by Anne Doughty
‘Good day, James. Good day, Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you. You must come up and see the workshop as soon as you’ve settled in. I hear you are both keen on engines. Good day, Hannah. Good day, Sarah. And who is this?’ she asked, kneeling down unexpectedly on the garden path where she was face to face with Ganny, Sarah’s constant companion.
‘This is Ganny,’ said Sarah, promptly. ‘My granny made her for me. She was grey like you, but you’re much bigger.’
‘You mean ‘taller’, Sarah, don’t you?’ said Rose awkwardly.
‘No, I said bigger,’ retorted Sarah shortly.
Rose felt herself blush, but Elizabeth Sinton didn’t appear to be in the slightest offended. Entirely focused on Sarah, she smiled warmly, her strong, plain face suddenly transformed, her grey eyes sparkling.
‘I hope you’ll bring Ganny when you and Hannah come to visit me. I’ll show you a doll my grandmother made for me,’ she said, her rather formal way of speaking softening as she laid a finger on Ganny’s grey woollen hair.
‘I’ve taken the liberty, Rose, of making up the two new beds that arrived earlier in the week, in case any of you needed to lie down,’ she said, as she stood up. ‘Please don’t trouble to return the sheets. Hugh brings me so many to try out for him I could furnish one of Miss Nightingale’s wards,’ she added with a little laugh. ‘Now I shall leave you in peace. The dray will probably take at least another hour, but I’ve left some refreshments ready. Good day to you all.’
‘Funny lady,’ said Sarah, before Elizabeth Sinton had even closed the garden gate behind her. ‘I like her,’ she added decisively, as she yawned hugely and marched towards the open front door.
But if Sarah’s reaction to Elizabeth Sinton had embarrassed Rose, worse was to come. While Hannah admitted she was tired out after being up so early and having had such a busy morning, even before the journey, Sarah refused to make use of the other bed. She tramped round the house, looked into every room, opened built in cupboards, turned the tap on and off in the room beyond the kitchen, explored the garden and climbed up on the fence to look over into the field where her father said they could keep a mare if they decided to have a trap.
When she heard an unfamiliar voice in the big kitchen, she shot back inside and stood staring at Hugh Sinton as he welcomed her parents and shook hands with James and Sam.
‘Good day, Sarah,’ he said, as soon as his eye lighted upon her.
He moved forward to shake hands with her, his body awkward and ungainly as he hunched his left shoulder to enable him to swing his left leg forward. He held out his hand and smiled at her, his handsome, tanned face marred by a white scar that ran diagonally across one cheek, reappeared on his forehead and disappeared into his thick, dark hair.
‘Did a horse kick you?’ Sarah enquired. ‘Our friend Thomas has a scar like yours. He nearly died, only Ma and George Robinson took him to the Infirmary in Armagh. Did you nearly die too?’
Before Rose had time to draw breath, Hugh had released Sarah’s hand and nodded.
‘Yes. I was ill a long time. Elizabeth nursed me for months. But the horse didn’t kick me. It fell and threw me in our own yard. There was a piece of metal lying on the ground and it cut off the front of my knee, so it doesn’t work very well.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes, it does sometimes,’ he said easily. ‘But I’m still here, God be praised,’ he added strongly, as he straightened himself up again.
‘I think it’s time Sarah was in bed,’ said Rose apologetically.
Hugh had given her a smile she would never forget. Sudden and full of an unexpected warmth, it showed her what a handsome young man he still was. John had been quite right. Hugh was just as kind and as considerate as his older brother James, even if he lacked James’s graciousness.
‘You’ve all had a long day and need your rest,’ he said gently, as Rose picked her up. ‘Sleep well, Sarah.’
He swung his bad leg into action over the stone floor. ‘God bless you all,’ he added, pausing in the doorway, before disappearing at speed down the garden path with a strange rocking motion.
