by Anne Doughty
Sarah could think of nothing in the whole world that could bring her joy without Hugh to share it, but his eyes were upon her, moist, red-rimmed, yet full of love. What could she possibly say? They had always been honest with each other. Even when she was very young she’d told him what she thought and he’d listened and pointed out other possibilities she might not have been aware of. But now there was neither time nor energy for argument or discussion. She could not be dishonest, but neither could she deny him anything that might comfort him.
‘I promise you I’ll not turn my back on the world, the good and the bad. If I could ever love anyone it would be because I’ve loved you for so long. You taught me what love was.’
‘You will love again, my dear. I know you will. And I bless the man you give your love to. Only I know how fortunate he will be.’
He closed his eyes and lay so very still she thought he’d fallen asleep, but a few moments later he opened them again and smiled.
‘Don’t go away, Sarah. Close your eyes and we’ll both have a little sleep. You’re tired too.’
And she had slept. With his hand in hers, she had dozed off and not wakened till she heard the song of a blackbird through the open window. She had shivered slightly in the cool air of the early dawn and looked carefully at the sleeping figure beside her. He seemed paler and more deeply asleep.
She’d gone to the window and stretched, drawn in the freshness of the very early morning and returned to the nurse’s chair to take the cold hand that lay inert on the unruffled bedclothes. How long she sat watching him she could not measure, but she did know he died peacefully before the first sunlight had dispersed the shadows of the night.
She wiped her tears with the back of her wrist and lay looking out at the garden. Despite the cold, frosty nights, growth had begun. The same weeds that tempted her mother to start work would be springing up in the flowerbeds she and Hugh had tended together. It was one of the pleasures she’d encouraged him to enjoy. Something to set against the hard work, the endless pieces of paper, the decisions about what raw materials to buy, or what to charge for finished goods and how best to transport them to their far-flung customers.
She hadn’t set foot in the garden since Hugh died, as her mother had reminded her that very afternoon, as near to chiding her as she would ever come.
‘Sarah dear, we all have our work to do and sometimes it seems to take all the time and energy there is, but you have to have other things too. Small pleasures. Little enjoyments, like flowers on the table. We need encouragements, even when we’re happy and things are going well for us. We need them even more when we’re unhappy.’
‘But what difference can it make, Ma?’ she’d thrown back at her. ‘Hugh was all the encouragement I ever needed and now he’s gone. What point is there in life at all, except his work, which I do for him?’
‘Sarah, what would Hugh say to you if you said there was no point in life, except work?’
Rose got up to make a fresh pot of tea for their two china mugs sat cold and untouched on the corners of the stove. She looked over her shoulder and saw Sarah glance down at her hands, her tears past now, her cheeks no longer streaked and puffy.
‘Hugh would say we’re given life to live to the best of our ability.’
‘And what about using one’s talents?’
To Rose’s great delight, her daughter laughed, recalling an old contention the two of them had argued about for years.
‘He said one had to use all ones gifts, not just the useful and everyday,’ Sarah began, her voice now quite steady. ‘Being able to love was a talent some women had in great measure. He’d been lucky. Before me, he’d had Elizabeth and you. He said you’d saved him from being a crotchety old bachelor, just as Da had saved him from loneliness for want of a friend.’
‘Hugh was always so generous in his appreciation,’ Rose said, as she poured fresh mugs of tea. ‘I know Quakers speak out as their conscience dictates on important matters, but Hugh would speak out about quite ordinary things as well. If there was something good to say, he always said it.’
‘Ma, do you think the pain will ever heal?’ Sarah asked abruptly.
‘Sweetheart, I’ve never suffered such a loss as you have,’ Rose said quickly, as she put Sarah’s tea into her hand. ‘But I can tell you what my own mother said when I was old enough to ask her how she coped when your grandfather died. She said there was no point at all in trying to forget what had been, or to run away from the sadness. If you did that, you lost all the good things that would otherwise come to you and give you strength. Every time she put food on the table she thought how delighted our father would have been that we had enough to eat. It was the thought of his pleasure in all she now did, that finally comforted her.’
