On a Clear Day (The Hamiltons Series)

by Anne Doughty

  Where this state of affairs would certainly have led, Clare never found out. One afternoon when she went to collect the bread ration, Clare found herself in the baker’s queue behind a small, white-haired lady. She thought she recognised her, but she couldn’t be sure. While she was still thinking about it, the old lady fumbled and dropped the dark toned loaf she’d just been handed. Clare jumped forward and caught it before it fell on the floor.

  ‘My goodness, that was quick thinkin’,’ said the baker, as he leant across the counter to help the old lady open her shopping bag.

  ‘Thank you very much indeed, my dear. I’m afraid it’s my hands. They don’t work very well these days,’ she added apologetically.

  The loaf was safely loaded into her bag and she was about to leave the shop when she turned, looked at Clare, and said: ‘You wouldn’t by any chance be Clare Hamilton, would you?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ admitted Clare, as she handed over the money and coupons for her own loaf.

  ‘I taught your dear mother at Grange school and your uncles and aunts as well, but your mother I remember best.’

  She stood waiting until Clare had collected her change and they walked out of the shop together.

  ‘Eleanor was a very able girl. You look very like her, though she was fair and you are even darker than your father. I knew him too, for my aunt lived at Hockley and I used to go there a lot. Come over here, dear, we mustn’t clutter up the entrance,’ she said sharply. ‘Thank you, Mr Farmer, I’ll see you again on Friday,’ she added turning back to address the tall figure behind the counter.

  They stood talking for a while and then Mrs Taylor, as Clare discovered she was called, arranged for Clare to come to her house on the Mall for a cup of tea after school.

  ‘I’m afraid the tea will be hardly worth coming for, my dear, but perhaps I may have something else to tempt you with,’ she said thoughtfully.

  Mrs Taylor had been widowed for many years and her only daughter was nursing in Canada. She admitted she enjoyed company and Clare was soon a regular visitor. Each week she would choose books from Mrs Taylor’s small library and each week they would talk about what she’d been reading. During one of these conversations Clare found herself admitting how bored she was at school and how she was now bottom of the class, because each Friday morning the class was rearranged in order of merit after the weekly spelling test and she hadn’t been learning her spellings.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Taylor looking most anxious, ‘I wonder if I can explain to you Clare why something like learning your spellings could make an incredible difference to your whole life.’

  Clare was quite taken aback by the sad and serious look on her new friend’s face. For all Mrs Taylor’s formality of manner, Clare found her a lively person. She smiled at Clare’s comments about the characters she met in the books which moved back and forth in the waterproof carrier bag Uncle Harry had so thoughtfully provided behind the saddle on her bicycle. And often she told funny stories about her early days in teaching when, as young Miss Rowentree, she thought she knew quite a lot after her training course in Belfast and then discovered that knowing things didn’t help in the slightest, unless you could get the better of the very assorted group of children you had to teach.

  Clare listened fascinated as she described the school room beside the church, a room continually criticised in the inspector’s reports for not possessing a map of the world or a globe, for having structural cracks and only one ‘office’ for both boys and girls. She’d heard stories of pupils who’d emigrated, who’d died, or been killed in the war, but she’d never seen Mrs Taylor looking as sad and as thoughtful as she looked when she confessed to being bottom of the class.

  Mrs Taylor set down her teacup and sat up very straight.

  ‘You see, my dear, people make judgements based on their own preconceptions. They look at your clothes and decide whether you are rich or poor. They listen to the way you speak and decide whether you are educated or ignorant. They look at the results of a spelling test and decide whether you are intelligent or stupid. And based on that judgement, a judgement which can be utterly false, they make decisions. Do you understand?’

  Clare nodded. Jane Austen’s novels were full of that kind of judgement and so was The Mayor of Casterbridge, which she had just put back in its proper place on the shelf. Just because poor Elizabeth-Jane used country words like ‘leery’, her father was ashamed of her, even though she was actually a very thoughtful and observant person.