The sun had risen towards its zenith and the mountains were now less clear as the heat shimmered on their rocky slopes. Rose shut the garden gate behind her, crossed the lane and leant on the five-barred gate in the low hawthorn hedge opposite. Michael MacMurray’s cattle had retreated to a patch of shadow where a well-grown ash tree raised its leafy crown above the line of the eastern boundary of the rich, sloping meadow. She studied the familiar countryside from this new perspective, delighting in the richness of full leaf. In as little as a week’s time, though still beautiful, the foliage would no longer be translucent to the light.
She listened to the familiar sounds of a summer’s day. The distant rush of water from the tail race of the bleach mill, the sudden scream of the swallows swooping low over the field in front of her, the creak of a cart on the road below and the bark of a dog somewhere across the river.
Sometimes the days were so full, she could pass a whole week without ever having time to stand here and give thanks for the good fortune that had brought them to this place where they’d settled so happily. So many of her worries for the family were a thing of the past, as John would say. The children were growing up, they were well and healthy, and there was money in the bank to help them on their way. What woman could ask for more?
On the still air, she caught a sound that was not familiar. To begin with she couldn’t even describe it to herself. Persistent and throbbing, a little like the distant thud of beetling hammers. No, not hammers, a rougher sound. More erratic and more turbulent. As she listened it seemed to be getting louder and coming closer all the time.
‘Missus Hamilton … Missus Hamilton …’
She spun round as she heard her name called and found a young lad running up the hill towards her. Without pausing for breath, he jerked his head towards the top of the hill. ‘C’mon quick, it’s Sam,’ he called over his shoulder, as he ran past her.
‘Sam?’ she gasped, as she turned to follow him, her breath caught with sudden anxiety. What could possibly be wrong? And how could Sam be up the hill when his workplace was down in Tullyconnaught not far from the mill itself?
She’d never seen this lad before, yet he knew who she was and had obviously been sent to look for her. She followed as quickly as she could, anxious lest the retreating figure disappear from sight. As she reached the less steep gradient beyond the crest of the hill, she saw the slight figure swerve through the open gate into the avenue leading to Rathmore House.
By the time she reached the driveway, gasping for breath, perspiration trickling down her face, she could see Elizabeth directing the lad to the workshop and hurrying after him. Rose struggled on and arrived at the gable of the house just in time to see the young lad, a rolled, red flag clutched in his right hand, spill out his message to John and Hugh.
‘Ach, good man yourself,’ said John, clapping him on the shoulder.
She slowed down, a stitch in her side and walked as quickly as she could towards them. John turned and caught sight of her. He was smiling. She felt such a relief. It must be all right if he was smiling.
The throbbing noise had grown louder, louder even than the pounding of her own heart.
‘Down to the stable wall, Elizabeth,’ called Hugh, as he jerked his bad leg into action and hurried away from them.
John came towards her and slipped an arm round her waist.
‘Yer all outa breath,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m all right now,’ she said, drawing a great gasp of air into her small chest. ‘I thought there was something wrong. What’s happening?’
‘D’ye not hear?’
‘I hear a noise, but I don’t know what it is.’
‘C’mon. Hugh’s right. The stable wall’s the best place.’
Hugh had fetched a ladder to make it easy for Rose and Elizabeth to climb up. They stood in a line on top of the solid wall and looked down on
the stretch of main road that ran along the foot of the hill towards Corbet and Katesbridge. The road was empty, its rough surface a pale gash through the green countryside.
‘Will you not get into trouble, Billy, for leaving him without a flagman?’ asked Hugh coolly, addressing the boy who stood beside him, shading his eyes against the light.
‘Ach no. Wait till ye see. There’s no need for me.’
It was only when she caught the smell of smoke on the clear air that Rose guessed what they were waiting for.
‘Can ye feel the vibrations?’ John asked her quietly.
Rose wasn’t sure. She was still hot and shaking after the effort she’d made, but before she had time to answer, a man waving a red flag appeared. Yards behind him, with a cloud of smoke and steam swirling round them, not one, but three, highly polished road engines steamed steadily along the highway below, each one hauling three loaded wagons.
