Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse

by Anne Doughty

‘So did I, but that was last week and I only got to last week’s newspaper yesterday.’

  He laughed and peeled off his jacket, hung it over the back of his fireside chair and stretched out his long legs on the hearthrug.

  ‘So what are we celebrating?’ he asked, feeling suddenly quite glad they weren’t going out after all.

  ‘Oh, I’ve managed to think of the odd good thing,’ she said promptly. ‘Ask me later and you can decide if they’re worth celebrating,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘But right now we need to have our meal, so we can be finished and tidied up before John comes to take charge of Headquarters, even if all he does is read the newspapers. If you want to go and change, I’ll come down and bring up the tray,’ she added, as he stood up. ‘I have managed to cook our dinner for this evening, but I haven’t been out of the house all day, lovely as it’s been. I thought we might do an inspection of the Drumsollen estate before the light goes. It could have been taken over by Triffids for all I’ve seen of it this week.’

  The evening was fine and still warm for this late in the year as they set off round the back of the house to the small remnant of what had once been the home paddock. Andrew’s mother had kept her horse there, together with a small, shaggy pony, which he remembered because he’d thought him very large at the time.

  Early in the year, Clare had been studying the flower catalogues, hoping to create a border of perennials alongside their driveway at the foot of the hill, when she’d discovered Andrew eyeing the pages of a wildflower catalogue with equal enthusiasm.

  ‘I didn’t think you could buy wildflower seed,’ she said, surprised, as she picked up the one he had just put down. ‘Some of these I’ve never even seen.’

  ‘Those grow on chalk or downland, not right for this part of the world at all, but there are plenty of others that would be happy enough if one provided the right conditions. The soil in the old paddock was never cultivated, so it’s pretty poor. Do very well for most of these,’ he added, producing yet another catalogue. ‘I’d thought of seeding a couple of patches and perhaps planting some buddleia against the garage walls over at the far end, to attract the butterflies,’ he continued, his face brightening, the weary lines of his day’s work dissolving completely.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve ever met a buddleia either,’ she said slowly, surprised and delighted at how animated he had become.

  ‘People call it the Butterfly Tree. Wonderful spikes of purple or mauve with tiny orange nectar guides. It’ll grow almost anywhere that’s dry,’ he began. ‘You’ll even see it growing out of brick walls in railway stations. Euston, for one. There are sites in London that haven’t been redeveloped still covered with buddleia and rosebay willowherb. Now that’s one of my favourites,’ he went on vigorously. ‘It’s tall and pink and seeds in the wind like dandelion. Fire weed, they called it after the war. It grew everywhere the bombs had dropped.’

  It was the fire weed she thought of as they went through the space in the open-planked fence of the paddock and walked slowly along the grass path he’d left between his two lengths of seeded meadow, now a mass of tall, swaying grasses with points and patches of colour. There had been rosebay willowherb in the late summer and she’d watched the curved seed carriers float in the light winds, caressing other plants before coming to land. Some of the tall, pinkish stems were now part of an arrangement of dried flowers she’d made for one of the upstairs landings.

  ‘Andrew, what’s that one?’ she asked, pointing to a vigorous yellow bloom.

  ‘Corn poppy,’ he replied, looking pleased. ‘I’ve never actually seen one growing here in Ireland,’ he confessed. ‘But that’s no reason not to encourage it. Especially as it’s been disappearing over the other side of the Irish sea.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because of the way farmers are using chemicals to spray margins instead of cutting them with a scythe or a sickle.’

  ‘But why do that?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t chemicals expensive?’

  ‘Yes, they may be, but labour is more expensive. Hasn’t Charlie told you the way the numbers of agricultural labourers have dropped since tractors became common?’ he asked, as they paused and looked at a patch of purple vetch twining up the stems of nearby grasses. ‘England is far more mechanized than Ulster. Hardly surprising with their pressure of population. When John Hamilton was here and I took him round the place, he was telling me about the grain harvesting in Norfolk. He says the way it’s moved in the last ten years it reminds him of something you’d see on the prairies.’

