I think I'll rest a while. I'm a little tired." He sighed. "I wish," he confessed, "that I could take a drink."

Nuala smiled.

"You can," she said.

But if the family ate well that Christmas, the experience was not to be repeated. Local farmers were guarding their livestock with vigilance; there was less food than ever in the market. Halfway through January, Maureen noticed that tufts of Caitlin's hair were falling out. Then, even more strangely, that as if to compensate, a thick down was growing on her upper face so that she began to look like a sad little monkey. Maureen discovered that several other children in the street looked the same way; it was clearly something to do with their lack of nutrition. Once, after she had been discussing the problem quietly with her father-and out of earshot, as she thought, of the other children-she came in to find little Daniel trying to give his morsel of food to his sister. "So that the hair on her face will go back to her head," he said. And overcome with emotion, she put her arm round him and cried, "You dear little boy."

She had to make sure that he ate his food himself after that.

Relief, of a kind, was at hand. But once again, the government was to display its genius for adding insult and injury to every good deed.

"They are going to set up soup kitchens," her father announced one day.

"Then we shall have food?"

"Perhaps." The prospect did not seem to please him. "They will be set up under the Poor Laws. The paupers will be fed." He breathed heavily. "No Madden has ever been called a pauper."

"You are not a pauper, Father. You have work."

"But they're going to close down the public works. Mr. Smith has promised me he'll keep us going as long as he can. They will open two kitchens in Ennis almost at once; the official kitchens will open sometime in February."

"We must feed the children, whatever we are called, Father," she said.

"I know."

But the opening of the kitchens would have one further consequence. For since the Poor Laws placed the cost of providing relief on the local community, the citizens of Ennis were going to have to pay for them. And since it would have been a distortion of the market to subsidise the food, the local people would have to buy in the supplies for the soup kitchens at the present high prices.

Early in February, Nuala appeared at the cottage one morning.

"I've lost my job," she said simply.

"Oh, Nuala, did they find out about what you took at Christmas?"

"Not at all. It wasn't that. But they've to pay so much extra in rates for the new soup kitchens that they told me: 'We can afford you, or the soup kitchens, but not both.'"

"Well, this is your home, and we're glad to have you back," said her father firmly. But after he had gone, Maureen turned to her sister.

"What are we going to do, Nuala?"

"I'll find something," Nuala promised.

Two days later, Eamonn returned after seeing the man from whom he rented the mock ground.

"He can rent me nothing, even if I can pay for it," he told them, "because he can't get any seed potatoes for planting. He's rented all his plots to a farmer, for grain." He made a helpless gesture. "I've asked all round the town, and it's the same everywhere. Blight or no blight, it'll be a miserable potato harvest this year, because so few potatoes will be planted."

All through that month, news came trickling in from other places. If people in Ennis were living in the borderland of starvation, it seemed that more isolated areas had fared even worse. The soup kitchens, if they reached such places, would come too late. Up in the wilder parts of Galway, Sligo, and Mayo, hundreds, thousands of people had died from starvation. Infants and the old were the first to go, but it had gone beyond that. Those who had given up and walked to the towns had stood a chance; people cut off in the wastes, or who had decided to stay in their homes, had gradually weakened until they could do no more. The priests and clergy were doing what they could, but they had no food to give. Nobody had any idea how many had succumbed.

As well as news, there was also a trickle of people coming into Ennis. Maureen found it hard to believe, but people were still regularly being turned off the land.

"You can't even blame the men turning them off, sometimes," her father said. "Some of the tenant farmers have rented out parts of their land, and if they don't get paid, they can't meet their own rent. It's only the landowners who can give relief, and you don't know how much debt some of them may be in themselves." He sighed. "It's like a great wheel, Maureen, rolling over the land and crushing the lives out of all of us."

Two things made their lives a little easier. Nuala was able to find some work. "It's just helping a woman who takes in laundry, but she can let me have a few pence most days," she said. "It's better than nothing." And the soup kitchens began to function in Ennis. When the first one started, seven hundred people turned up that morning. Soon there were several; half the town seemed to be standing in line, and the people running the kitchens couldn't keep track of whom they were feeding. This favoured Maureen. She wasn't supposed to go to the soup kitchen because her father still had employment, but she took the children with her and stood in the line, and the harassed people doling out the grain and meal just put the little measure into her hands without bothering to ask questions. "I feel bad," she told Nuala, "because I'm not supposed to have it, and I'm sure I'm taking food from the mouths of those who have nothing at all. But then I look at Caitlin, with her hair still in patches, and I know I must do it."

"Just feed the children, Maureen," said Nuala. "You have to."

Her father was aware of what she was doing, but they did not discuss it.

It was at the end of the month that the men came to see her father. There were half a dozen of them. She didn't know any of them well, but she recognised them-small tenant farmers from near her old home. They clustered round her father eagerly.

"We need you, Eamonn."

"For what?"

"It's Callan."

