The Hamiltons of Ballydown

by Anne Doughty

  ‘Them bangs wou’d do ye no good if ye’d a bad heart,’ said a man, seated a row in front of them.

  A section of the huge crowd on the terrace below them had begun to sing ‘Go on the blues’. Other sections took it up and either by accident or by design it proceeded antiphonally with great gusto, until another series of explosions suggested that something might really be about to happen.

  Silence descended once again. From where Sarah and Hugh sat they could see it was a salute to a final party of guests, whether the most important or the least important they couldn’t tell, as they watched yet more bejewelled ladies accompanied by men in top hats and morning dress being led to the few remaining seats under the canopy.

  ‘Do you recognise any of them?’ she enquired, as she surveyed the pavilion through her viewfinder and decided that it was too far away.

  ‘I don’t exactly move in those circles, do I?’ he said, with a slight disapproving look.

  She laughed, knowing he was teasing her.

  ‘There’ll be some of the top men at Harlands. You might know them. Ismay or Pirrie or Gustav Wolff,’ she offered. ‘And the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, he’s our local bigwig isn’t he? I heard there are some Americans have come over especially. Why do you think they like things just because they’re big?’

  Hugh laughed. Before she could continue, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face the pavilion.

  ‘Is that Jamie?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she replied, her voice tight with tension the moment she caught sight of the tall, lithe figure who ran up the steps of the marquee and handed a note to a seated dignitary, before bowing and withdrawing out of sight.

  ‘It’s his big day too, remember.’

  ‘It should have been a big day for all of us,’ she came back at him, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘You really mean I should forgive him, don’t you?’ she went on, glaring at him.

  ‘You could give it a try. We all make mistakes and hurt people.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps particularly me. Or so I sometimes think.’

  She looked at him in silence, wondering how he could ever have hurt anyone.

  ‘Look,’ he said urgently. ‘They’re waving a flag. I think that’s for the launch.

  His words were drowned by another barrage of explosions. Sarah swung round and glued her eyes to the ship. For what seemed like an age, there was neither movement nor sound. Then, quite suddenly, she heard the snap and crack of the timbers that had stood against her sides. Like matchsticks, the huge, tree-sized wedges were thrown in the air, as ropes ran out and hawsers gave way. She began to move.

  ‘Oh, Hugh look!’ she cried.

  Down on the promenade below, the displacement wave had soaked some of the photographers and all of the people standing close to the dock. Even more unexpectedly, the force of its movement under the lower part of the grandstand pushed up fountains of dirty water among those seated immediately below them. There was laughter and cheering, even among the unfortunates who had been soaked, as the Oceanic settled with grace and equilibrium in the placid waters of the Lagan.

  Above the roar of the crowd and the cheers of those who had worked upon her, an incredible symphony of sound erupted into the air. The ringing of ships’ bells and sirens, foghorns and hooters, rang out in peal after peal of joyous celebration.

  Suddenly she felt tears pouring down her cheeks.

  ‘Are you all right, Sarah?’ Hugh asked, his face full of concern.

  She nodded fiercely and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Thank you for bringing me. I don’t think I shall ever forget today, however long I live.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Here y’ar, Miss. Ye’ve got a lovely day for your outin’.’

  The guard on the Armagh train lifted down Sarah’s bicycle and glanced from her to the young man waiting at the foot of the lane. He winked at her as he waved his flag and blew his whistle.

  ‘He’s a good-lookin’ fella,’ he said, nodding down at her when he’d climbed back up again into his van.

  ‘He is indeed,’ she agreed, beaming at him. ‘Pity he’s my brother.’

  ‘Aye, but sure there’s one around somewhere just waitin’ for you,’ he said laughing, as the train creaked, lurched and moved forward.

  She waved to him gaily and wheeled her bicycle along the platform to where Sam stood watching, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Was the guard givin’ you the eye?’ he said, teasing her.

  ‘No, the poor man’s not quite right in his head,’ she said, her face perfectly straight. ‘He said you were good-looking.’