  ‘And that’s not a good thing?’

  ‘It might be all right on the prairies, though I’m not sure about that, long term,’ he replied, frowning. ‘Treating land as if it were an exploitable resource without looking at all the factors involved seems short-sighted to me. You dig out coal, or minerals, and you have a space, a hole in the ground. Something has gone for good, you can perhaps create a lake, or a rubbish dump, or a building site, but agricultural land and forest and bog and mountain is part of our landscape. You have to take care of it, replace what you take out, or you end up living in a desert.’

  ‘Like Silent Spring?’ she asked, remembering the book that had sat by his chair throughout the previous winter.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I may not agree with every word Rachel Carson writes — she really does go right over the top at times — but she’s right to sound the alarm. If we don’t treat the land with respect we lose our birds and our animals, our flowers and our trees, and once they are gone, there’s no replacing them, so we’ve destroyed a part of ourselves.’

  Clare made no immediate reply, for she was thinking Andrew had just revealed a part of himself he’d never shown her so clearly before. That he’d wanted to farm she’d known since that magical summer at Caledon when he’d declared that if he had lots of money he’d spend it on buying cows. Now she grasped that his commitment to the land went far beyond the activity of farming and keeping livestock.

  ‘I thought you said buddleia liked it dry,’ she queried, as they surveyed the flourishing bushes.

  ‘Yes, that’s why I dumped all the broken concrete from the old septic tank here,’ he explained. ‘It doesn’t matter if we get too much rain as long as it can drain away fast. They like mortar, so I reckoned broken concrete was the next best thing to get them to put down roots.’

  ‘No butterflies yet,’ she observed, as she peered at the small insects creeping in and out of the fading blooms.

  He laughed as she pulled on the cardigan she’d thrown round her shoulders. ‘It’s too cool for butterflies this evening,’ he explained. ‘There might have been some this afternoon when the sun was reflecting off the brickwork behind, but we may not have had very many in the first place this summer. Most of the ones we get Ireland are migrants. If it’s cool and wet, they don’t make it, so there are only the native ones and there aren’t many of those here in Ulster compared with England.’

  ‘You do realize, don’t you, that I’m seriously underinformed about butterflies and bees?’ she said, as they walked slowly back to the front of the house and made for the steps leading to the summer-house. ‘I thought I knew a bit about garden birds and my robin does come to my hand now when I call him, but I think my ecological education has been seriously neglected.’

  He laughed and threw an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘Were it not for your superior knowledge of sums, my beloved, of adding up pounds and shillings and pence, I couldn’t have afforded the seeds, never mind young shrubs from the nursery. You can do a lot with very little money if you have lots of time, but if you haven’t got time, then you do need money. I’ve never been able to get the balance right.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yet,’ she repeated. ‘I said you hadn’t managed to get the balance right yet.’

  ‘Which implies, of course, that I will eventually.’

  ‘Yes, of course you will, my love. Things take time. I’m sure you didn’t
know all the things you’ve just told me about, last year or the year before. I’ve seen the books by your chair. Do you think I had accountancy skills when I came back from France? I was good at high-level finance, but keeping a budget going is a very different matter. I had to learn on the job.’

  They stood together on the small terrace in front of the summer-house looking out over the well-wooded landscape of small fields and low hills as the shadows lengthened and the air cooled.

  ‘I was always supposed to know things,’ he said abruptly. ‘But they were always things that weren’t important to me, so I could never hold on to them. That’s what really got me into trouble, especially with The Missus. I suppose I still think I’m never going to know what I need to know.’

  ‘Come and sit down for a minute,’ she said gently. ‘It’s always warmer inside,’ she added, taking his hand.

  ‘My love, I’m so sorry I had to tell you about the builder and the land round Drumsollen,’ she began, looking him straight in the eye. ‘We’ve always said we’d be honest with each other. It is a setback, but you mustn’t think buying back Drumsollen’s own land is the only way forward. There are other places, other opportunities. What’s really important is holding on to what you really want. We do know what we want, we’ll find a way. It may just take a bit longer than we’d hoped.

