by Anne Doughty
‘Aye, you haven’t had much time off, these last three years, bar Friday nights,’ said June, looking at her sharply. ‘D’ye think ye might get it a bit easier over the winter?’
‘Can’t afford it to be easier, June dear. If there are no bookings, we’ll have to look for events. Weddings, conferences, or whatever. It might actually be harder work, at least for Andrew and me. I wish I could afford to pay someone like Helen, she’s been so good over the summer, but that’s because she uses her brains. We can’t really afford brains, just a modest measure of competence, or in this case neither, just do it ourselves!’ she ended laughing. ‘You’re really going to miss your girls, June. Both of them at Queens from next week,’ she went on, ‘and wee Caroline not so wee now. Do you think she’ll want to go as well?’
‘Ah don’t know, Clare, I really don’t know,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘She’s different from the other two. I never know what she’s goin’ to come out with next. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘We both will, June,’ Clare replied, holding out her teacup for a refill. ‘Some days, I think I can see what’s in the wind, other days I’m not so sure. Things have a way of changing in ways you don’t expect. You’ve always said that to me and to the girls,’ she went on. ‘Strangely enough, it was something Andrew’s uncle talked about often. He had such marvellous stories, some happy, some sad, but so many of them were full of the unexpected. He’s quite a character. I wish I’d known him sooner,’ she added wistfully. ‘June, do I remember you once saying you’d met him or am I imagining it?’
‘No, you weren’t imagining it,’ June replied, shaking her head. ‘But it was only the once. He came up here for a reception for Andrew’s parents when they came back from their honeymoon. They’d married over in London, of course, so the Senator and The Missus had a big do here to let Adeline meet the local gentry and so on. I was only a housemaid then, but I remember His Lordship asking me for water.’ She paused and laughed to herself. ‘When I brought it up to his room, nothin’ would do him but I’d sit down and talk to him. It was more than my job was worth if The Missus had found out, but he said nobody would notice for a few minutes and he’d take the blame for keepin’ me back if I was caught. He wanted to know all about workin’ here and what it was like. Listened to every word I said. And then he gave me half a crown,’ she added, wrinkling up her face as she laughed her small, infrequent laugh. ‘That was a lot of money in 1932. No wonder I remember him!’
‘June dear, its half past four,’ Clare said quickly as she caught sight of the kitchen clock. ‘Here am I keeping you talking when we made the effort to leave after breakfast so we could send you home early. And I haven’t given you your little present either. This won’t do, will it? Now go and put your coat on,’ she added firmly.
‘Not much point when there’s no car, is there?’ June replied, without moving a muscle.
‘Goodness, I forgot that as well,’ Clare said, putting her hand to her forehead. ‘But look, Andrew will drop you and John home and Helen can follow when . . .’
‘Hi, Clare, welcome home,’ said Helen cheerfully as she strode into the room and peeled off her anorak. ‘Any tea left, Mum? Sorry it took so long. Got held up by the police.’
‘Were you robbing the bank?’ June asked dryly as she picked up the kettle and refilled it.
Clare giggled, suddenly remembering how difficult she had found June’s flat-faced comments when she’d first got to know her.
‘No, it was a demonstration of some sort,’ Helen replied, as she collapsed gratefully on to a kitchen chair. ‘Somebody told me they were protesting about the message to the Pope. Whose message I don’t know. I thought the poor man died in the summer. Anyway, they were saying O’Neill’s a traitor and the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret are disloyal, so I couldn’t get through Marketplace. Someone was bawling their head off to a big crowd and the police had just cordoned it off as I came back up Thomas Street. Then we all had to wait till they’d stopped the incoming traffic on The Mall, so they could send us down Scotch Street and out of town that way. It was absolute chaos.’
Clare sighed and shook her head.
‘I think I know who was bawling his head off. For goodness’ sake don’t mention it to Andrew. He’s been following the antics of the not-so-Reverend Paisley since he started stirring up trouble on the Shankill. He’s convinced that gentleman is an unholy disaster.’