  Sam laughed and reached out for the shopping bag she was carrying.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Food,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ma must think they starve you in Richhill, though I see no signs of it myself,’ she went on, looking him up and down. ‘There’s sandwiches and stuff for today and a cake for next week,’ she explained, as he secured the contents in his saddlebag.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ she said happily. ‘I’ve brought the camera,’ she went on. ‘Somewhere high with a view. And then, after lunch, I want to go and visit Thomas Scott. I’ve been wanting to do it for years, but we mustn’t arrive at lunch time. Anyway, this light might not hold, so let’s find a hill first. I haven’t done anything yet about landscape.’

  Sam laughed to himself as he pedalled off.

  ‘I’ll find you a hill all right,’ he threw back over his shoulder. ‘An’ you won’t go up it on a bicycle.’

  A few minutes later she saw what he meant. Having crossed the railway, the lane ran uphill and soon became so steep they had to get off and push. Sam kept up a vigorous pace and she was soon out of breath.

  ‘Are you puffed?’ he asked, a twinkle in his eye, as he paused by a field gate and lowered his bicycle against the hedge.

  ‘No, I’m not. You have longer legs than I have,’ she retorted, gasping, as she took out the camera and handed it to him, so she could prop her own bicycle up against his. ‘Why have we stopped here?’ she asked, wiping her damp forehead with a bare arm.

  ‘You said you wanted a hill,’ he said easily, as he opened the field gate and closed it carefully behind them.

  Sam nodded towards a grey stone obelisk topping the field that sloped steeply upwards from where they stood.

  As they climbed the grass became progressively shorter. By the time they stood at the foot of the tall stone finger, it had disappeared altogether, leaving the earth surrounding it bare and tramped. They leant against the rough cut stone and looked about them.

  ‘There’s Armagh,’ said Sam, turning his back on the slope. ‘Ye can see the cathedrals plain. An’ the Observatory with the green domes. D’you remember Armagh from when you were wee?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘I remember the Library on the Mall,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘Ma and I used to sit under the trees outside after we’d collected the books. It was an awfully long walk home.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it was. Sure you were only six when we left Armagh.’

  ‘And you were only nine,’ she said, mimicking his dismissive tone. ‘What do you remember best?’

  ‘The engine sheds at Armagh Station.’

  ‘I don’t know why I bothered to ask,’ she said, shaking her head as she drew her camera from its case and opened its front.

  Sam settled himself on a nearby patch of grass and lay looking out over the rich green landscape. Last Saturday he’d had to drive to Newry so he’d not been able to go home as usual. On Sunday he’d come up here with some of the lads from work and a crowd of girls. It had taken a while, but eventually he’d got Martha Loney to himself. He knew her well enough by now, meeting her every morning and evening going to and from his work, but he’d never yet talked to her.

  ‘Martha, will you com
e for a walk one evening next week?’ he said, guessing correctly there was no use being shy with the same girl.

  ‘What would I do that for?’ she came back at him.

  ‘Ach, sure exercise is good for you,’ he said slowly. ‘You can’t always be walkin’ out with that horse of your Da’s.’

  She’d laughed and said she’d think about it. She told him she was saving up to go to Canada. She had an uncle there with a big job and a big house. His wife needed help. She’d no notion of being a skivvy, she said, but it would do for a start. If you paid your own fare you could go where you like, but you needed an address so as to get your papers.

  ‘Sa-am, Sa-aam.’

  He turned round and saw his sister gazing at a short concrete pillar a few yards from the obelisk. He smiled, got up and went over to her.

  ‘Sam, give me a leg up, will you?’

  ‘There’s not much room with that pointy thing sticking out of it,’ he said, looking at the pillar doubtfully. ‘What is it anyway?’

  ‘It’s a meridian of Armagh Observatory,’ she answered absently. ‘If I stand on it, it will give me a better angle. You didn’t tell me you could see Lough Neagh from here,’ she said, as he put his hands round her waist and swung her up to perch precariously on the narrow surface.

  ‘Can you?’ he asked, not recollecting anything at all about Lough Neagh from the time he’d spent sitting on the grass with Martha.

