by Anne Doughty
Rose fetched a towel and Hannah undid the fastening on her sister’s cape. Sarah protested, but her own fingers were too numb to release the firm catch. She let Rose rub her hair in stubborn silence.
‘Where’s Hugh?’ John asked, puzzled, as he rose from his chair to draw Sarah close to the stove.
‘He’s comin’ in a minit,’ said Sam, tramping into the room. ‘He’s tying the reins to the gatepost. But he’s not stoppin’. The mare’s near done an’ he says Elizabeth’ll be anxious. I overtook them on the hill an’ led the mare,’ he explained, as he stood, his coat collar still turned up, his cap pulled down over his eyes, his trousers now dripping gently on the hearth. ‘I’ll go up the hill with him an’ see him over the worst bit.’
‘God Bless all here,’ said Hugh wearily, as he closed the door and looked across at Sarah, now sitting with her hands spread to the flames.
She did not turn round.
‘Ah, man dear, that was a long hour. Did ye get the doctor?’
‘Yes, we did. But we had to wait in the queue.’
‘And when Maisie got in the child was dead,’ said Sarah, fiercely, turning to stare at Hugh, who stood awkwardly by the door, one arm braced against the wall for support.
‘Ach dear,’ said John, dropping his eyes and glancing sideways at her. ‘Did he say what was wrong with it?’
‘It wasn’t an it, Da,’ she said calmly, looking him in the eyes. ‘Her name was Sophie and she would have been two in April. But she was only a weaver’s daughter,’ she went on bitterly. ‘Maisie says he took one look at her face, said dead and then asked her what name to put on the death certificate. She showed it to me. It says croup. Maisie says that’s what they always put when they don’t know, and don’t much care anyway,’ she ended furiously.
‘I must go,’ said Hugh sharply, breaking the silence that greeted her outburst. ‘We did what we could, little as it was,’ he added, more quietly.
‘I’ll come with you an’ lead the mare,’ said Sam, as Hugh’s hand touched the latch. ‘I’ll not be long, Ma,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder to where his mother stood, bracing herself for what was to come.
‘I think you should change your skirt, Sarah, that hem is soaking. Go and do it while Hannah and I start serving the meal.’
‘I’m all right as I am and I don’t want any supper.’
‘Thank you,’ prompted John automatically.
‘Thank you,’ repeated Sarah icily.
Hannah came over to Sarah’s chair, knelt down and put her arms round her. She said nothing. Just stroked the still damp curls.
‘It’s all his fault,’ Sarah burst out. ‘Those stupid tickets. Why couldn’t Maisie just have gone to the dispensary? If she’d gone this morning, Sophie might still be alive,’ she cried, staring at her parents as if they were personally responsible.
‘Sarah, there’s mill owners that makes no provision at all for their workers,’ John began, a warning note in his voice. ‘All Hugh’s people and their families can go to a doctor. But I grant you, it was hard on Maisie she had to come to Rathdrum. Normally there’s some neighbour’s chile able to run and get a ticket when it’s needed. That was bad luck.’
‘And then he gave her money,’ she spat out, ignoring what John had just said. ‘Sophie’s dead and he gives her money. How can he do such a thing?’ she shouted, her voice cracking as she burst into floods of tears.
Hannah tucked a clean hanky into her hand. When Sarah ignored it, she took it up again and wiped Sarah’s tears herself.
‘Sarah, love,’ Rose began quietly, ‘its very sad about poor little Sophie, but think how Maisie would feel if she couldn’t afford to bury her in the churchyard. Hugh knows there are fees even for children and the McKinleys won’t have a family plot.’
‘The McKinleys haven’t got anything. You should see the cabin they live in. One candle on the table and a pot of potatoes over the fire,’ Sarah said, grabbing the handkerchief from Hannah to blow her dripping nose.
‘But how is that Hugh’s fault, Sarah?’ Rose persisted gently. ‘Not many men would have left their work and harnessed the mare to take her into Banbridge and then up to Lisnaree afterwards. How is it his fault?’
‘It’s what he pays his weavers. Three of them working and they’re all half-starved like little Sophie.’