  ‘Clare, I’m sure your mother would have wanted you to do well at school.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Taylor, Mummy always said it was very important for a girl to have a good education.’

  ‘But, Clare, my dear, if you are bottom of the class, you will not sit for the Qualifying. And if you do not sit for the Qualifying, you will not have a chance of going to the Grammar School. Is that what you really want?’

  Clare had been about to reply that, no, it wasn’t what she wanted, when there was a vigorous rat-ta-tat-tat at the front door. Mrs Taylor laughed wryly.

  ‘Here’s someone come to meet you who wouldn’t have an idea in the world about Jane Austen or Thomas Hardy. But she does have other qualities. Would you go down and open the door to save my legs?’

  ‘Hallo,’ said Clare, shyly, as she looked up at the figure on the doorstep, a girl a year older and at least a foot taller than herself.

  ‘You’re Clare,’ the girl said, as she tramped down the hall and paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘That’s great. I’m Jessie. Is Auntie Sarah all right?’ she asked as they went upstairs to the sitting room.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine. I’m just saving her legs.’

  ‘She could do with a new pair. I think this pair’s worn out. That’ll learn her to be a teacher!’ she said cheerfully, as she marched into the crowded room, bumped her way through the close-packed furniture and gave her aunt a big kiss.

  They had cycled home together and been friends from that moment on. The following year, when Clare did pass the Qualifying, at her first attempt, Jessie just managed it on her second. After Clare had collected up her year’s savings, the egg money, some dollars from Auntie Polly and a withdrawal from Granda Scott’s Bank Book, Jessie’s mother had taken them both to Armagh and supervised the buying of their school uniform.

  Clare would never forget that day. They had each put on the tunic and blouse, tied the tie, donned the three-quarter socks and the blazer. They stood staring at each other while Mrs Rowentree made sure there was letting down on both the hems and room for development in both the blouses. The assistant came back into the fitting room and handed them each a black beret and a large pair of green knickers.

  Jessie had taken one look at the huge bloomers, held them up in front of her, and then deftly wound them into a turban for her head.

  It had been a ridiculous and happy moment. Even the assistant had laughed. And although Mrs Rowentree had made some protest, it was half-hearted, for she was laughing too.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet. What mischief are ye plannin’ now?’

  At the sound of her friend’s voice Clare jumped, laughed at herself, and came back to the present.

  ‘I was thinking of the day your mother took us to get our uniform.’

  Jessie grinned and made a gesture with her hands as if she were lowering the imperial crown with great solemnity onto her head.

  ‘I’ll probably be out on my ear tomorrow when the results come out, so ye can have anythin’ fits you.’

  ‘Oh don’t say that, Jessie. Please don’t say that. You didn’t think you’d done so bad at the time.’

  ‘Ach well, sure what does it matter? I never thought I’d get the Qualifying and I’ve had a great time these four years since. If I’m out, I’ll get a job and have lots of money an’ then we can go to the pictures whenever we like. It won’t make a bit of difference to us except for sittin’ in the same classroom and not being able to say two words the whole day. Are you goin’ into school
in the mornin’ or waitin’ for the post?’

  ‘I’ll go in,’ said Clare quickly. ‘I couldn’t stand waiting for the post. Anyway, it mightn’t come on the post tomorrow. If I had to wait till Monday, I’d go mad.’

  ‘You’ll be all right, Clare. What are ye worryin’ about? You’ll sail through. I’d bet you five pounds if I had it, I’m that sure.’

  Whether it was her friend’s words, or the sudden warm pressure of her hand on hers, Clare couldn’t tell, but she found her eyes filled with tears. She felt herself suddenly wondering if she would ever sit here with her friend, ever again.

  ‘I suppose we’d better go,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Aye, I have stuff for the tea in my bag, so there’ll be no tea till I get there,’ said Jessie laughing and swinging herself deftly back onto the bank.

  ‘Me, too,’ Clare added, as she followed more cautiously behind. ‘Though Granda never notices the time when he’s in the forge. It’s not teatime, till I tell him it is.’

