| Short Story
The Census Taker
By Michael Corrigan
They sat in the Kennedy Farmhouse, a bright fire burning. Mr. Cronen,
the census taker, thought the farm to be better than most. Cronen wore
gold rimmed spectacles and had a red face with a gray mustache. His job
had given him some insight into the Irish Catholic farmers who lived in
the Sligo-Mayo counties; all of them survived on rocky soil and fed large
families.
Why did the Catholics have to breed so many, was his silent question.
Patrick Kennedy, age 55, above average height, was friendly and yet private.
"Do you have all your information, Mr. Cronen?"
"I believe so."
"Sure, and who needs this census to be taken?"
"The government needs it for funding purposes. We need to know how many
people are living in Ireland as we begin the 20th century."
Patrick Kennedy smiled to himself. "Funding purposes, you say? And
who gets the funding? Not the Irish from the English Government, that's
for sure."
Mr. Cronen put down his form. "Every country needs to take a census,"
he patiently explained. "That's how budgets are created."
Mr. Cronen watched a ten-year-old girl enter the room with her two brothers,
aged five and three. She had soft clear blue eyes with an alert expression.
"Da, can we play outside?"
"Agnes, it might get a bit wet, so bundle your brothers up if you do."
But she had already dressed her brothers. Delighted, the three children
bolted outside to play. It was an overcast day.
"You say you have three other daughters who have left?"
"That's correct. Two more will be leaving for America, soon, when they
earn the fare. There's nothing here."
"But you're here."
Patrick smiled and Cronen saw a glint in the man's clear blue eyes.
"That I am. Until the end."
"These other girls can't be very old," Mr. Cronen said.
Patrick lit his pipe and nodded in agreement. "The first to leave was
only twelve when she took off for America."
"Twelve?"
"Oh, she got a sponsor, of course. She'll be after working in Boston.
A lot of Irish in Boston," Kennedy added.
"Irish Catholics," Mr. Cronen observed.
He saw the same friendly stare of Patrick Kennedy, penetrating but not
threatening.
"And you're not, Mr. Cronen? A left hander, perhaps?"
"Church of Ireland. In fact, my grandfather even changed the spelling
of the Cronen name from an 'i' to an 'e.'"
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Kennedy said. "So even the spelling of a
name sets us apart."
Kennedy's wife, Agnes, came into the room and picked up a wash basin,
her hands steaming. Mr. Cronen could see she had been a beautiful woman
at one time but life on the farm had aged her. She wore the inevitable
apron.
"And where is Kate?"
"Hasn't come home yet," Kennedy said. "Agnes has the others playing
outside."
"Isn't it a bit cold for them?"
"It's always wet and cold in Ireland."
Agnes didn't look at Cronen.
"We don't have any Bushmill's, but we may have a drop of Catholic Jameson's
whiskey for the gentlemen."
"Never drink while working, ma'am."
Agnes pushed back a lock of hair and briefly met his eyes.
"I have work to do." She left the room.
"I like to have a drop taken," said Patrick Kennedy. "It's a good man's
failing. I had to laugh at an Englishman I met in Dublin last month. He
asked me where the local pub was. My God, there's a pub on every block.
Well, I met the gentleman's eye and I said, 'We have many ways of killing
Englishmen, sir, but you won't die of thirst.'" Patrick Kennedy laughed
but Cronen didn't see any humor so Kennedy asked, "Would you be after taking
a cup of tea? Don't the Anglo Irish love tea?"
"I'm not English," Mr. Cronen said. He checked his list. "So-you have
your wife, Agnes, age 45, and four children living on the premises?"
"Correct, Mr. Cronen. Little John Emmett is the last one," Kennedy said.
"God save us, no more."
"I guess that will suffice." Mr. Cronen paused. "Maybe I could
stand a cup of tea."
They spent another hour having tea and discussing the state of Ireland.
There were the Fenians and some felt Ireland would break away from England
eventually, but Mr. Cronen couldn't imagine it. Of course, so many Irish
were leaving their own country, with or without independence. Mr. Cronen
felt comfortable with farmer Kennedy, and so admitted he suspected Irish
Home Rule would be Rome Rule.
"And what's wrong with that?" laughed Kennedy, with that same mischievous
gleam in his eye.
"We are part of England and England is Protestant," Mr. Cronen insisted,
feeling suddenly bold.
"And most of the Irish Protestants live in Ulster," the farmer said.
"A cursed part of Ireland from the beginning. They have always been at
unrest. Even the legends are full of wars-Irish heroes killing other Irishmen."
"I remember that epic, The Cattle Raid," said Mr. Cronen. "A
lot of killing in that one."
Patrick Kennedy sat in his big chair and looked out the window at the
children playing. Kate, seven, had joined her sister, Agnes, and the two
boys. They chased each other around a tree. Beyond the tree was a stone
fence and the road leading toward the Sligo border.
"There will be more violence," Patrick Kennedy told him, somewhat sadly.
"I hope my children escape it." His gaze was direct and not so friendly
now. "And you better be careful, Mr. Cronen. Some Irishmen don't like strangers
coming around asking questions even the census taker."
Cronen drained his tea and stood up. They shook hands.
"Thanks for your cooperation," he said.
"No bother, at all."
Cronen looked at his list and then examined the weathered face of the
Irish farmer before him. "You were born in 1846, the second year of the
great famine."
"Yes-and left to starve by the English."
"Why didn't your parents escape, then?
"I don't know. Perhaps they were like me, Irish people who wanted to
stay and survive in their own country."
Mr. Cronen picked up his bowler hat and nodded.
"I see. Good day to you."
"Good day."
Outside, Mr. Cronen looked down the narrow dirt road toward the next
farm. The girl called Agnes came up to him. Kate stood behind her sister.
Already at seven, she wore thick glasses. Agnes spoke.
"Are you a policeman?"
"Oh no, child. I'm the census taker. I list who lives in the house."
"Why?"
"So the government can balance its budget. Give money to the counties
if needed. We need to know who's living among us." He tipped his hat.
"Good day, girls." The two little boys approached closer. Both of them
carried rocks.
"Are you a soldier?" the older boy named Peter asked.
"Not at all," said Mr. Cronen.
"He doesn't have a gun," the youngest boy said. He was a handsome child.
"Go back inside," insisted Agnes. "Kate, take them in."
Mr. Cronen picked up his bicycle propped next to a tree. He looked at
Agnes, still watching him.
"And are you going to America, someday?"
"Yes," she said.
Mr. Cronen got up on the bicycle and after a wave to the girl, pedaled
down the narrow path past a cemetery. Kennedy's sheep grazed on a brilliant
green hill. In the spring, purple heather and yellow gorse would cover
the fields.
 
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