Sarah woke with a start, surprised she should have fallen asleep in the middle of the afternoon. She swung her legs out of bed, walked in her stocking feet to the window and leant out, looking down at the garden. She was almost sure she could see the bright faces of polyanthus at the edge of one of the flowerbeds.
Despite the fact she hadn’t worked in the garden since Hugh died, the little flowers had bloomed without any help or attention from her.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, she remembered a saying of their old friend Thomas Scott, one which her mother often quoted:
‘Whatever way the world goes, the hawthorns bloom in May.’
Strangely comforted she went on staring down at the small patches of colour, pushing up between the weeds.
‘Later,’ she said to herself, Thomas’s words still repeating in her mind, as she closed the window and put her shoes on. ‘There’ll be time to do a little bit before dark.’
She crossed the landing to the guest room where she had slept since Hugh had become ill, gathered up the comb and brush, the hand mirror and the bottles on her dressing table and carried them across the landing in her arms. Back and forth she went, carrying her underwear, her clothes and shoes, her hats and handbags, until the room was empty and the large double bed was covered with things to be put away.
When she had found a place for everything in the empty cupboards and drawers, she went to the linen cupboard and took down a carefully folded bedspread wrapped in spoilt linen. She removed the crumpled bedspread on which she had fallen asleep, shook out the folds from the new one and spread it carefully over the bed. When it was straight and smooth, she looked at it and smiled. Made by her mother and Elizabeth with treasured fragments from dresses and blouses she could still remember, it had at its centre a beautifully embroidered diamond panel.
Sarah and Hugh, it said, within a circle of flowers.
CHAPTER FIVE
As April turned to May, springtime came with a sudden rush, the trees bursting into full leaf, the road verges swaying with tall, delicate stems of cow parsley. By the middle of the month creamy-white hawthorn blossom lay thick on the branches, its heavy perfume drawn out by the warm afternoon sun. The days grew long and the evenings light, the smell of the first cut grass mixing with scents from cottage gardens.
Since the end of February, Rose had been longing for the warmth of summer and the first blooms in her garden. Now she had the sun on her back, her hands were full of prunings and the scent of flowers was all around her, yet her thoughts kept moving away and her mind filled with dark shadows and anxious fears.
Morning after morning, she would rise cheerfully, see John off to work and then find her plans for the day falter and fade. Baking and sewing seemed a labour. She was even reluctant to write letters, something that had never happened before.
‘This won’t do, Rose. This really won’t do,’ she said to herself, as she studied the soft foliage she’d cut from shrubs overspreading the path.
She chose some sprigs of red weigelia to add colour to the prunings she couldn’t bear to throw away, turned back into the house, arranged the assorted fragments in a vase and set the result of her efforts in the middle of the kitchen table. She dropped down into her chair and s
at staring at the fresh foliage and bright blooms, trying to work out what made her feel so sad on such a lovely morning.
From long ago, she heard the familiar voice of her mother-in-law, Sarah, with whom she and John had lived happily for the first ten years of their married life.
‘We all get depressed, Rose. Sometimes it’s just our bodies telling us we’re tired. Or maybe there’s something we should be paying attention to that we’re not.’
Well, she wasn’t tired. She had plenty to do, sure enough, but never so much that she couldn’t sit down and sew or read her book if she felt weary. She hadn’t been sleeping well, her nights broken with sudden fevers and bizarre dreams, but she often closed her eyes in her chair. Surely that would make up for any sleep she’d lost.
‘Don’t lose any sleep over it, Rose dear.’
That was her mother’s voice. Strange she could still hear it so clearly after all these years. When she’d had problems with her young mistress, Lady Anne, or been scolded by Mr Smithers, the butler of Currane Lodge, she’d ask her mother what to do and Hannah would reassure her that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It never helped to worry. She’d be all right if she just did her best.
Time and time again, events had proved her mother right, but on this lovely May morning the problem was she could put no name to what was troubling her.