‘Is that the new Fowler then?’ asked Hugh, leaning forward, his eyes pinned to the foremost engine. ‘I think your Da’s going to have to walk a bit faster, Billy,’ he added, as the flagman leading the procession caught sight of them and waved his red flag up at them.
‘D’you see whose up front, Rose?’
It was some moments before the smoke parted and Rose saw a familiar figure. For a moment he appeared to be quite unaware of his audience, but then the flagman checked the road ahead, turned back and called up to him. With a great beaming smile, young Sam Hamilton wiped his brow with the back of his arm and raised it in salute to the little group of spectators on the hillside above.
They waved back and stood watching till the last engine had passed and the only movement below was Billy taking a shortcut to catch up with the convoy when it paused to take on more water at Corbet Lough.
‘Well, Rose, what do you think of that?’ asked Hugh, his voice barely concealing his excitement. ‘The new engine and him not turned sixteen. Are you not proud of him?’
‘I am, Hugh, I am,’ she nodded, tears springing to her eyes. ‘I can hardly believe he’s grown up so quickly,’ she said, trying to blink them away. ‘It’s just the smoke,’ she said feebly. ‘It makes my eyes water.’
‘Just wait till young Jamie launches his first ship,’ he said, nodding sympathetically and turning his head away to give her time to recover. ‘We’ll have to do better than a wall to stand on that day.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘What about a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade by way of celebration?’ Elizabeth asked, as she climbed down from the wall and turned to watch John swing Rose lightly to the ground beside her.
Hugh ignored the ladder and slithered from the wall to land on his good leg. He smiled sheepishly across at his sister. ‘Sounds good, Elizabeth,’ he began, ‘but we’ve only just got to those drawings.’
Elizabeth waved a hand in the air. ‘Well, it’s always polite to ask,’ she said, looking from Hugh to John. ‘A refusal never offends.’
They all laughed. Almost every shop in Banbridge had a notice, handwritten or printed and clearly displayed behind the main counter, which said: Please do not ask for credit, as a refusal often offends.
‘What about you, Rose?’
‘You know I love your lemonade,’ Rose replied, still laughing, ‘but I dashed off with the front door wide open and my baking things all over the table.’
‘And who do you think would steal your baking things, Rose?’ Hugh asked, his tone light and teasing.
‘No one at all, Hugh,’ she agreed, shaking her head. ‘I’m sure there hasn’t been a soul past the house all morning, but there was a jug of milk should’ve gone back to the dairy. And there’s bread in the oven,’ she added, finally remembering what was prompting her to go straight home. ‘But I’ll be up tomorrow, as we planned,’ she called over her shoulder, as she turned on her heel. ‘If I don’t have to bake more bread, that is.’
She walked steadily along the lime avenue, grateful for the cool shade and the soothing murmur of myriads of insects at work in the green canopy above her head. The light dazzled her as she emerged from the leafy tunnel, but as she turned down the hill a whisper of breeze threw tendrils of hair gently across her perspiring forehead.
She was grateful for the breeze. She still hadn’t quite recovered from trying to run uphill after Billy, her heart in her mouth, sure that something dreadful had happened to Sam. It ought to teach her a lesson not to assume the worst. Not to worry so much about her children, particularly when they weren’t children any more.
They’d certainly seemed like children when they arrived at Ballydown. But each year since had brought such changes. James was a young man now, set out upon his own life in Belfast. ‘Little’ six-year-old Sarah was thirteen, a full two years older than the boys and girls who left school as soon as the law permitted to go and work in the mills.
Perhaps all mothers worried about their children. Was it a habit that grew up when children were young and vulnerable and stayed with you when they became sons and daughters, well-grown and with every appearance of good health? Or was it the knowledge that life is perilous, that loss is part of life and simply has to be borne?
So many children died young, not just stillborn infants, or babies who didn’t thrive, but lively young toddlers who caught whooping cough or diphtheria. Older children who died of tuberculosis. She’d heard of plenty of those as well as her own friend’s child. She would never forget Jane Wylie, only nine years old.
