by Anne Doughty
‘What d’you think those men are doing?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘They do look so funny digging with spades in such a big field.’
Clare stopped the car abruptly, got out and looked over the low hedge. Her heart stood still. ‘If they are doing what I think they’re doing, it is really bad news. In fact, quite dreadful news.’
‘Tell me, Clare. Tell me what you mean,’ Bronagh demanded anxiously, as she came to stand beside her.
‘Do you see those little bits of wood they’re sticking in the ground?’ she asked. ‘They’re marking out a building site. The land was sold some time back to a builder, but the Planning Application was turned down. I’ll have to find out what’s going on,’ she said getting back into the car. ‘I’ll drop you at the front and walk back. There must be a hole in the hedge on the main road that we didn’t see.’
‘Yes, there was, but it was only small. I thought maybe a cow had broken out. There were cows in there last week.’
‘No cows now,’ said Clare, distractedly, seeing all the implications printing out in front of her. ‘I’ll go and talk to them and see what I can find out.’
‘No,’ said Bronagh, putting a hand on her arm. ‘Let me go. I’ll get more out of them. In fact, I’m sure I recognize some of the men digging.’
It was quite a long walk down the drive, back along the Loughgall Road and into the field where the men were now running out tape measures, but it felt to Clare as if Bronagh had been gone for hours. Finally, she left Headquarters and went upstairs to the top floor, peered out through the bedroom windows with the best view of the field and the drive. She stood for what seemed a long time but there was no sign of her at all. Going downstairs again, she heard the hall door close. Bronagh was standing outside Headquarters looking pale and anxious.
‘You are quite right,’ she said, shaking her head as Clare came towards her. ‘They were due to begin last month but we had such a lot of rain it was put off. Apparently the forecast is now very good so the bulldozers will be here tomorrow. They’ve taken on men for six months. Those are only a handful for this week. The foreman told me the show house will be ready by June and the rest by September.’ She paused and looked closely at Clare. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. Is there anything I can do? Can I bring you tea, or coffee?’
‘Thanks, Bronagh,’ she said, shaking her head sadly. ‘I think this is almost the worst thing that has ever happened me. Can you see Eventide wanting their “premises” behind a new estate? I’ll have to ring Andrew, but a big mug of tea would help. And thanks for going to talk to the men.’
‘We just mustn’t give up hope,’ Clare said, only hours later, when Andrew, who had come home immediately, held up his hands in despair.
‘I saw the Planning Application when I put in my protest,’ he said, furiously. ‘And I had an acknowledgement when it was turned down. Some one has had a backhander since, I can be sure of that. Brown envelopes all round, Charlie would have said. Clare, what on earth are we going to do?’
‘Well, we’ll have to get Drumsollen on the market quickly. Board, advertising, the whole lot. It won’t sell as a gentleman’s residence, but there may be some commercial use it can be put to, like that castle that makes potato crisps,’ she said quickly, recollecting an article she’d read recently. ‘And we must tell Eventide. They’ll find out anyway, but let’s do the decent thing and save them the trouble.’
John Crawford was very upset when he heard what had happened. He was sure Clare was right, their offer would have to be withdrawn, but he was personally very sorry. It had been a pleasure to work with her. He wanted to know what plans they had and offered his help if there was anything he could possibly do.
But there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do. The value of Drumsollen was completely compromised by the building site. It was possible they wouldn’t even have an offer at all in the new situation.
Clare rang the Bank Manager, who’d been a good friend for a long time now, then Harry, and then their estate agent. Roy Harkness said he needed to think about it. He’d get back to her. Harry said he had some thoughts. She was to keep her chin up and not let Andrew dig himself into a hole. The estate agent said they’d had one enquiry and they were looking into it.
Every day seemed like a week as she waited for developments. Yet the days flicked off her calendar with alarming rapidity. The contract of sale for the farm had not yet been drawn up, but it soon would be. Unless there was a reliable offer for Drumsollen the purchase would have to be called off. Phillida could not possibly be expected to wait for a sale that might never happen.