‘You think it was him?’ asked Helen quickly. ‘Do you think Andrew’s right?’
‘I think he might well be right,’ she replied slowly. ‘I’ve only seen Paisley once on television but he reminded me of those old newsreels of Hitler, the light in the eyes and that pointed finger. He certainly frightens me.’
‘Why’s that, Clare?’ June demanded, as she brought the fresh pot of tea to the table. ‘There’s not a lot frightens you.’
Clare shook her head, surprised at June’s words. She’d never thought of herself as brave.
‘Shure, look at the way you went off to France all by yourself,’ June demanded, as she poured tea. ‘No job. No money to speak of. That takes a brave nerve.’
‘It does indeed, Mum,’ said Helen quietly. ‘But I don’t think that’s what Clare means about being frightened. Am I right?’
‘It’s not the man himself,’ Clare said nodding. ‘It’s what I think he’s doing and the way he manages to pull out the worst in people. Just when things were looking brighter now that Brookeborough’s gone.’
‘And do you think O’Neill really has plans for a better future for everyone?’ Helen asked sharply. ‘Catholics and Protestants?’
Clare nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, I think he means it all right, but I’ve never been much good at politics. Andrew says I’m too honest, so I don’t know where I am with politicians. Unless I can watch their eyes, of course, like I can with O’Neill or Paisley. Charlie Running says he’ll believe change when he sees it. There’s too many leopards would have to change their spots . . .’
‘Right, ladies, taxi at the ready,’ John announced, pausing at the door, his arms full of coats and Wellington boots. ‘Finish your tea and then we’re off home. Boss here says we’ve been given time off for good behaviour.’
Andrew grinned broadly. He nodded down at an armful of well-wrapped plants from Hector’s garden.
‘Where do you want these, Clare?’
‘Garden shed, please,’ she replied, getting to her feet. ‘Can you put them in buckets of water, please? Have you found the striped bag yet?’
‘Already in the Wiley taxi.’
‘I’ll miss you on Monday,’ Clare said, as they all went out together. She paused and gave Helen a hug. ‘You’ve been great company over the summer, it’s going to be very quiet without you.’
‘I’ll miss you too, Clare. I’ve really enjoyed working here. Not sure I’m really cut out for teaching after all, but don’t tell Mum. Not yet anyway.’
‘Mum’s the word, as they say,’ Clare replied, smiling warmly. ‘Good luck. Make sure you drop in when you’re home,’ she added, leaning forward as Helen settled herself in the back of the elderly car. She stood and waved as they drove off, gave a big sigh, and turned resolutely towards the house.
While Andrew drove back into Armagh for the fish and chips they’d promised themselves on their return journey, Clare lit the fire in Headquarters. It protested, the chimney damp from lack of use over the summer and the recent rain. She coaxed the smoking firelighter with dry twigs from the basket, then began to add small logs one by one, wanting a bright blaze for Andrew’s return.
It was a strange feeling to have the house completely to themselves when they weren’t expecting it for some weeks to come, but she was not sorry. Tired as they both were, she would have to discover what had been going on in Andrew’s mind to make him so downcast and distraught when they arrived back and thought the house was empty.
Despite the warm glow from a pair of converted oil lamps, the room
had grown dim and shadowy while she’d been coaxing the fire. She got up, crossed to the window, began to draw the curtains, then changed her mind. She would leave them open till she heard the car go round the back, the light from the window a welcome for Andrew in the gathering dusk. The overcast sky had made the shortening of the evenings very obvious and this further forerunner of winter reminded her of her own sudden drop in spirits as they came into the driveway. She had to admit it hadn’t just been Andrew who’d not been quite himself on their return.