John shook his head and looked at Rose. He had no idea what to say and she knew from experience that offering bare facts would do no good, even if she had any facts to offer.
‘Perhaps Maisie’s husband doesn’t bring her all his money home,’ said Hannah calmly.
Sarah stared at her in amazement, her face red and swollen, her mouth still quivering.
‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you,’ she said crossly, shaking her head violently as Hannah got up from the hard stone floor where she’d been kneeling.
‘Sarah, many of the weavers go out and get drunk on pay night,’ Hannah began. ‘Some go to the cock fights and lay wagers they can’t afford. I’m not saying Maisie’s husband is one of those,’ she added quickly, ‘but he might be. It might not all be about wages.’
‘Hannah’s right,’ said John promptly, grateful for his daughter’s intervention. He’d been going to point out that the two boys might only be winders and they’d earn very little, but he’d thought better of it.
Rose saw the tempest was slowly dying down. It was time to move everyone towards supper.
‘Sarah, I know you’re upset, but we can’t do anything tonight to help Maisie. If you’ll dry your eyes and eat your supper we’ll go over and see her as soon as the snow melts.’
‘And take her some clothes and food?’ she asked sullenly.
‘No,’ said Rose firmly. ‘We’ll go and ask her what we can do to help.’
‘Why? Why not take food and clothes when we know she has nothing?’ she threw back.
‘Because even the poorest people have their pride, even if it’s the only thing they have,’ Rose insisted quietly. ‘Do you want to offend her?’
‘No. I don’t. She has enough to bear,’ she muttered, her tears now reduced to a miserable sniff.
And there are plenty more like her, Rose thought, as the door opened and Sam’s large, snow covered figure slipped in and latched it behind him as quickly as he could.
‘It wou’d skin you out there,’ he announced, his back to them all as he hung up his coat and cap and brushed fresh snow from the knees of his boiler suit. ‘You shouldn’t have held back fer me,’ he said cheerfully looking at the waiting table. ‘Ye must be starvin’. I could eat a horse.’
‘That’s amazin’, Sam,’ said John, turning towards him. ‘I’ve niver known you to be hungry of an evenin’. Has the snow given you an appetite?’
As she bent to open the oven door, Rose sent up a prayer of thanks for Sam’s timely arrival. Sarah had actually laughed at the idea of Sam not being hungry. It was the first small thaw in the ice she’d generated in the warm room. Dear Sam. Even if he’d not been busy with the snow he’d brought in, he wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss. A situation would have to be dire indeed for him not to greet them with his usual smile and an easy comment about the events of the day. A rare gift perhaps, but she was not entirely sure it was a good thing, given all life could throw at you.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Can we go and see Maisie when I get home from school?’ asked Sarah next morning, as soon as she came downstairs to breakfast.
‘We’ll see,’ said Rose absently, distracted by the headache she’d woken up with.
She paused, her hand on the latch of the door to the dairy and tried to remember what she was doing when Sarah spoke.
‘Do you mean “no”?’ Sarah threw back at her.
‘No, I don’t,’ she replied, as the whatever-it-was she was about to remember slipped away from her like a mouse disappearing down a hole.
She came back to the breakfast table and stood looking down at it until Hannah got to her feet. ‘We need some mor
e milk, Ma. You sit down. I’ll get it.’
Rose did as she was bid and poured three cups of tea, aware that Sarah was still staring at her.
‘When I say, “we’ll see”, I mean just that,’ she said, making an effort to sound firm, though she didn’t feel remotely firm. ‘It depends how much light is left when you get in and whether it has snowed again. If the weather’s bad, we’ll have to leave it till tomorrow morning.’
‘And what if it’s still bad then?’ Sarah persisted.
‘We’ll meet that when we come to it.’
‘You always say that, doesn’t she, Hannah?’
Hannah paused, milk jug in hand, looked at Sarah and bent towards Rose. ‘Say when,’ she said quietly, as she added milk very slowly to her mother’s cup of tea.
‘Thanks, love,’ she nodded, thankful for the small, loving gesture. It was so like Hannah to make putting the milk in her tea a way of comforting her without antagonising Sarah further.