It wasn't a surprise. All their farms came under the agent's management, and they were to be dispossessed. Obviously, Callan had either decided or been instructed to have a general clear-out. And the men weren't going to stand for it.

"Something has to be done, Eamonn. A warning has been prepared. And if it is not heeded . . ." They seemed in general agreement. "Justice will have to be done."

"Why come to me? I'm already gone."

"We thought you might want to strike a blow. You're not the only one here in Ennis that Callan has thrown off his land. There are others who'll join us. But they look up to you, Eamonn. You were always the one."

She could see that her father was somewhat pleased by these compliments and this attention. But as she looked at their faces, she saw something else. It was a trap. She could see it clear as day. They wanted to use her father, because he was bolder and braver than they were, and had an old reputation in the area. They'll put you in front of them to do the deed, she wanted to cry out, and when you turn round they'll be gone. She knew she mustn't say it out loud. Not now. It would anger the men and humiliate her father and make him all the more likely to accept. She held her breath.

"Show me the warning," he said quietly.

It was a wretched thing. Callan's name was across the top, and below it was drawn a coffin. Then, not very literate, a warning to leave off his evil ways or consider the fate of other agents. "Remember them," it warned. And it was signed "Captain Starlight," a popular way of ending such missives in the countryside.

Her father considered the document quietly for a minute or two. "Captain Starlight has a fine style," he remarked drily. "But I will improve his message, if you have pen and ink." The man who had composed the message produced these articles from his coat pocket. "Very well," said Eamonn when the man was ready. "There is room for it under the signature. You will write these words of the good Mr. Drummond." And he carefully dictated: PROPERTY HAS RIGHTS.

PROPERTY ALSO HAS RESPONSIBILITIES.

When this was duly written, he glanced up at Maureen and gave her a smile. "I'm sorry not to be coming with you, boys. I've no love for Callan, you may be sure, but I've matters that concern me here. I wish you good luck." And, to her huge relief, he sent them away.

"Do you think they will kill him?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"They haven't the courage." He sighed. "Perhaps I haven't, either. But at least I gave the message a little of the dignity it lacked."

It was one evening in the middle of March that Stephen Smith came to their cottage. He looked tired. Maureen thought it remarkable that he should have gone to such trouble, but for whatever reason, he seemed to feel a personal responsibility for her father.

"I'm sorry," he told Eamonn, "but the work is ending. They wanted to stop us two weeks ago, and I was able to persuade them to continue a little longer. But the Captain told me an hour ago that they can't make an exception for us anymore. There are a few other groups continuing until they finish what they're doing, but it's all over. At least, please God, the soup kitchens should keep people from starving."

"We know you did your best," her father told him, for it was obvious that Smith was distressed.

"What will you do yourself, Mr. Smith?" she dared to ask. "I suppose you'll be leaving Ennis now?" He turned to her. His green eyes, she thought, were quite remarkable.

"I hardly know. I wish to stay-if there is something useful I can do. I've no wish to leave when matters are still so uncertain." After a few more words, and wishing them better days ahead, he left.

The days that followed were difficult for her father. The first few days, he went out trying to find work, but it was a futile quest. There was nothing for anyone. The fourth day, he went to visit the fever hospital, where one of the men he had been working with had been taken after falling sick. He went to see the man again the next day, and the next. But Maureen realised why he had gone. It was not really to see his sick friend.

The following day, he did not go to the hospital. As she was about to go into Ennis, she told him: "They were asking to see you at the soup kitchen yesterday. They're getting stricter. They want to see the whole family, because they're not supposed to give out food to families that have someone working."

"Tomorrow, Maureen," he said vaguely. "Tell them I'm out looking for work."

But she knew very well that he wouldn't come. It was the shame of it: he, a Madden, to be seen in a line begging for food-officially a pauper, the lowest of the low. She knew he'd never go there if he could avoid it. A hospital visit, a useless quest for a job-anything rather than suffer that last humiliation. And the fact-which any woman could see-that everyone else was in the same case, so that it hardly mattered anymore, would not satisfy him at all. So she said nothing and went into the town.

It proved to be a particularly trying day. The soup kitchen was in Mill Street, beside the maze of poor lanes and alleys that led down to the town's riverbank. To call it a soup kitchen was really a misnomer, since the Ennis soup kitchen did not serve soup at all. At present, the only food it had was cheap Indian meal, shipped in from Limerick. Behind a large trestle table, protected by barriers, were two huge vats in which the meal was steeped. How much you got depended on what they had each day. Usually, you might expect a pound of meal; but some days it had been as little as three ounces a head. It could not, therefore, be said that the people were fed, but rather that they were kept just above the point of starvation.

Today, however, tempers were frayed. In the first place, the overseer sent down from Dublin had firm views about preparing the food. All Maureen wanted was some meal that she could cook for the children. But she was told that she could not have it.

