On a Clear Day (The Hamiltons Series)

by Anne Doughty

  ‘In London?’

  ‘No, actually. He lives in Winchester.’

  ‘So you’d not come back to Ulster?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll come back. I just don’t know how I’ll manage it. This is still my home.’

  ‘Even though you’ve been away so much? You seem to have got around a lot.’

  ‘Yes, I have. Since I was seven,’ he agreed. ‘Friends in prep school and then at Haileybury. I went out to Kenya one long vac with a friend whose Dad was in the Foreign Office. And I spent another one learning French in Brittany. Grandmother was horrified when I came back, she said I sounded like a peasant.’

  ‘I’d love to hear you lapse into peasant,’ she said, laughing at the thought of Andrew without his public school accent.

  ‘If I come back in two years’ time, where will you be?’

  ‘Where I always am, except when you call,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘Getting ready to go to university if I get my scholarship.’

  ‘You will,’ he said, firmly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know, because you’ve made up your mind to get it. That’s what’s different about you. I said I’d tell you when I’d worked it out. You make up your own mind about things. I don’t always manage to. Some things, yes, but others no. Like doing Law. But you make up your own mind about everything. Say you’ll write to me, please.’

  He slid his arm round her waist, drew her towards him and kissed her.

  ‘And over there on the south side of Greyabbey is where my Aunt Charlotte lives,’ he said, pointing with his free arm as they heard footsteps approaching.

  ‘Time’s getting on,’ said Ronnie tartly, as he noted the position of Andrew’s right arm. ‘I think I’ll head down.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, be with you in a moment,’ said Andrew agreeably.

  ‘Can I take you to the Mournes when I come back? And to see Aunt Charlotte? And anywhere else you’d like to go. Please.’

  ‘You seem to have made up your mind about it.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  She nodded briefly and cast a long, wistful glance out over the countryside below.

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to go to Cavan tomorrow.’

  ‘So do I, Clare. But there will be other times. I shall be back. You can be sure of that,’ he said firmly.

  She nodded and smiled back at him. Even when he took her hand and they began the long descent together, she didn’t quite recognised the fact that she had made up her mind about two very important matters that would shape her whole future life.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Although Clare made up her mind she wouldn’t cry when Ronnie took her to the Armagh train on Saturday afternoon, tears trickled down her cheeks as he swung her little case up into the empty carriage. When he put his arms round her, the tears flowed even faster.

  ‘Now then, don’t cry, Clare. It may never happen,’ he said, brightly. ‘I may make my fortune in Liverpool, take over the paper and pop across at weekends to see you. I’ll send my Rolls Royce up to the Grange to fetch you,’ he said as he fished out his handkerchief and dried her eyes.

  She sniffed and tried to smile. It was no use pretending. She was quite sure he would go on to Canada and it would be years before he could afford to come back however successful he was.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly give you that trouble,’ she said, pulling out her own hanky and blowing her nose.

  ‘I’ll make sure my chauffeur gets his time off during the week. Just let me know when you’re coming.’

  He gathered her in his arms again and kissed her. He was still kissing her when the guard blew his whistle and doors banged shut all around them. He caught her by the waist, half lifting her up into the carriage, closed the door and walked beside her as the train began to move very slowly along the platform. She struggled awkwardly with the window, let it down and reached out her hand to him.

  ‘You’ll go on writing to me, won’t you?’ she said as the train gave a sudden jerk.

  ‘I’ll always write to you,’ he promised, releasing her hand as it gathered speed. ‘Please take care of yourself,’ he called as they neared the end of the platform.

  She stood at the window waving, until the train clattered across the tracks and a trolley piled high with mailbags obscured his tall figure. She sat down with a bump and cried all the way to Lisburn.

  Two hours later, she got off the Armagh bus opposite the gates of the Robinson’s farm, walked quickly up the hill and turned into the lane leading to the forge. To her surprise, the smoke of a freshly made-up fire swirled above the roof of the cottage and the half door of the forge was still propped open. Granda Scott hadn’t gone into town. She wondered what could have happened to prevented him. She’d never known him not go into Armagh on a Saturday unless he was ill.