‘Yes, she does often say that,’ Hannah agreed, sitting down and looking across the table at her sister. She helped herself to wheaten bread and reached across for the damson jam when Sarah forgot to pass it over. ‘You can’t always plan what you’re going to do, not even in summer. Look how often we changed our plans in the holidays when it got too hot, or when we remembered it was Fair Day in Banbridge, or when Dolly threw her shoe. That’s what we’ll meet that when we come to it means. You know that perfectly well, Sarah.’
Rose drank her tea gratefully, but wasn’t sure she could face eating anything. She’d had a restless night, full of confused dreams about the past. They’d left her feeling downhearted and oppressed and her head was beginning to throb. As soon as she’d got them off to school, she’d take a headache powder and sit down for a little while till it went away.
Sarah had subsided for the moment. She was spreading damson jam liberally on another piece of wheaten bread.
‘Are you going up to see Elizabeth this morning, Ma?’ Hannah asked lightly, one eye resting on Sarah as she munched.
‘Yes, I’ll go,’ Rose said, brightening a little at the thought of Elizabeth’s company, ‘unless the snow comes on again.’
Friday was their usual day, the heavy work of the week behind them. Elizabeth had a housekeeper who did most of the cooking, but she didn’t spare herself on what needed to be done. The house was large and full of good furniture, books and family mementoes. She had plenty to do to keep it in order, for she regularly entertained visiting Friends who came to minister, or to report to their Monthly Meeting.
As she thought of walking up the hill to see Elizabeth, she remembered John’s parting words.
‘Da said to tell you it had thawed a bit and you’d be all right if you kept to the middle of the road,’ Rose began. ‘It’ll still be solid ice at the sides and you’re to take good care and walk down the hill with your bicycles … and probably up again as well. Sam says the main road should stay open with the road engines moving. They’re not bothered by the snow till it gets quite deep.’
‘Don’t worry, Ma,’ said Hannah reassuringly. ‘We’re out early today. We’ll be home well before dark.’
Rose was even more grateful when they left. She poured the last of the tea and sat by the fire to drink it and collect her thoughts, but her thoughts did not want to be collected. She went and took her headache powder, put together a basket with her sewing things and a pot of the new damson for Elizabeth and set about clearing the breakfast table.
By the time she’d done that and even before she’d washed up, she had to sit down again, she was feeling so shaky and shivery. She hoped she wasn’t starting a cold. Jamie was coming home on Saturday afternoon and would be staying over till Sunday, the first time in five weeks he’d been to see them. She missed Jamie. The last thing she wanted was to be sniffing and blowing and red in the nose when he came so seldom and had so much news to tell them.
She sat by the fire gathering her energy to wash the dishes, make up the fire and leave all tidy. An hour later, she woke with a start, amazed she should have fallen asleep. Her cheeks were burning and her head still throbbed though she was sure she’d taken the headache powder.
‘Oh dear,’ she said aloud. ‘I think I am getting the cold. I can’t go to Elizabeth like this.’
She walked to the window and looked out. Large, heavy flakes were falling from a uniformly leaden sky. Not a great day to be out at Millbrook. The sky had been clear when she’d heard John and Hugh go past in the brougham, but it certainly wasn’t turning into a very good day for inspecting the new roof. They’d probably have to content themselves checking out the looms instead.
It was two months now since they’d set going again the old looms they’d modified themselves. The production figures would tell them whether they should modify the rest, or whether the only way was to install something more up-to-date. It was a big decision, John said. An awful lot of money was involved.
She moved round the kitchen feeling slightly dazed, trying to decide what to cook for the evening. John and Hugh would have something to eat at Millbrook, but it would be a long, cold day for them, even if they did try to get back with the last of the light.
She went out into the dairy, always cool in summer, now full of an icy chill. She saw her breath stream around her as she filled a glass of water from the tap. She gulped it down and felt sweat break on her body as if she’d gone out into the blazing sun. She gripped the solid edge of the Belfast sink and closed her eyes. She was forty-three now and her monthly bleeding had stopped. Was this the change her mother had told her about, the sweats that came unexpectedly by day and by night, bad enough at their worst to soak a night gown?