She sat still, listening to the tick of the American clock. The sun climbed higher and the bright patch it cast on the floor moved slowly towards the hearthrug. Soon the brightness would fall on her boots like a rising tide.
She shuddered and pushed out of mind the now familiar thought of a rising tide. It had been with her for weeks now, ever since the first news of the Titanic disaster. No matter how she had argued with herself she could not be free of the image of the water slowly rising. The thought of standing on the deck knowing there was nothing you could do. That there was no seat in a lifeboat for you, no way back to the loved ones who had already left the sinking ship.
‘Waiting. Just waiting for what you know is going to happen. And having no power at all to stop it,’ she said, looking round as if she hoped there would be some reply from the empty room.
She leant her head back and closed her eyes as the bright beams of light moved closer.
‘What are we gonna do, Hannah?’
The voice was her father’s. He was standing by the door of their house in Ardtur. She could hear the sound of walls falling and smell the dust that was swirling round him as Adair’s men demolished their neighbour’s houses. But when she looked at him again, it wasn’t her father, it was John. He had a white envelope in his hand.
‘They can’t put us out, can they? And us with children?’
‘Oh yes they can,’ she said to herself. ‘Anything can happen. All those poor people on the Titanic. They thought she was unsinkable, but no one is safe from disaster. You can lose your home, your livelihood, your health, your loved ones. Whether you’re the richest mill owner in Belfast or the poorest widow in Banbridge you can still lose what is precious to you.’
She opened her eyes with a jerk, blinked in the sunlight and saw her daughter appear in the doorway.
‘Sarah, I wasn’t expecting you. How lovely to see you.’
Sarah looked at her closely.
‘Were you asleep, Ma?’
‘Yes, I must have been,’ Rose agreed, stretching. ‘I sat down to have a think and I found myself back in Ardtur and then in Annacramp.
‘Was it a nice dream?’
Rose smiled. There was something in the way Sarah had asked her question that reminded her of the dark haired child who would ask and ask and ask again till she was satisfied. It had been wearing at times, but she’d never resented it, for Sarah made such an effort to understand what was happening around her, even as a little girl.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she admitted, shaking her head. ‘It was about the bad times. And it made me think of the Titanic all over again.’
Sarah nodded as she sat down opposite.
‘I was talking to Richard the other day,’ she began easily. ‘He says he has patients coming to him with a whole variety of complaints and when he sits down to talk to them, they end up asking him what he thinks about the Titanic. He says there’ve been so many, he’s watching out for it now.’
‘Why does Richard think it’s upset them?’
‘He says it’s made them feel insecure, but Elizabeth says it’s just reminded them how insecure we all are.’
Rose smiled.
‘Dear Elizabeth, she can always go one step further. What do you think, Sarah?’
Rose watched as a familiar frown appeared on Sarah’s face. There was something about her today that kept reminding her of the lively child and passionate young woman she’d once been. Just seeing her had made her feel better already.
‘I think the only security we have is knowing there are a few people who care about us,’ she began. ‘We can’t do anything about being killed in a rail crash, or drowning on a voyage, or catching typhoid in the summer, but if we have a few people who love us, we can do something about being sad, or hurt, or in despair, as I was a few weeks ago when I sat in this chair and bawled,’ she ended with a sudden beaming smile.
Rose got up and gave her a kiss.
‘I’m so glad you came, love. I wasn’t crying, but I was very low. And I couldn’t see my way. I think I can now.’
‘What was upsetting you, Ma?’
‘I’m not sure, but it was certainly about not being able to stop things happening. I worry about your father. He gets so tired these days and the board meetings are a great burden to him. And then there’s Sam and Martha and the wee ones. I can’t see what life Sam has apart from his work. And I doubt if Martha will ever change.’
‘No, she won’t change,’ Sarah agreed, nodding vigorously. ‘She’s too committed to her own invincible ignorance. She’d see any change as giving in. She’ll never give in. And there’s plenty like her.’
‘Sarah!’ Rose expostulated, amazed she should be quite so ferocious.