  He hung on to the waistband of her skirt in case she’d fall off. He’d never be able to face his mother if she hurt herself out with him.

  ‘Fine, great,’ she said, handing him the camera and jumping down beside him. ‘Where will we go to eat our sandwiches?’

  ‘We could head for Annacramp and find a nice spot by the roadside.’

  ‘Great, let’s go. I’m starving. Must be the fresh air up here,’ she said, as she took her camera back, closed it up and tramped off ahead of him.

  ‘Ma was right,’ she declared, as she gathered up the empty brown paper bags that had held their lunch. ‘She said we’d probably find an appetite if we were cycling.’

  She folded them up, put them back in the shopping bag and brushed a few crumbs from her skirt.

  ‘Do you miss home, Sam?’

  ‘I might of a Sunday if I diden go over home, but durin’ the week I’m too busy to think long,’ he said directly, as he polished off the last of the sandwiches. ‘We’re powerful busy with furniture goin’ out and stuff for the jam factory comin’ in, forby the linen comin’ and goin’. There’s plenty o’ work to keep us goin’ till we start on the motor carriages.’

  ‘Hugh said he was hoping to have his in a month or two,’ she replied. ‘He’s had it ordered for ages.’

  ‘Aye, I remember him sayin’ he’d written for it when we got the trap, but they’re desperate slow to make. It’s not the engines, it’s the bodywork. It’s easy enough to build an engine and put it on a chassis, but what do ye do about the driver and the passengers? You need coach builders, but they haven’t got the right equipment,’ he went on, shaking his head. ‘They’re havin’ to make the machinery for the bodywork while turnin’ out the motor itself. There’s one in Armagh. I saw it in the paper.’

  ‘So maybe Hugh’s will turn up soon.’

  ‘I’d say it wou’d. He got his name down brave an’ early. I was askin’ Da did he want one, now he’s a Director, but he didn’t seem too keen.’

  ‘Didn’t he? Why do you think that is?’

  Sam laughed.

  ‘Ach, Da’s kinda cautious. I reckon he’ll wait t’see how Hugh’s goes and how much work they’ll have to do to get it to climb our hill. I think Da feels Dolly might be more reliable for a while,’ he added, as they got to their feet, leaving two flat patches in the long grass of the hedge bank.

  Sam pointed out Granny Sarah’s house at Annacramp which he remembered, but Sarah didn’t, then they cycled on till they came to the main road from Armagh to Loughgall. Together, they braked and stopped. There was no vehicle of any kind to be seen, neither motor vehicle nor farm cart, not even a straying cow or chicken. What had stopped them was a familiar sound. Borne on the gentle breeze came the rhythmic dance of a hammer on the anvil.

  ‘I remember that,’ said Sarah abruptly. ‘And I remember Da and Thomas rimming the cartwheels with the fire in a circle.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sam nodded, as they set off up the hill. ‘At least we know he’s at home.’

  They wheeled their bicycles carefully up the rutted lane, avoiding the stray horseshoe nails and bits of metal filings, and parked them against the low bank beyond the shoeing shed.

  ‘Hallo, Thomas,’ said Sarah quietly, as the hammering stopped and the figure at the anvil caught sight of her in the doorway.

  He put down the hammer and came forward to meet her, his eyes gleaming white against the dark cave of the forge.

  ‘You’ve maybe forgotten me, Thomas,’ she said, beaming at him.

  ‘Ach, how wou’d I an’ you the image of your mother?’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘Wee Sarah, an’ you a lady grown.’

  He laughed and glanced up at Sam, who had hung back, overcome with a sudden shyness.

  ‘Hallo, Thomas,’ Sam said, shooting out his hand.

  ‘Sam! Ach dear, your mother said you’d got awful like your Da. You’d make a good smith with those shoulders of yours, but I hear it’s all engines with you, an’ you’re not that far away now. Over beyond Richhill I heer tell.’

  From the deep shadow beyond the hearth, a young man appeared and leant against the doorway. Not as tall as Thomas, but with the same muscular arms and grimy, soot streaked face, young Robert Scott glanced shyly at Sarah and offered his hand to Sam.