"No raw meal," the man cried out. Then he added, so that all might hear: "If you give these people raw meal, half of them'll just sell it, take the money, and go and get drunk on the proceeds." Maureen couldn't think of anyone she knew who would do such a foolish thing, but the man was adamant. This meant that everyone had to wait while batches of meal were cooked. "And once it's cooked," a woman in front of her remarked, "it crumbles so, that you can never get it home without bits of it falling on the road. It's the birds we'll be feeding before our own children."

There were all kinds of people waiting. If they were paupers under the law, Maureen saw several of the town's smaller tradesmen who, with the falling-off in trade, were now almost as destitute as she. The officious fellow from Dublin was equally anxious to make sure that none of this largesse was wasted upon the undeserving.

"Only those whose name is on my list," he called. "All those on my list may come up and take a ticket. When you have a ticket, you must wait in line for your turn. We'll have fairness here," he remarked to someone. "You have to watch these people like a hawk." He started a roll call. When he came to Maureen, he demanded: "Where is your father? It says you have a father. Is he at work?"

"No, Sir," she said.

"Tomorrow, I want to see you all. Father, three sisters, brother. All of you, mind, or you'll get nothing."

Thanks to this cumbersome procedure, she stood there for five hours before finally getting a small portion of cooked meal, which would hardly feed them as it was. She was starting to walk away when she caught sight of Nuala.

She was down one of the alleys, leaning in a doorway. Maureen supposed that this must be where the laundress lived and that Nuala must be taking a rest. She thought she'd ask her when she was coming home and began to walk towards her. As she did so, she saw a man come up the alley from the other direction. Just a poor-looking tradesman. He stopped by Nuala. They spoke together. The two of them disappeared into the doorway. And then she understood, and, like a fool, was so shocked that she dropped the cooked meal, which scattered on the ground, so that she had to gather it together as best she could, and took it back home all spoiled. And when her father saw it he gave a look of vexation and remarked: "Your brother and sisters will be eating dirt and grit with their meal tonight, Maureen. I can't think what made you do such a thing." And she said she was sorry, and she couldn't think either.

Later that night, when she was with Nuala alone, she told her what she'd seen. But Nuala only shrugged.

"I didn't want you to know, Maureen, but there was no work to be had, and my being so young, at least I can get something."

"My God, you're so young, it would be better me than you, Nuala."

"I don't think so, Maureen. I'm quite in demand. Do you realise I've already saved five shillings." She gave a wry smile. "If times were better and I could find a rich man . . ."

"Don't even say such a thing. You must stop, Nuala."

"Stop?" She looked at her elder sister almost angrily. "Don't be a fool, Maureen. With Father earning nothing, how do you think we're going to pay the next rent?" She relented and gave Maureen a kiss. "We all do what we can, Sis. You keep house and I'll sell my body. What does it matter?"

"Don't ever tell Father. It would kill him."

The next morning the whole family, including both her father and Nuala, went to the soup kitchen. Her father was very quiet. He held his body erect, as he always did, but she saw that, instead of looking out with their usual, bold dignity at the world, his eyes were looking down, avoiding the gaze of others. She knew he was inwardly wincing with every pace he took. When they arrived, their names were checked, but, cruelly, the man who took the roll call insisted that they all wait the four hours until they get their ration. With each minute that passed, she knew that her father secretly took another invisible step down the stairway of humiliation in his soul. And with each passing minute, she was silently praying that nobody should come up to her sister, nor say any word that might give away the trade she now followed.

Whatever her fears about her sister, Maureen couldn't help being glad when, shortly after this, Nuala started bringing home items of food: a loaf of bread, a little ham, a cabbage. They pretended to her father that they had managed to buy these things in the town, but Nuala confessed to her: "I have a merchant who likes me. He knows what I need, so he pays me with food for my family." Maureen concluded that there was nothing she could say, since the food was such a boon. The children needed it. Even Caitlin looked a little better.

But the one who seemed to pick up the fastest was little Daniel. Children of six could often be fragile, but thank God, she thought, that her father's only remaining son was such a sturdy little fellow. He seemed to have a remarkable resilience. A short time ago, his blue eyes had looked so large and staring in his sunken face that she had secretly trembled for him; yet now, after some days of better diet, he had already put on a little flesh and gained in energy. When they walked into town together, instead of holding her hand and dragging his feet, he slipped his hand free and even walked ahead.

Further encouragement came one morning when she and Daniel arrived at the soup kitchen to find that there had been a change. Instead of waiting for a daily ticket, they were told to take a ticket for a month. She observed that the line was moving more easily and was told that the meal was being issued fresh now, so that they did not have to wait for it to be cooked. "There's a new supervisor," one of the women told her, but who this might be she did not know until little Daniel suddenly ran across to where Stephen Smith was inspecting a shipment of meal.

"It's Mr. Smith," he cried. "Mr. Smith," he told the bystanders, "is our friend."

Maureen hastened across and apologised for the interruption, but Stephen Smith did not seem to mind at all. He had been asked to supervise the Ennis soup kitchens for the moment, he confirmed. The other man had been removed. He turned his eyes on Daniel.

"Remind me of your name," he said pleasantly.