‘Clare, Roy here. I have news for you. Not great news, but better perhaps than nothing. I’ve been checking out someone, who must remain nameless, on behalf of your estate agent. He’s proposing to make an offer for Drumsollen, based on the land value.’
‘Land value? What exactly does that mean, Roy?’
‘It means he wants your driveway and the piece of land Drumsollen is built upon. We’re probably looking at demolition of the house itself. How do you feel about that?’
‘Roy, I hate to say this, but at the moment I’m only concerned with an offer. Have you any idea what he has in mind?’
‘If I name a sum I would be breaking confidence, but if I say half of what Eventide offered you, I would not be giving away anything classified, would I?’
‘Bless you, Roy. It’s the nearest thing to good news I’ve had since we saw those men digging holes. Do you think the person offering is reliable?’
‘Now there I can help you. Financially speaking, I only need to say Yes.’
When she told Andrew, he was not encouraged.
‘But, Clare, my darling, even if we do get half of what we expected, enough for the farm, I grant you, we still can’t go ahead. We have the mortgage here to pay off. On top of that there’s the expense of moving and paying someone to help me, at least for a few months. There won’t be any money coming in and I expect there are other small matters like the fact we might need to eat, or put petrol in the car. Even if the mortgage dissolved overnight, we will have no money at all.
‘There is a little money from the leased land,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘That would keep us fed. The mortgage is the problem, I agree. We can’t carry debt with no income.’
‘So near and yet so far, Clare. Within jumping distance of the promised land, to coin a phrase. I can’t see any way forward, can you?’
‘Well, yes. I do see just one possibility.’
‘You’re going to sell your tiara? Sorry,’ he said quickly, as he caught sight of her expression. ‘I’m always flippant when I feel defeated. I apologize and will not do it again.’
‘Good. We need all the cool we can manage,’ she said quietly. ‘As I said, I do see one possibility. I’ve been talking to Harry and he thinks we don’t realize how the antiques market has taken off since he sold pictures for you six or seven years ago. Even the modest end of the market, bits and pieces of silver, real linen sheets, things we take for granted, get surprising prices at auction. He’s coming up tomorrow to look into every corner and see what we might really be worth. He says we must not let this chance go. We have to grab it, even if he has to bail us out himself.’
‘He said that, did he?’ Andrew asked, looking round the room awkwardly.
‘Yes, he did,’ she replied. ‘And he meant it.’
‘Well that’s it then, my friends, I’ll stake my reputation on these reserve prices. Will that do? Do you think that will be enough?’
‘Harry dear, not only would that clear the mortgage we’d actually be left with some cash in the bank. But are you really that sure the stuff will sell?’ Clare asked, caution returning the moment she’d calculated the effect of the encouraging figure Harry had just shown them.
‘I intend to make sure that it will,’ he replied, firmly. ‘Firstly, we go for auction. I know the best people to set that up. They do usually charge a fee,, but they owe me some favours, so they may waive it
. I then intend to circulate all my best customers and tip them the wink that this is one auction they must not miss. That’ll bring them out of the woodwork, if they think there’s money to be made, or items and examples to add to their collections. You’d be amazed what some of these people collect,’ he went on, cheeringly. ‘Now will you go ahead and sign the contract for the farm?’
‘Yes,’ they said, both at the same time. ‘Yes, we will.’
Twenty
The twenty-ninth of June 1966 was a brilliant summer day. Sunshine poured through the open windows and doors of Drumsollen and dropped patches of light on stacks of objects, piled on tables, chairs and floors.
From the moment the army of young assistants arrived from the auction rooms, clipboards at the ready, to lay things out, labelled and numbered, ready to be recorded for printing in the extensive catalogue, June and Bronagh had been struggling to save even the tiniest space on the kitchen table so they could provide coffee for everyone.