‘Not much point mincing words, Ma, she’s irredeemable,’ Sarah added cheerfully. ‘She’s absolutely convinced that what she thinks is right and whatever she does is the only possible way of doing things. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, to be honest I do, but I was trying to keep an open mind or give her the benefit of the doubt,’ she replied, nodding. ‘Perhaps I just couldn’t face the thought of what Sam has to live with.’
‘Sam’ll find a way. But he won’t find it till he stands up to her. And he hasn’t done that yet, but he will. He’s not as soft as he looks, Ma.’
Rose nodded, sure that Sarah was right, as she’d been right about so many people, even as a child. Suddenly and unexpectedly, she realised that she and Sarah hadn’t talked like this for a very long time. Before Hugh died and the children had gone away to school, Sarah had worked as long hours at the mills as Hugh himself. What little leisure they had, they’d devoted to the children. Since his death she’d seen her almost every day, but it wasn’t the Sarah who now sat opposite her, talking about her older brother.
She got to her feet, feeling a lightness she’d not known for weeks.
‘I hope you’ve got time for a cup of tea, love. I’ve just remembered a story I want to tell you, even if I have told you it a dozen times before. It’s the story of the night after we left Ardtur.
‘You know, Ma, you haven’t told me that story before,’ Sarah said thoughtfully, as Rose took up her neglected mug of tea and drank thirstily.
‘Oh, I must have done, Sarah. You and Hannah were always asking me for stories when you were little. I had to make use of anything I could lay hands on,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m sure I’ve told you about Daniel McGee’s house and the last story that was ever told there.’
‘Yes, I know we kept asking,’ Sarah said quickly. ‘But I’m sure I can remember everything you told us. I could describe your house and the new school and the path you took the d
ay you decided to go off up the mountain all by yourself to see the landlord’s castle. I can remember Owen Friel and Danny Lawn, and old Aunt Mary …’
Rose listened, amazed as Sarah reeled off the names of friends and neighbours from that far off life, names that hadn’t been mentioned for years.
‘But you’ve never told me about Daniel McGee, Ma. And I’ve never heard you even mention Casheltown,’ she said quite firmly.
‘That is strange, Sarah. It really is,’ said Rose shaking her head. ‘We all tell the stories that are important to us, and we all forget we’ve probably told them dozens of times before, but this time it’s the other way round, isn’t it? I could have sworn I’d been telling that story for years, it’s so clear in my mind.’
‘Maybe you’ve been telling it to yourself in your dreams. Or maybe you’ve just been practising what it preached …’
‘What do you mean, love?’
‘Well, it was a very sad occasion, Ma. All the people gathered in Daniel’s house knew that it would be their turn tomorrow. Adair’s men were working along the valley. By the end of the day, their homes would have gone. This was the last night. Tomorrow, they’d be adrift. No work, no shelter, no food …’
Sarah broke off as a sudden thought struck her.
‘Ma, do you think maybe it was the Titanic made you remember,’ she asked quickly. ‘When I said ‘adrift’ I thought about the lifeboats again. And then I thought about the people left on board, listening to the band, knowing there was only a little while left.’
‘Certainly it’s strange, Sarah,’ Rose nodded. ‘Strange I thought I’d told you. Strange I wanted to tell you again. I wonder why?’
‘Well, I could make a guess.’
‘Please do,’ said Rose quickly.
‘Well, it seems to me Daniel was looking for something to give hope to those in despair and he’d a feeling that Granny Hannah had what he needed. And he was right. She told her story about how her father and uncle had survived after their eviction, walking the length of Scotland on burn water and berries from the hedgerows. Then Daniel asked her about what her father said to her when she was about to marry a man of a different religion from a different country. That’s the story that really mattered that evening.’ Sarah paused and collected her thoughts. ‘I can’t remember the exact words, but the core of what he said was that none of us pass through life without sadness and sorrow. “We must shed tears for our grief but not be bitter,”’ she went on slowly and carefully as she watched her mother’s face. ‘“Bitterness stuns the spirit and weakens the heart. Accept what you cannot change and ask God and your fellow men for comfort. In that way you will live well however short your span”.’