She sat looking into the smoky flames, wondering what she could say to him, how she could encourage him to share his thoughts and feelings, something he still found difficult, despite all his efforts to overcome his ingrained reticence. Nothing came to her. She went on sitting, hoping for inspiration, and found her mind full of images of green hills ribbed with winter ploughing, hawthorn hedgerows dripping with red berries, leaves blowing in the wind, the sky opening and closing with alternate rain and shine.
She jumped up with a start, aware time had passed. She added more logs to the fire, now producing proper flames, and looked first at the clock, then at her watch. She couldn’t quite believe it was now after seven. Andrew had gone into Armagh as soon as they’d unpacked. That was nearly an hour ago and Fortes was just opposite the Post Office, barely a mile away.
She peered anxiously out of the window and told herself not to be silly. There must be some simple explanation. Perhaps he’d had a flat tyre and couldn’t find a phone. She tried to remember if there was a phone-box in Railway Street. There certainly wasn’t one beyond the level crossing and the little stone houses in Gillis Row certainly wouldn’t be able to help.
‘Perhaps there’s a long queue, because it’s Saturday night,’ she said aloud, as she switched on a light in the entrance hall and headed downstairs to make coffee for the Thermos jug.
The coffee was long made, the tray set up and the plates put to warm for their supper before she caught the distant sound of a car slowing on the main road. Moments later, a reflection of the headlights flickered briefly on the barred windows of the basement. Even before she’d put down the old newspapers she was sorting, Andrew strode into the room and dropped two well-wrapped parcels on the table.
‘Sorry, love, they’ll be stone cold,’ he said hastily. ‘It was that bloody man. I’m sure it was,’ he went on angrily, as he pulled off his coat and came and put his arms round her.
She hugged him and felt him clutch her in the way he sometimes did when he simply couldn’t tell her what was wrong because he didn’t know himself.
‘Right now, my love, you need your supper,’ she said firmly. ‘Supper will heat up perfectly well, but it will take a wee while. Would you like some coffee? Or a drink?’
‘No, nothing. Just you. It’s about the only thing worth having.’
‘All right then, me and fish and chips. I’m starving,’ she said, kissing him. ‘Now, come on, whatever it is we’ll manage. Reach me out a roasting tin while I unwrap these and we’ll go up to the fire while they reheat. It’s not the first time we’ve had to reheat a fish supper, is it?’
She was grateful for his small, bleak smile as she arranged the almost cold food evenly in the tin he’d handed her. She covered it with silver foil, put it in the Aga, shut the door and took him by the hand.
‘Upstairs. Fire. I think we have some sherry,’ she said steadily. ‘Worth a try,’ she added, as they moved back through the silent house.
Headquarters was now warm, but he shivered as he held out his hands to the lively blaze.
‘Riot,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Apparently Paisley had a gathering in Marketplace this afternoon. His supporters didn’t go home, they went out looking for trouble. Catholics rather, to be absolutely precise. There were police Land Rovers everywhere. I think there was trouble on Banbrook Hill and Cathedral Road, which was why I was delayed, but the only officer I managed to speak to said they hadn’t enough police to cope. All they could do was search for weapons in any vehicle that wasn’t local.’
‘Weapons!’ she repeated, horrified.
‘Only one hand gun, thank goodness. Sharpened scythe blades, metal piping, chair legs . . . What can we do, Clare? This man will destroy everything, for us and everyone else.’
‘No, he won’t, Andrew,’ she said firmly. ‘No matter what he does, we have some choices. He’s only one man and there are so many good people trying to make things better. You mustn’t despair.’
‘But that’s the problem, I do despair. I always have done. I started to despair during the war, reading the headlines with no one to explain them to me, no one to sympathize or comfort the fear. And now I can’t stop. I’m never going to be any good to you or anyone else,’ he burst out, close to tears. ‘When we got back and I saw Drumsollen and thought of all the hard work you’d put in to try to keep the place for us, I just felt so useless, because I knew I could never play my part as I should,’ he went on, shaking his head sadly. ‘Oh yes, I can cook breakfasts and do chores and I used to be able to clear that drain, but I just haven’t got what it takes, Clare. I’m no good to you,’ he ended, almost choking on the last few phrases before dropping his head in his hands.