She staggered back to her chair by the stove, closed her eyes and prayed that the throbbing in her head would go away.
Even as she lit the sitting-room fire after breakfast, to have it warm and welcoming when Rose arrived, it occurred to Elizabeth that the hill might prove to be too slippery. When it began to snow and showed no signs of stopping she sighed, looked around the empty room and told herself Rose was being sensible. There would be other mornings she knew, but she felt a sudden sharp disappointment for today she’d needed to talk to her.
‘Oh well, it can wait,’ she said briskly, as she carried a small, finely made writing table from under the window to sit facing the fireplace. ‘May as well make a virtue out of an extra morning,’ she added. ‘Besides, it’s a pity not to enjoy such a lovely fire.’
It was a good opportunity to catch up on overdue correspondence. It was not that she disliked writing letters, personal ones or those she wrote as secretary to one of the committees run by the Monthly Meeting, it was more a case of such tasks being left aside when more pressing ones presented themselves.
She worked steadily, grateful for the warmth of the fire on her knees, ignoring as best she could the backs of her legs which were growing colder and colder. As the morning hours passed slowly, the small pile of sealed envelopes grew. A little after noon she got to her feet, the backs of her legs now quite numb, her shoulders aching from concentration. She walked round the room briskly, replaced her table under the window and stood with her back to the fire, her skirts hitched up. When her legs thawed out she crossed to one of the tall, large-paned windows and ran her eyes over the white blanket spread out over the familiar features of the cobbled yard, the outbuildings and the garden beyond.
Snow always made ordinary things extraordinary, she reflected. The wall beyond the stable, topped last night with the ragged remnants of grass and weeds, was now smoothed to uniformity, not a trace of the fragments of campanula escaped from the flowerbeds or the ragwort blown in from the nearby meadows. The stable itself had a hefty covering, the tracks of the brougham long since covered. The snow still fell, creating a vast silence, a silence which drove humans indoors to seek warmth and shelter like the wild creatures themselves.
She turned to the fire, thrust into its orange heart a well-seasoned log from the basket on the he
arth. It crackled immediately, as the tinder dry outer skin caught fire. The smell of apple wood rose towards her, overwhelming the hour and the day in a flood of unbidden memory.
The lines of apple trees marched up and down the hills of her grandfather’s farm. On the slopes of Fruit Hill near Loughgall, in the midst of the Armagh apple-country, trimmings were burnt in autumn bonfires and seasoned logs from previous years were saved for the sitting room fire at Christmas. Long ago now, but the memories of her grandfather had never faded, the old man who had made her and James so welcome throughout their childhood.
He had lost both wife and daughter. Sons he had, both near and far, well-loved enough, but of his only daughter, his beloved Hester, her children were all that was left to him. Both James Sinton and their step-mother understood his need and the Pearson farm was always a part of young James and Elizabeth’s life, a happy place, still active and busy, despite the old man’s loss.
His bristly moustache and thick mass of white hair often intimidated those who didn’t know him, children and adults alike, but his brown face and sun-burnt hands were what Elizabeth remembered most vividly. She and James had never feared him, though being much younger, Hugh had found him a formidable figure. He loved them all, cherishing them as he did the apple trees he had planted with his own hands, row upon row of them, throwing well-ordered orchards like a woven mantle across the swelling folds of the little hills on which his farmland lay.
It was at Grandfather Pearson’s bedside that Elizabeth had met Charles Cooper, a young man from Armagh, newly qualified at medical school in Edinburgh.
She sat down abruptly and stared at the blazing log. She was twenty-two when he’d been able to ask her to marry him. Now she was thirty-eight. How could it be she still felt such grief after all this time? So many wise words had been poured over her. So many kindnesses offered. But nothing had touched the hurt of the sudden, unexpected loss. Time had not healed the pain, it had only made the pain a familiar thing, like a physical pain that sometimes faded to a shadow and at other times leapt up, sharp and undiminished, like today.
