Even on Days when it Rains Read Online Free PDF Page B

there a minute!’ exclaimed the widower as a group of neighbours struggled to manoeuvre the box out of the little cottage.
    The coffin bearers halted on the spot.
    â€˜Turn her round so that she can see the inside of the house as thank God she won’t be coming back,’ the widower added with a smug smile.
    As there was no electricity or central heating in the schoolhouse, we all went to school with a sod of turf under each arm in the winter for the solid-fuel fire in the classrooms. We went home for our lunch in the summer, but during the winter we were kept in, and the teachers gave us cocoa with loaf bread and home-made butter. There was a lovely taste from the butter; you wouldn’t get the like of it today.
    In those days when locals had calves they’d kill them, cure them and then share the meat among all the houses on the island. The calves weren’t worth any money on the mainland at the time. A local called Andy Shamie killed a calf one day and, like his neighbours, shared it with kin community. It meant that every home had meat to eat during the week instead of fish. We all went home for our school break and had our dinner, as we called the midday meal.
    When we went back to school, the teacher came into the room, took a match out of a matchbox and started picking his teeth.
    There was one cheeky little fella in the class who always had a comment to pass, even when he wasn’t asked for one. ‘Sir, I know what you’re picking out of your teeth,’ he shouted up at the teacher.
    â€˜What am I picking out of my teeth?’ the teacher asked.
    â€˜A bit of Andy Shamie’s calf,’ the little fella replied.
    The class laughed.
    The teacher turned to the boy who’d made the smart comment. ‘Come up here now,’ he said, reaching for the leather strap, ‘and I’ll give you something you won’t find so funny.’
    I’m sure the boy in question has never forgotten Andy Shamie’s calf.
    During schooldays you’d get home around 3 p.m., and then you’d go out to do your work on the farm. Or we’d have to go down to the sea, when the tide was out and the rocks were exposed, to pull dulse, a seaweed that was edible and full of goodness. We’d head off in a currach with my father and gather as much dulse as we could by climbing over the rocks along the coast, maybe three or four bags at a time. It was very hard work, but it contributed to the family income as my father would sell a sack of dulse on the mainland for half a crown.
    The spring work on our little farms started on 18 March, the day after St Patrick’s Day. And you did whatever was laid out for you without question. Some days we’d be sent off to the sea to gather winkles among the rocks. At that time of the year it was always very chilly, and that was a hard job, sifting through the rocks in the freezing-cold weather. My mother used to give us old socks, with the toes cut off, and we’d wear those gathering winkles. They were to keep our feet warm, but our toes were exposed so that we’d be able to get a grip on the rocks and not fall as we went about our work. We moved fast to keep warm as we gathered the winkles in a bucket. We had to fill a large sack and that was then sold, fetching 1s 6d. If we gathered two bags of winkles it was considered to be a good day’s work.
    We used to run and work barefoot on the island during the summer, but my father would buy shoes for us at Hallowe’en. ‘Them has to do yez now till April,’ he’d say.
    But as I got older I’d be secretly away dancing on the island at night when I was supposed to be sleeping, and I’d wear the soles off those shoes.
    My father never got angry. Instead, he’d salvage old tyres off bicycles and use the rubber to make new soles for our footwear. ‘Now,’ he’d say, passing over his handiwork, ‘good as new, though I don’t know how you wear