  Avoiding the propped up gates and the stray bits of farm machinery, she walked quickly up the lane, anxious he might be unwell. Just as she reached the smoother path under the trees and shrubs beyond the forge he appeared at the front door, a basin of water in his hands. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Ach, there ye are. Yer back. It’s great t’ see ye,’ he said, setting the basin down on the window sill.

  There was a shake in his hands and his eyes moved around distractedly.

  ‘I was wonderin’ if I had a clean shirt an’ a collar.’

  He stood by the wrought-iron trellis, his narrow chest exposed where his short-sleeved vest lay open, his bare arms pale above the elbow, his shoulders drooping. Suddenly, she was aware of the way he was standing there. It brought her heart into her mouth. Not only was he old, he had become frail.

  The vulnerability of his body was bad enough, but what upset her most was his distress. He was always anxious when something upset him and he could find no way of speaking about it. But she was especially alert whenever he asked for a collar. Collars were seldom anything but bad news.

  ‘Now, Granda,’ she said gently, ‘you know you’ve always got a clean shirt. Don’t we keep the two Uncle Bob gave you the Christmas before last in the bottom drawer so we’re never caught?’

  He glanced upwards and gave an awkward half smile.

  ‘Sure I clean forgot. I never thought o’ lookin’ there.’

  He studied the basin and the shaving things he’d already lined up on the kitchen windowsill.

  ‘Charlie Running’s wife died lass night. The funeral’s tomorra. I was afeerd maybe ye’d stay another night to see Ronnie off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that and not let you know,’ she said firmly. ‘I’d have phoned Margaret and Jamsey would have come over with a message.’

  ‘Ach, I forgot all about the phone, an’ them must have it a year or more. Eddie’s thinkin’ o’ buyin’ a car. He was over this mornin’ to tell me about Kate,’ he said, dropping his eyes and studying the broken tarmac round the front door.

  ‘What happened to Kate?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Ach, what happens to all bedrid people sooner or later. She got pneumonia an’ it ran its course in three days. Sure she’s been an invalid these five years. D’ye not mind, Charlie useta come down on his bicycle to see us of an evenin’?’

  ‘I do remember now, but it was only once or twice.’

  ‘Aye, once Kate took to her bed he had too much to do lookin’ after her an’ the house and the goats and the chickens forby. He coulden leave her at night for she got lonesome. They say it was her nerves more that the arthritis but she went to skin an’ bone. An’ a lovely lookin’ woman she was too. She an’ I are the same age to the day but Charlie is ten years younger. I haven’t laid eyes on him for months. But I’ll go up to the wake tonight.’

  ‘Will Eddie give you a lift?’

  ‘Aye, he’s a good neighbour, Eddie. I must pay my respects to Kate. Sure she was my sweetheart for two years till Charlie came along,’ he added abruptly, as he went back into the house for a towel.

  ‘D’you really want to wear a collar tonight?’ she aske
d, as he came back out again. ‘Wouldn’t the best of your everyday shirts not be all right? You’ll have to wear the collar tomorrow for church.’

  ‘Well.’

  He set up the mirror against the window frame and dipped the brush in the warm water to moisten his bristle.

  ‘Woud’ye ever come with me?’ he said awkwardly. ‘Ah know ye diden know Kate but I’d like fer Charlie to meet ye. He’d maybe be loathe to come visitin’ again if he felt someone strange was here, but if he knowed ye he’d not think twice.’

  Of course she’d go, she said. If there wasn’t room in the trap, she’d use her bicycle and meet up with him at the pump opposite the house. She left him to his shaving and went indoors, to change her dress and get their tea ready.

  After standing in the sunlight, the big kitchen was dark and oppressive, full of steam from the kettle rattling its lid on the stove. She moved it to one side and surveyed the familiar room from the hearth. She felt as if she’d just returned home after a long absence in a far country.