  To their great surprise and delight, there were three cars parked in front of the house when they came down from the summerhouse and they were just in time to help John with the welcome trays. Although he was well able to do the job by himself, he always hated keeping people waiting. As he put it cheerfully some time later, ‘It’s like what they say about buses. You stand there waiting, doing nothin’ and then three come along at once, and there’s still only one of you!’

  It was after eleven when they were at last free to go into the kitchen to make themselves tea and toast.

  ‘Honey or jam?’ Clare asked, as the toaster popped.

  ‘Either. I’ll still have to wash my hands afterwards. Unlike you, I’m not very good at licking my fingers,’ he declared, pouring them large mugs of tea. ‘By the way, my beloved, you’ve forgotten to tell me what we’re celebrating,’ he said, as he buttered his toast.

  ‘Mmmm,’ she replied, already munching devotedly. ‘Well, it’s like this. I had to spend the day deciding what to do about staff holidays and winter closing, two very big decisions, and I think I’ve come up with the perfect answer.’

  ‘But the staff have had their holidays,’ he protested mildly.

  ‘These staff haven’t,’ she replied crisply. ‘We haven’t been away since last October and Hector keeps ringing me up and asking me what he has to do to get us to come down again.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve been doing a line with Hector, have you?’ he asked, looking at her severely.

  ‘Yes. It’s a pity he’s not sixty years or so younger,’ she said laughing, ‘or you might have a point. But his calls have concentrated my mind. If we just keep on working and working and trying to jump over all the obstacles that keep being thrown up in front of us, we’re going to lose heart. We need to do something on the other side. Like seeds and buddleias, only more so. So, I’ve decided we’re going to Fermanagh again. I will consult you about the date, but we will not argue about going or not going. Right?’

  ‘Fine by me, love, and I’m sure June and John will help out, but what about the cost?’

  ‘Well, I think I’ve solved that little problem and it’s mainly thanks to Robert,’ she began. ‘Do you remember when we started trading in July 1960 and we had to scrape up every penny we could find to produce a viable balance for the bank? I had some shares in a French company and he wouldn’t let me sell them.’

  ‘Yes, it was something peculiar, like the Saint Etienne Municipal Waterworks, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re not far wrong,’ she said smiling at his French pronunciation. ‘He promised me the shares would go up and they have. Now he still won’t let me sell them because he says they’re certain to go up still further in the present climate. So that’s a tiny bit of income outside the company, we can have for our very own. It’s not much, I know, but I propose a Comforts Fund, like they had for the troops in wartime. Small treats and perks. Though, of course, Fermanagh is quite a big treat, given the extra wages and petrol.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ he said, polishing off the last of his toast and honey. ‘Do you think I could have a pond for frogs?’

  She sighed dramatically. ‘Yes, I dare say you could, but don’t you want to know about the other big decision?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, composing himself and doing his best to look suitably attentive.

  Clare giggled and then began to talk quietly, the weariness of the long day showing up in her voice. ‘I’ve been arguing with myself all day, as to whether or not we keep open over the winter. We would save a lot on heating and wages if we close, but what would June and Bronagh do? And John for that matter. Besides, our commercial travellers do turn up every month of the year. We can’t let them down, can we?’

  ‘But presumably staying open would actually cost money, if we didn’t have enough bookings?

  ‘Or alternative income.’

  He nodded and yawned hugely. ‘Of course, but where are you going to find that over the winter?’

  ‘That’s what I’m celebrating,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ve thought of something to keep June and Bronagh and I employed that might make enough to cover our overheads. But as you’re now half asleep, I shall tell you of my new Grand Plan tomorrow,’ she said firmly, pulling him to his feet and pointing him in the direction of bed.