  ‘You’d hardly remember our Robert, Sarah, and you only a wee thing when you moved to Banbridge,’ said Thomas drawing Robert into the conversation, as he waved them all over to the bench beneath the pear tree where once they’d sat waiting for Sinton’s dray.

  ‘Now, tell us all your news and then we’ll away up and make a pot of tea. Selina is away over to Annie an’ she’ll be right sorry she missed you, but now you’re so close, Sam, sure ye’ll come again won’t you?’

  The talk was lively and even young Robert, so shy to begin with, began to offer his own small memories of the Hamiltons at Salter’s Grange. What he remembered best, he said, was Mrs Hamilton singing at her work and speaking Irish to the two girls from Donegal who worked at Robinsons.

  ‘Ach it must be ten years since ye left us?’ declared Thomas, with a long glance down the lane as if he were seeing some event in the past. ‘But at least you were still here to leave,’ he said, turning towards his son. ‘Sarah and Sam were on that excursion train with their mother and James and Hannah. We tried to keep it from you, for you were only a year older than Sarah, but sure there was dozens killed and hundreds wounded,’ he explained. ‘Their mother always said it was James who saved them. He and Sam were great men for engines, even then, but James understood air brakes forby, and when he heard them go, he knew the train would run back. An’ it did. But he told his mother and she had them out double quick, aye, an’ all the others in the carriage, as well, James Sinton and his family and a couple of girls in service with their sweethearts.’

  ‘Do ye mind it at all the pair of you?’ he said, his eyes wide, as he looked them full in the face.

  ‘I remember goin’ to look at the engine and thinkin’ it was not near big enough to pull the train,’ said Sam thoughtfully.

  ‘I only remember the long walk home,’ said Sarah. ‘We had to go across fields and they were muddy in places. And I remember stopping at the pump and James splashing us with water, he was so keen to get us a drink. It was so hot.’

  ‘Aye it was,’ Thomas agreed, wondering how it was they were talking about something so sad on this lovely summer day.

  ‘Will you drink a cup of tea?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Selina has us well taught how to make tea for visitors, hasn’t she, Robert?’

  �
��Aye, she has,’ replied Robert ruefully. ‘She came home one day and found us with no saucers and the cake on the lid o’ the tin and we got told off, the pair of us,’ he said, with a smile that even included Sarah.

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ said Sarah warmly, ‘but there are two things I’d like to do first. I’d like to go and look at our old home and then I’d like to take some pictures of the two of you working in the forge. Is it safe to go into the house, do you think?’

  ‘Ach yes. It’s safe enough,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Just don’t stand under where the thatch is bulging. It’ll give way one of these days, but it’s still dry. I keep some wood and iron in there, but the door’s not locked. The weeds has grown up something powerful the last two weeks. Let Sam go first, Sarah, or you’ll spoil your nice clothes.’

  Sam pushed the door open and stooped under the lintel. Sarah followed close behind and they stood together in the middle of the kitchen, looking at the dusty hearth, the iron crane still in its place. The windows were partly covered with ivy. Pale, greenish light filtered through the fluttering leaves and made dappled patterns on the floor.

  Sarah turned towards the bedroom, pushed open the door and walked across to one of the two small wooden cubicles, the bedroom she’d shared with Hannah. Her walking boots echoed on the bare boards.

  ‘Sam, I can’t believe it. It’s so small,’ she said, whispering. ‘Six people in this room. How on earth did we manage?’

  ‘Aye. It’s a good thing we were all so wee then.’

  ‘Yes, but lots of people live in houses smaller than this. And there were only four of us. Some families have six, or seven, or even more. Some of the spinners and weavers at the mills have eight, or nine, of a family in houses no bigger than this,’ she said, her voice rising.

  She looked around her for several minutes, then pulling the door shut behind her, she made her way round a pile of wood, crossed the kitchen and pushed open the door of the wash house. Still hanging from its nail on the wall, was the calendar for 1889, marked off with a pencil all through the month of July down to the day of their departure. The last reminder of the life that had once flourished in this small cottage.