  Robert had been born in this house in the same bed he now slept in. Most of the better furniture was what his father had bought in the 1870s, when he married a girl from Battle Hill. After years as a journeyman he had rented the house and forge from the present owner’s father and set up on his own. They’d prospered and produced six children, but only Robert, the youngest, had stayed at home and followed his father’s trade.

  ‘Robert and Kate,’ she whispered to herself, as she refilled the kettle and put it back on the stove.

  She wondered how different Robert’s life might have been had Kate become the woman of the house, all those years ago, and not Ellen. What made Kate reject good, steady Robert and choose Charlie, a man younger than herself, unusual in those days?

  ‘A lovely lookin’ woman,’ she said in a whisper to the quiet room, where only the heavy tick of the wag on the wall clock and the first murmurings of the freshly-filled kettle broke the silence.

  Perhaps Robert was too steady, too reliable. Charlie must have offered Kate something Robert just didn’t have. Certainly, he’d loved her all her life, cared for her till the very end.

  She spread a cloth on the table under the window and fetched butter, jam and cheese from the cupboard. She slipped into Robert’s room, brought out a clean shirt, left it on the bed for him and went and changed into a blouse and a cotton skirt. She hung up her dress on the back of the door and turned to the mirror to run a comb through her hair.

  Some day she, too, would be old. Instead of dark curls, the face in the mirror would have grey hair. Or white. Her creamy skin would be dry and wrinkled and darkened with age. Somewhere beyond that day she would die, suddenly, from a heart attack, or slowly, like Kate, from some disabling disease.

  She stood rigid in front of her mirror, the comb still clutched in her hand. It was such an appalling thought. And it must get worse as you got older. At least now it all seemed so far away you could reasonably forget about it, but how would it feel if you were forty, or sixty, or in your late seventies like Robert and Kate? Could it possibly be you actually got used to the idea as the years passed?

  She heard the startled call of a blackbird, splashed by Robert’s shaving water as he threw it under the nearest shrub.

  ‘Standing here isn’t going to get the tea made,’ she said sharply.

  She turned to her suitcase, unpacked her overnight things and the few special books Ronnie insisted on giving her, so that she couldn’t possibly forget him, he said. Small, leather bound volumes with gold titles. She couldn’t imagine ever forgetting Ronnie. Nor Andrew either.

  Clare left her bicycle by the pump and waited at the open gate to the Running’s bungalow until the trap caught up with her and Eddie had tethered the mare in a nearby lane. Charlie’s dahlias were looking wonderful. Clare remembered the night when she and Jessie plucked up the courage to ask if he could spare a few roses for putting in the barn where her father had shot himself. That was the only time she’d ever spoken to him. He’d been so kind and gentle that night.

  ‘Aye, roses. Certainly,’ he said. ‘Yer more than welcome. But they’ll not be much good in a vase for all they’ve a great perfume. I’ll cut you some dahlias. Sure I cut them for Kate every day or two an’ it only encourages them to flower more.’

  The small house was packed and Eddie led them into the less crowded of the two downstairs rooms. Along one wall the coffin stood on trestles. From where Clare stood, the white tip of Kate’s nose was clearly visible above the silk and lace draperies that lined the small, narrow casket.

  She followed Eddie reluctantly. She’d been to more than one wake with Robert but never before had she ended up so close to an open coffin that she couldn’t avoid seeing the worn and wasted face of the woman who lay there.

  ‘I’m sorry for yer trouble, Charlie.’

  A few yards ahead of her, she saw Robert speak to Charlie Running. He held out his hand, but to her surprise Charlie ignored it. He simply put his arms round Robert and hugged him.

  ‘Sure I know you are Robert,’ he said warmly. ‘Who would know better than you what I’ve lost? She was askin’ after you only last week an’ I told her what news I had of you from Eddie here. Sure it’s months since I’ve laid eyes on you yourself. How’s your wee lassie?’

  ‘She’s here herself,’ Robert replied shyly, as Charlie released his grip and a glass of whiskey was thrust into his hand.

  ‘Are you Clarey?’ Charlie asked in amazement, as he stepped towards her and held out his hands.

  Clare nodded and wondered if she should offer her condolences now or later. But Charlie was beaming at her.