Well at least he’s got it out, Clare said to herself as she knelt on the floor beside his chair and put an arm round his shoulders. This wasn’t the first time things had fallen apart for Andrew, but it was the first time a public event had set it off.
‘Why do you think you can’t do your part?’ she asked quietly. ‘Have I complained?’ she asked quietly.
‘No, you never complain.’
‘Oh yes I do,’ she responded vigorously. ‘I get fed up with lots of things. I’m always complaining about not getting good drying when we’ve loads of sheets, or not even having time to go out and spray the roses when they get greenfly . . .’
‘That’s not what I mean by complaining,’ he retorted. ‘You could complain that I can’t make a go of being a solicitor, but you don’t. And I’m no good with money. Neither getting nor spending. You’re far better at both.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? As long as one of us can do sums and keep an eye on the outgoings. There are other things you can do.’
‘Like what?’ he demanded bitterly.
‘Like pour us some sherry and see if there might be a bag of crisps in the back of the cupboard.’
He got up, poured the sherry, and meticulously divided a bag of crisps between two wooden bowls. When he turned back towards her, she could see her effort at lightness had done nothing to ease the tension she read in every line of his body.
‘Andrew, have you forgotten what we’ve said about no one ever asking you what you wanted to do?’ she began again, getting up and sitting in the other armchair, her back already aching from kneeling on the floor.
He handed her a glass of sherry and a little bowl of crisps, sat down opposite her and fidgeted with his own glass.
‘I think I know now what’s done it,’ he said, at last. ‘When I went down to the lake with Hector yesterday, he asked me what I really wanted to do and I told him. He went on then and asked me why I’d said yes to mother’s family. Eton and Cambridge and doing Law and all that.’
‘And did you tell him?’
‘Yes I did,’ he said wearily. ‘He’s the only member of my family who has ever listened to anything I’ve ever said, except Grandfather, and I didn’t see much of him, not if The Missus could help it.’
‘And what did Hector say?’
‘Said it was a crying shame he couldn’t leave me the estate. He’d never had the slightest interest in farming. What he’d really wanted to do was overland exploration, but he’d finished up immersing himself in good works in Fermanagh, because he couldn’t go anywhere else and he couldn’t bear being idle.’
‘Good works?’ she asked, not quite seeing Hector in what sounded suspiciously like a religious context.
‘Oh, the usual run of offices open to the local gentry. Magistrate, Justi
ce of the Peace, Charity Commission,’ he replied. ‘Rank didn’t allow him other options, so he did what he could. He had a spot of bother with the Orange Order to begin with when he refused to join, but he spun the local Grand Master a story about his Quaker ancestors and got off with it on conscientious grounds.’
‘And were they Quakers?
‘I expect some of them were, but Hector has no time at all for any sort of religious stuff.’
Clare couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Hector manoeuvring his way out of joining the Orange Order. To her great relief Andrew smiled too.
‘If Hector’s wife hadn’t died, they could have run away,’ she said quietly.
He looked at her for the first time.
‘Not a very brave or responsible thing to do,’ he said harshly.
‘Doesn’t that depend on what choice you’ve been given?’ she retorted. ‘Wouldn’t you try to escape from a Prisoner of War camp?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,’ she said quietly. ‘Every one of us has a right to make as good a life as we can, and we want to make that life together. I can’t do it by myself, I’ve told you that, and you can’t do it either. Just like Hector, you need someone to help you make a go of it. Do you think Hector is no good to anyone because he didn’t manage to do what he wanted?’
‘No, of course not,’ Andrew replied vigorously. ‘Hector made the best of things when he lost his wife. He’s the one relative I have that reconciles me to being a Richardson.’
‘Do you need to be reconciled?’
He hesitated for a moment and she thought uneasily that she might have pushed him too far.