  ‘That’s handy.’

  Clare followed Jessie up and across the steep bank until they had almost reached the gap in the hedge.

  ‘Jessie!’ she whispered hastily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s someone doing something to our bicycles.’

  ‘Is there indeed. Well, I’ll see to them,’ she said angrily, before she had even raised her head to look.

  Without further ado, she pushed through the hedge, marched across the road and confronted the offender.

  ‘And what do you think you’re doing to my friend’s bicycle?’

  Clare paused halfway through the hedge and surveyed the scene. Jessie stood, hands on hips, glowering down at a fair haired boy in an open-necked shirt who appeared to be unscrewing the valve cap on one of her tyres.

  ‘Trying to put this valve cap back on, but it’s fiddly and I’m not much good at it. Here, you have a go.’

  Clare had an irresistible desire to giggle when she saw the look on Jessie’s face. But Jessie was not to be charmed.

  ‘Are you a Richardson?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Andrew. How do you do?’

  He stood up and held out his hand politely, as Clare crossed the road to join them. Jessie shook his hand and turned to Clare.

  ‘Clare, this is Andrew Richardson. I’m not sure he wasn’t lettin’ your tyres down.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ said Clare as she shook hands. ‘There are better ways of letting tyres down.’

  ‘Are there?’ he enquired, looking at her directly. She was amazed to find how startlingly blue his eyes were.

  ‘Yes, a good poke with a penknife or a spike of some sort,’ she replied honestly. ‘I’m sure he’s got a pen knife,’ she added turning to Jessie.

  ‘Don’t put bad in his head, Clare. He’s maybe done damage enough.’

  ‘Not guilty, madam,’ he declared, looking at Clare again. ‘There were some boys here when I came down to open the gates. They ran off when they saw me and I noticed the tyres were flat. I’ve pumped up one, but the other was more difficult,’ he explained.

  ‘That was very kind of you,’ said Clare, feeling strangely uncomfortable.

  He was really a rather friendly boy, though he did have a peculiar accent and was wearing very posh jodhpurs and riding boots.

  ‘Well, if you’ve managed to get any air back in, I think we must be going,’ said Jessie, firmly.

  He nodded, straightened up Clare’s bicycle and gave it to her.

  ‘Have you far to go?’

  ‘No, not far. Only the Grange.’

  ‘Should be all right that far.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much for pumping it up,’ she said as she wheeled it out on to the road and stretched herself up into the saddle.

  ‘Not at all. It was a pleasure,’ he said, with a grin, as he turned towards the heavy iron gates on the driveway and swung them open just as a large car approached at a leisurely pace from the direction of Armagh.

  They stopped by the pump opposite Charlie Running’s cottage, had a drink and splashed their hot hands and faces. They always stopped by the pump to make plans for the next day even when they weren’t thirsty, because Jessie’s road home left the main road just a little further on, where Riley’s Rocks poked their hard-edged shapes through the soft greenness of Robinson’s bog. It ran downhill, struck westwards through Tullyard and then wove its way onward between scattered farms and cottages cut off from each other by the undulations of the hilly countryside and the small plantings of orchard and woodland.

  Clare remembered the September morning, four years ago now, when they met up at just this spot for the first time, dressed in the new uniforms that still had some of the original creases from the manufacturer’s box. Clare’s three-quarter length socks wouldn’t stay up and Jessie insisted she’d got bigger since her blouse was bought. It had rained suddenly and violently as they struggled slowly up the Asylum Hill. There was no where to take shelter and no time to waste. They pressed on and arrived at Beresford Row at a quarter to nine, new Burberrys damp, hair dripping beneath the sodden berets, to search for their labelled pegs in a minute cloakroom full of perfectly dry girls, who had walked from Barrack Hill or Railway Street and missed the rain completely.

  ‘Are ye workin’ for Margaret tomorrow?’ asked Jessie, as she pushed her hair back from her damp face.

  ‘Yes, I’m looking after the children. She wants to go into town.’