She walked faster, her stride increasing with the thrust of her thoughts, her eyes searching the fields and hedgerows as if they had the answer to her questions. There were carpets of buttercups in the meadows, a creamy froth of cow parsley lining the sides of the road, dusky pink spikes of valerian sprouting from the tops of the stone walls.
She took in the colour and the light. What a pity to spoil such a lovely day with such anxious thoughts. Yet she sensed it was the day itself that made her so uneasy. Life had been so good since they’d come to Ballydown. Just like a summer day. But summer is a short season. Like the challenge of winter, the years ahead might make a demand upon her she’d be hard pressed to meet.
‘Come on Rose,’ she said aloud, ‘You must do better than this.’
Rather than worrying herself about the future, she ought to be giving thanks for all the good things the last seven years had brought. How silly to let such sad thoughts cloud Sam’s big day.
The smile he’d sent winging up the hill had so delighted her. It was that same slow, warm smile he’d give her when he came back from the Tullyconnaught Haulage Company while he was still at school, his eyes bright, his forearms streaked with axle oil. He’d spent as many Saturdays and holidays as he could down at their maintenance sheds. Since he was a little boy, he’d wanted to drive an engine, a railway engine, or a road engine, he didn’t mind which and he made himself so useful down at the sheds, a job was waiting for him the moment he left school.
It was their good friend James Sinton who’d persuaded him he needed to stay at school till he was thirteen, however, and then do a proper apprenticeship. Now, three years later, he’d done it. He was not just a young man who could drive an engine, he understood them. He could service them and maintain them, coax and persuade them to work to their greatest capacity without strain. That’s how he came to be trusted with the precious new Fowler this morning. No wonder William Auld, the senior flagman, sent his son to tell them all to look out for Sam.
A few minutes later Rose was back in her kitchen, giving her full attention to the bread. She tapped the soda and wheaten with a practised finger. The dull, hollow sound told her they’d taken no harm. The bread might be a touch drier than usual, but that was no great mischief when there was plenty of butter to spread on it.
She set the cakes to cool in the dairy, wiped the kitchen table and washed up her mixing bowl and measure. Although the stove was still alight, it was pleasantly cool in the big kitchen, the shadows on the floor visibly shortened now the sun had reached its highest
point. If the weather settled in as warm as this, she could leave the stove unlit and do her cooking on the gas rings at the far end of the dairy.
The gas had been laid on when the house belonged to the manager at Ballievy Mill, piped all the way down from Hugh’s own gas plant at Rathdrum. He’d set it up as an experiment while he was still in his teens and it had been such a success, he’d been encouraged to introduce gaslight in all his mills.
She thought back to the days when they’d lived in the cottage opposite the forge. It hadn’t even got a stove. There were times she’d come home from shopping in Armagh and find the banked up fire on the hearth had burnt itself out. If the children were home before her, they’d have to sit in the dark because she couldn’t let them light the Tilley lamp. She couldn’t even make a cup of tea till she’d coaxed the turf back to life, just when she was tired and aching to sit down. If the stove was really slow these days, there was the gas to fall back on and after dark there’d be the soft glow of the lamps on either side of the mantelpiece.
The lamps were the first thing Hannah noticed on the day they arrived. While Sarah was fascinated by the tap in the dairy, turning it on and off and watching the water gurgle down the plughole in the deep white sink, Hannah was examining the delicately engraved shades and the fine wire chains that hung below them. They were so easy and safe to get going even Sarah had been allowed to take her turn lighting them.
But then, she thought, any gas lamp Hugh chose would be simple and safe.
‘Simplicity and safety, those are the most important things with anything new,’ she’d heard him insist a dozen times. ‘When you’ve hundreds of work people, most of them quite unfamiliar with any kind of technology, some of them very young, it has to be within their grasp, otherwise it’s simply a source of danger.’