  Saturday dawned fine and dry, the forecast good for several days. It was in fact to transform itself into the loveliest weekend of the whole autumn; the following weeks of October were rain-sodden and overcast. For three days in a row, the mornings were misty with heavy dew lying damply on the lawns and the first piles of swept-up leaves, while the afternoons were warm and sunny. So good was the weather, the three couples who had arrived without bookings on Friday night decided to stay on until Tuesday. A group of friends who met up from time to time, they liked the spaciousness and informality of Drumsollen and were delighted they had the big house all to themselves.

  With June coming in for a short Saturday morning only, Clare and Andrew were kept busy, providing breakfasts and buffet meals in the evening, as well as keeping up with the routine jobs they expected to do every weekend. Clare’s Grand Plan was still somewhere at the back of her mind when their guests departed on Tuesday morning, smiling and well-fed, vowing to return the following year.

  ‘Ye’ve had a time to yourselves,’ commented June, as she and Clare stood sorting laundry soon after the three cars had driven off. ‘And eight o’clock breakfasts as well,’ she went on with a wry smile, knowing how slow a starter Clare was.

  ‘Andrew did most of it,’ she confessed easily, as she loaded the first wash. ‘I did get everything lined up the previous night under covers, so he only had to cook, but you know I can just about make a pot of coffee before about ten. It was his own fault too,’ she added, laughing. ‘He told them about Castledillon lake and the three men all wanted to go out early to bird-watch.’

  ‘They made a brave hole in the scones and cake,’ June went on, as she inspected her tins. ‘I’ll have to start with a wee spot of baking and leave the rooms for Bronagh this afternoon. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ve two doubles and five singles ready and waiting and I doubt if we’ll have more than one or two of our travellers this week. But we can’t be caught without scones or cake, can we?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ June agreed.

  ‘It might not matter in France, or in England or Wales,’ Clare said thoughtfully, ‘but I fancy here and in Scotland having the right thing in the tin is obligatory. I suppose it’s a concrete sign of welcome.’

  ‘Aye,’ said June abstractedly, as she lined up her cake tins on the kitchen table.

>   Clare took the hint. June always made it perfectly obvious when she wished to be left alone. Bronagh had taken no more than her first week working with her to know when to disappear. She closed the kitchen door behind her, walked briskly along the corridor and upstairs to Headquarters.

  She could hardly believe that another month had ended, financially at least, even if there was one more day left on the calendar, but the sooner the bills were paid and the accounts done the better. She wanted to be free to make her weekly visit to Charlie tomorrow afternoon, start pruning the roses, and go through her clothes, ready for their return visit to Fermanagh at the end of October.

  At least the figures would look rather better today than if she’d been doing them at the end of last week. There would be a lodgement to go to the bank tomorrow. What was much more problematic was whether the results of Andrew’s first full working month in his own practice would produce anything whatever to pay in at the same time.

  One look at Andrew’s face as he pushed the door of Headquarters fully open told Clare that something was dreadfully wrong, but she knew he wouldn’t look so utterly distraught if it were just about money.

  ‘Have you heard the news today?’ he asked, as he parked his briefcase and dropped down into a fireside chair.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she replied, coming over to sit opposite him. ‘I went outside for half an hour and missed the one o’clock. What on earth has happened?’

  ‘Acting on the orders of the Minister of Home Affairs, whom you met at Charles and Helen’s summer party,’ he began, ‘a detachment of the Royal Ulster Constabulary attacked the headquarters of the Republican Party in Divis Street with pickaxes in order to remove a tricolour. The said flag was aimed at provoking and insulting the loyalists of Belfast, when as you know, and I know, there are no “loyalists” living in Divis Street or anywhere nearby.’

  ‘Oh no, not more trouble.’

  ‘When the news got out, two thousand Republican supporters blocked the roadway in front of the Headquarters and all traffic came to a standstill. They only had stones and empty bottles, but the police reinforcements arrived with Sten guns, rifles, revolvers, riot batons and shields,’ he went on, shaking his head.