The horse is all teeth and eyeballs, his hooves rising and falling like threshing hammers, but you dart through the chaos, right underneath the horse, ignoring cries of ‘Stop!’ and ‘You want to get yourself killed, girl?’ until you can touch his sweaty chest. His breath is coming hot and fast through his flared nostrils, and his heart is pounding like a bodhran drum.
‘Whoa, boy,’ you say. ‘Easy there… easy there, boy.’
Right now, it feels as though your da is here beside you: guiding your hands as you stroke the horse’s flanks; showing you how to loosen the straps that have tangled around his neck; telling you to watch how the horse’s ears are swivelling towards you, listening to your voice as his panic subsides.
‘Easy there…’ you soothe, and the horse drops his head so you can scratch him behind the ears. The crowd breaks into astonished applause. The horse bristles at the sudden sound, but settles again as you whisper to him and pat his big, hairy nose.
The carriage door opens and the crowd gasps: there has been a lady trapped inside the whole time! People rush forward to help her down. She is wearing a flowered hat and robes of blue silk. Incredibly, she does not seem angry or frightened but is smiling and nodding her thanks.
The lady’s eyes fall on you. Without saying a word, she walks up to you and takes one of your small, grubby hands in hers. Her hands are pale pink, like the roses you sometimes see the barrow-lady selling, with delicate, long fingers that have clearly never been blistered by scalding-hot washing tubs or callused by hefting a spade.
‘How did you manage to calm the horse?’ she asks you. To your surprise, her accent is Irish, like your own.
‘My da showed me how,’ you murmur. ‘Back when we lived in Ireland.’
‘Ah, a fellow Irish girl.’ The lady smiles broadly. ‘Do you miss our homeland?’
‘How can I not, ma’am?’ you confess.
‘It is the best place on God’s earth,’ she agrees. ‘My heart yearns for it too. You were very brave just now – do you know that?’
You shrug and smile. The people on the street are going back to their everyday business, but the hum and clatter of London seems to have faded around you, and when you look into this Irishwoman’s eyes, you feel as though you’re held inside a bubble of time – as though she sees something more in you than a barefoot, homesick child.
‘I was just like you when I arrived here,’ she tells you tenderly. ‘I had no idea how to survive. But I can see already that you’re smart, and brave, and that you have a good heart. If you follow it, I’m sure you’ll find your way.’
Your eyes fill with tears. Kindness is such a rare thing in your life. You hadn’t let yourself admit how thirsty you were for it until now.
‘I … don’t know how to help my da,’ you say haltingly. You wipe away your tears fiercely. ‘He’s in prison. He was trying to make Ireland free, and—’
The lady gasps. ‘Then I know that your da must be a hero,’ she says. ‘We must fight together, my darling, and never give up. Here.’ She slips something from her wrist and puts it into your hand. ‘Keep this, close and secret. Only use it when you must. When you understand its meaning, you’ll know it’s time to pass it on.’
You look down. Nestled in your palm is a golden bracelet set with seven coloured gemstones. One’s as dark-green as a fir tree. The next is black as the night sky, and another clear and bright as a star. Two are emerald-green, like the Irish grass. One’s a ruby, red as blood. The seventh stone seems to hold all of these colours swirled together: an impossibly beautiful rainbow that shimmers in the light with a bluish fire.
‘Do you mean me to keep this, ma’am?’ you ask incredulously, raising your head. You can’t believe that such a beautiful thing could belong to you. But the lady has gone.
You slip the bracelet into your pocket. Suddenly you’re certain that you can survive here – will survive here. You feel as light and mad and wondrous as one of those hot-air balloons you’ve heard can sail the skies.
YOU RUN HOME, bursting to tell Ma your news. As you bang the door closed behind you, the room goes dark. Ma hasn’t lit a lamp or started cooking, as she usually would have. Where is she? The only sound is your own breath, still loud and fast from running.
Then you notice the stink in the room, sweaty and fetid. You open the door a crack, and a strip of dusky light falls across the room. In the corner where Ma sleeps, a heap of blankets rises and falls.
‘Ma?’ You run to her, pull back the blankets and let out a cry. All the happiness slips out of your heart like an egg that’s just been cracked.
Ma hasn’t been feeling well for a few days, but now her sleeping face is covered in blisters, and you know: it’s the smallpox. Dear God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, not that.
You get busy immediately, shaking out the blankets and smoothing them over your ma more comfortably, and putting water on to boil for a soup to feed her when she wakes.
She stirs and calls your name in a hoarse voice. You’re by her side in an instant, holding a cup of water to her cracked lips.
‘You’re going to be all right, Ma,’ you assure her, hoping she won’t notice the tremble in your voice. ‘Danny O’Reilly, he … well, he had what you have, and he’s fit as a fiddle now.’
Your ma manages a weak smile. Both of you know that Danny was one of the only people back home in Kilkenny to survive