  ‘Sure I didn’t know it was you. Didn’t I think you were some connection of Jessie Rowentree,’ he said laughing, as he turned back to speak to Robert. ‘Haven’t I been watching your wee Clarey growing up these lock o’ years past an’ diden know it was her. Maybe it was the uniform. But sure I used to see her regular down at the pump if I was working about the front of the place,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘I’m very sorry about Mrs Running,’ said Clare quietly.

  ‘I’m sure you are. But don’t be too sad, Clarey. Kate had suffered a lot. She was ready to go. She told me so,’ he said steadily enough. ‘But I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do without her,’ he went on, his voice breaking, tears suddenly streaming down his face.

  ‘Here, drink a drop of this man,’ said Robert promptly, passing over the whiskey. ‘Yer not without friends an’ she has ye well learnt how to look after yerself. An’ ye’ve the books forby,’ he said firmly.

  Charlie took a good swig of the whiskey and wiped his eyes roughly on the sleeve of his jacket. Eddie had slipped away and the small room was empty now but for the three of them standing in the space between the window and the foot of the well-polished coffin.

  ‘Yer Granda, Clarey, was always the sensible one,’ Charlie began, looking directly at her. ‘Many’s the spot he got me out of years ago. I always went to him whin I was in trouble. An’ sure he doesn’t change. God bless him. Now come on, Robert, till I get that glass topped up again an’ see if there’s a lemonade or a cup of tea for Clarey.’

  He took them by the arm and marched them down the hall into a large kitchen with people wedged into all the corners. The centre of the room was filled by a huge table covered with rows of open bottles and plates piled high with sandwiches and cake.

  ‘Make a space now for the three of us. Ye all know my auld friend Robert. This is his wee granddaughter, Clarey, an’ right glad I am to see them both. Drink up now, drink up, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  At the time, Clare never imagined the death of poor Kate Running could make any difference to her own life, but, as the late summer moved towards autumn, Charlie Running’s frequent visits produced such an improvement in Robert’s well-being that Clare was able to put out of mind many of the worries and anxieties that had pursued her through the previous winter and spring.

  Charlie
blew into their lives like a fresh breeze. His presence fanned embers of recollection that brought a light to Robert’s eyes Clare hadn’t seen for longer than she could remember.

  ‘God bless all here. Erin go Bragh,’ he would salute them, as he pushed open the kitchen door and seated himself on the far end of the wooden settle.

  ‘What sort of a day have ye’s had?’

  As often as not, he didn’t wait for an answer, but launched into some story about his own. Robert would put down his paper and peer over the tops of his National Health glasses. Next morning Robert would be sure to point out that Charlie stories always had a bit added on to them, like fishermen’s stories, but in the evening it was never long before Charlie’s humour drew a wry smile out of him. Clare always knew when Robert was in particularly good spirits because he’d go as far as having a sly dig at Charlie, or make some veiled reference to past misfortunes or miscalculations.

  From the end of the settle nearer to the stove, Clare would observe them closely. Certainly, there was a tension between them, but even if some old antagonism still expressed itself in the continuing banter, she sensed the source of the trouble was long since healed.

  ‘Sure ye may go up to Stormont and sort them out yerself, man dear,’ said Robert, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘They haven’t the way of it at all. Ye may have to put them right,’ he went on, with a perfectly straight face.

  Whenever Charlie launched into one of his regular political diatribes, Clare listened hard. Robert always shook his head at the radical suggestions Charlie made, but after listening to Ronnie, Clare knew Charlie had information Robert would be loathe to acknowledge, even if it did come his way.

  Charlie had left the schoolroom by the church on the hill when he was fourteen, like all the rest of the boys and girls in the area, but he had been devouring print ever since. Once he got his first job in Armagh as a junior clerk with the City Council, he beat a path to the library. He went to evening classes at the technical school, sent away for correspondence courses and read everything he could lay his hands on. By the time he had to retire a few years early to look after Kate, he’d worked in so many different areas of local government and stored up so much information in his prodigious memory it wasn’t really surprising Robert thought he was a walking encyclopaedia.