Clare could hardly believe what had emerged from cupboards and sideboards and had been pronounced eminently saleable. Delft and everyday china was stacked up on the kitchen table in perilous piles, Sevré and Royal Worcester dinner services were laid out more carefully in the dining room, battalions of silver alongside. Only the ancestors in their accustomed places remained untouched and indifferent, their details recorded in the colour supplement to the main catalogue.
‘Well, that’s it,’ she said to Andrew, as he locked their bedroom door, A smart young woman with a barely discernable Ulster accent had warned him that if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be the first time a vendor had been left without a bed to sleep in or clothes to wear the next day.
‘What shall we do?’ she asked, as they moved upstairs and across the entrance hall to Headquarters. ‘Where can we hide till it’s all over?’
‘Actually, if you don’t mind too much, I did leave rather a mess in my office yesterday,’ Andrew admitted sheepishly. ‘But I could do it tomorrow, if you’d like me to stay,’ he hastened to add.
One look at his face told Clare that the further away he was from Drumsollen today the better it would be for him.
‘No, I’m perfectly happy to stay,’ she reassured him. ‘Besides, Harry will be arriving at some point and one of us should be here. I’ve locked up our lunch in the bedroom,’ she added, laughing, as he kissed her and went out to the car.
So many last things, she thought. The last bottle of wine at the table in Headquarters the evening before the auctioneer’s staff arrived to begin work. The very last batch of sandwiches made and delivered before the kitchen went out of action. The last picking of roses for the cut glass vase in the hall. The vase was still there, both it and the table tagged with robust brown labels and large black numbers.
Clare decided the safest place for her was the summerhouse. She climbed the steps, turned and looked back down at the expensive cars lining up before the house, their occupants stepping out, well-dressed and well-heeled, catalogues in hand. After their attendance at the Private View, marks had been made on chosen items, prices considered, bids were now at the ready.
She sighed. Tomorrow it would all be over. They’d made plans for disposing of what didn’t sell. Harry would take any good stuff, various charities had been earmarked for the homely and domestic. June and Bronagh would deal with that, do one last tidy and leave Drumsollen to its fate.
She wondered if they might have to have a bonfire for the last residues of labels and wrappings and the thought of the fire brought back memories of the day she and Uncle Jack had cleared out the forge house. Then, the small amount of good, old furniture had gone to a sale room. His wooden chair she’d kept for herself, a companion through her years at Queens, but the old wooden settle where Charlie had sat across the fire from her grandfather, night after night, that had to be burnt.
They’d carried it out with the remaining rubbish and made a funeral pyre, like a Viking’s funeral, she had thought, as she watched the sparks rise up into the pear tree. Rather different from the clearing of Drumsollen. She wondered how Andrew felt at this moment, or even if he knew what he felt. She was sure he had just needed to get away and keep himself busy while the impedimenta of his life was dispersed, the last emblems of a life he had not chosen being taken up and carried away into the lives of others.
By five o’clock the auction was over and June and Bronagh had the whole of the kitchen table on which to lay out picnic mugs and paper cups, scones and cake, for the last time. The auctioneers staff came down and drank thankfully, munched their cake, said their goodbyes and hurried off back to Belfast.
Within half an hour, silence had descended upon the rooms that had been so full of noise and activity. Clare and Andrew walked around with Harry, amazed at the sight of bare, dusty surfaces so recently weighed down with objects of all kinds. Most of the smaller items of furniture had gone, but the larger pieces remained. They stood, looking strangely out of place, every one of them bearing a large, red SOLD notice and a printed sheet, the details needed by the drivers of vehicles that would arrive in the morning to carry them away to their final destinations.
Harry was delighted. He’d made some shrewd guesses, but even he was amazed at some of the unexpected results. With fees and commissions still to be paid, it would be some days before he could give them a final account, but he had not the slightest doubt that the sale had restored at least two thirds of what had been lost when Eventide had to withdraw their offer for Drumsollen, lock, stock and barrel.