  ‘Pity. No Ritz this week,’ she said sadly.

  ‘I can’t afford it anyway, Jessie. I’ll need black stockings if I go back. The forge is very quiet.’

  Jessie nodded and said nothing. She was a lot better off than Clare. There was pocket money from her father every week, regular bits and pieces of money from her mother for doing jobs and the occasional half crown from Auntie Sarah, but as often as not Jessie was broke too. Unlike Clare, who always had an eye to the future, never knowing what she would have to find money for, or where it was going to come from, Jessie was unthinking. If the money was there, she spent it. Come easy, go easy was her way. If she had it, that was fine, but if she didn’t, she never complained.

  ‘Will we go for a walk tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Aye, why not. I’ll call for you about seven. We’ll maybe pick up a couple of good-lookin fellas and go off to a dance.’

  Clare giggled. The chances of meeting anyone on a Saturday evening were so small even bumping into an elderly neighbour was a major event.

  ‘Make sure you put your nylons on, Jessie,’ Clare laughed, knowing that Jessie, like herself, had never even seen nylons, let alone be able to afford the price of those smuggled over the border from the Republic.

  ‘Time I was away,’ said Jessie, looking at her watch.

  ‘What time it is?’

  ‘Quarter past five.’

  ‘Me too. See you tomorrow,’ called Clare as she swung herself into the saddle.

  She caught sight of Jessie’s flying figure for a moment before she was hidden from view by the scatter of young trees around the old quarry. She felt suddenly sad and anxious. Tomorrow the exam results would be out. If she did well, her scholarship would be renewed and she would stay at school. If she didn’t, she must leave and get a job.

  If Jessie failed to get Junior, her family could afford to pay for her to stay on in the hope that she might scrape through Senior Certificate in two years’ time, but that was out of the question for Clare. Thirty pounds a term was an enormous sum to find and then there was the lunch money and all the other expensive things that kept cropping up, from hockey sticks to educational outings.

  She made a final effort on the hill past Robinsons. Perhaps it was just her period and the pain in her back that was making her feel so low. She’d have to put herself in better spirits before she looked in the door of the forge.

  She wheeled her bicycle up the bumpy lane and smiled as she glanced up at the house. In one of the window boxes Uncle Jack had made for her, something
new was blooming. It was too far away to see exactly what it was, but it certainly hadn’t been in bloom when she left just after their midday meal.

  ‘Hello, Granda, are you dying for your tea?’

  ‘Ach, yer back. Did ye see Jessie?’

  ‘Yes, we did our shopping and then we sat and gossiped.’

  ‘Any news?’ he said, putting down his hammer and leaning against the bellows.

  ‘I brought you the Guardian and the Gazette both so you’ll be well newsed,’ she said with a laugh, ‘and I saw Mrs Taylor, who was asking for you. And Jessie’s father’s had his tests done. Good news. They say his heart’s all right. He had to go to the hospital again today though.’

  Clare saw how tired he was. He had a way of leaning against the bellows, even when they didn’t need pressing and there was a look below his eyes that made him seem pale, though his skin was always brown beneath the layer of grime his sweat trapped as he hammered. So often these days, she knew he was glad to stop work when she appeared, so she tried to think of anything else that would prolong his brief respite.

  ‘Have you had any callers yourself?’

  ‘Aye, one or two. Mosey Johnston paid me for his gate, so we’re all right for the rent for a week or two. Ah thought he wasn’t goin’ to pay me atall, he’s been that long. And yer friend John Wiley was here. He says there’s some big bug from across the water comin’ to Richardson’s for the weekend. His wife’s landed him with the childer for the whole time an’ he’s not well pleased.’

  Clare laughed. Dear John. The older the children got the less he liked looking after them, but June was chief helper to the housekeeper at Drumsollen and working all weekend would be extra money for the family.

  ‘I think maybe I saw the big bug arriving, Granda. There was a very posh car coming out from Armagh and the gates were open at the foot of the drive.’