‘Harry dear, we don’t know how to thank you,’ Clare said, after they’d exchanged the few necessary words about the results.
‘That’s what friends are for, Clare. Isn’t that what you once said to me?’ he asked, kissing her on both cheeks.
He turned away, stuck out his hand to Andrew, then hugged him instead. ‘We’ll miss having you in Ulster,’ he went on, ‘but I’ve a feeling we may see a lot more of each other. It’ll just have to be in more concentrated bits. I intend to see to it,’ he said firmly, as he put his arms round their shoulders. ‘Take care of each other in the meantime,’ he added quickly, as he turned away, strode across the entrance hall and went out into the sunlight where only his own car remained, waiting at the foot of the stone steps.
After the heat of the previous days, June Thirty dawned damp and overcast. It was still raining as they left Drumsollen in the late afternoon, their last goodbye said to June and Bronagh on the front steps an hour earlier before the two of them stepped into the little blue car, now Bronagh’s, as she set out for Ballyards to give June a lift home.
It seemed a long time since they’d driven through Belfast together, that quiet Sunday morning when they’d arrived home to the unwelcome greeting from her brother. It was only a year ago, but that year had changed everything.
Clare noticed there were Police wagons on some street corners, though the damp streets themselves were deserted. It was hardly surprising they were there when Loyalists had shot three Catholic barmen in the city, some nights earlier. A young man called Peter Ward had died. Earlier, a Protestant woman had been killed by a petrol bomb intended for the Catholic pub next door to her home.
She tried to push such distressing thoughts from her mind, but she had to admit it. Charlie had been right. They had done their best, but like so many before them, the only answer in the end was to take the Liverpool boat.
The lough was grey and flat calm under a dull, grey sky when they arrived at the docks, but by the time they’d queued to drive the car on board, left it being secured in the vast, empty cavern of the ship’s hold and climbed their way up narrow stairs to emerge on to the wet deck, a tiny shaft of sunlight was striking the green copper turret of a church spire somewhere in the city.
They were so grateful just to lean on the rail and watch the last preparations for departure. Weary from days of effort, their minds full of comings and goings, phone calls to be made, documents to be signed, at last there was nothing more to do. They wer
e on their way.
‘Wasn’t it funny about the chandelier,’ Andrew said unexpectedly.
‘Yes, it was,’ she said, smiling. ‘Even Harry was amazed at the price it fetched, but as he said, they’re not made any more and few ever come on the market in good condition. I’ve felt guilty for years about how much it cost to restore when we were just setting out and couldn’t afford it,’ she confessed. ‘It just shows you how wrong you can be.’
‘But we weren’t wrong about trusting Harry, were we?’
‘No, we’re fairly good on reckoning the people we can trust.’
‘Perhaps because we trust each other,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Maybe that’s all one can ever do. Do one’s best and trust that help will come. And it did, didn’t it?’
Her words were drowned by the long, mournful sound of the ship’s siren, telling everyone it was about to depart. There were bangs and clanks as sea doors closed and the remaining hawsers were cast off.
‘So here we go, my love,’ she said softly. ‘Shouldn’t the dark clouds open and the sun pour down and The End rise up on the screen in large letters?’
He laughed. ‘But it’s not the end, is it? It’s the beginning of whatever comes next. Us together, making another life. Like we used to say, Come rain, come shine.’
Acknowledgements
Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse is a novel about hopes and dreams and what happens when circumstances change and cut right across the plans people make. Friends and family, as well as writers and historians, have enabled me to be accurate about the detail of 1960 to 1966, but without one person in particular this novel would not be in print.
As I worked on Clare and Andrew’s story, I began to realize what happened to them in the 1960s was already beginning to happen to so many as a consequence of the financial crash of 2008. The hopes of young and old in many places and at all levels in society were put at risk and threatened with failure.
