The Hawthorns Bloom in May

by Anne Doughty

  To Sarah’s great amazement, Martha had laid the table with a clean cloth and set out four places. There was bread and butter, two small dishes of jam, a plate of scones and a fruitcake. A lavish spread for so early in the afternoon and an unheard of effort on Martha’s part.

  ‘There y’are. Sit down now, it’s ready,’ she said, without looking at them, her whole attention focused on a large teapot which she lifted from the corner of the stove.

  She waved the visitors to their places, began pouring tea, but made no effort to engage them in conversation or sit down with them. A few moments later, they heard the scrape of boots at the door.

  ‘I’ve poured your tea, Uncle Joe. Come and sit down,’ she said briskly.

  Joe glared at the assembled company, dragged out the empty chair and threw his cap on the floor at his feet as he sat down. He produced his hand reluctantly when Sam introduced ‘our cousin, Alex’ who was sitting on his right. Sarah, on his left, he dismissed with a glance as he addressed himself to the plate of wheaten bread. Having poured tea for herself, Martha now retreated to an armchair by the stove where she could watch her guests without having to be any part of the company.

  In the uneasy silence that followed, Joe made short work of a couple of slices of bread and jam while Sarah was still doing her best to eat a scone. There was nothing wrong with the scone, but the atmosphere in the room made her wish she could run out to the motor and drive straight home.

  ‘Ye must find things here a bit differen to yer way of goin’,’ Joe threw out sharply, addressing himself to Alex.

  ‘Yes, very different in one way,’ said Alex nodding agreeably, ‘but the work’s not so different and I’ve been made very welcome.’

  ‘Aye, so ah see,’ said Joe unpleasantly, as he looked from Alex to Sarah and back again. ‘Did yer cousin drive you into Banbridge in her motor to sign the covenant?’

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t think the covenant was any of my business.’

  ‘Ah, ye’ll do well then with the Hamiltons,’ he said, nodding across the room to where Martha sat watching them. ‘Shure there’s not one of them has any time for anyone but themselves and making money. Either that or they don’t know how to write their names,’ he added, laughing at his own joke. ‘Yer sittin’ beside two of them, Alexander. Brother and sister, an’ neither of them one bit loyal. An’ the father an’ mother the same.’

  ‘Loyalty, as you call it, is a personal matter, Joe,’ said Sam quietly.

  Sarah was startled, for there was a firmness and a coldness in his tone she’d never heard before and what he said next surprised her even more.

  ‘There are higher loyalties than membership of any political party.’

  ‘Aye, well, joining the Quakers is yer excuse, Sam, an’ Martha an’ I are well sick of it,’ said Joe, reaching for another scone. ‘What about yer sister then, what’s her excuse?’ he asked, without so much as a glance at Sarah.

  Sarah had abandoned her scone and was silently watching the grimaces of Joe’s dirty, lined face, as he scrunched it up into yet further unpleasant gestures. Were it not for Sam she most certainly wouldn’t sit at this table for another moment. But this was Sam’s home, and Martha, who was watching Joe’s performance with barely concealed pleasure, was Sam’s wife.

  ‘I don’t need an excuse, Joe, for anything I do, or don’t do,’ she said, as coolly as she could manage. ‘I need a reason and I have one, just as Sam has.’

  ‘Oh aye, Sam’s a great man for reason,’ he agreed, nodding his head at Sam, as he swallowed a large mouthful of tea and rattled his cup for Martha to come and refill it.

  ‘He gives Martha an’ me plenty of benefit of his reason,’ he went on in the same sour querulous tone, glancing up at her as she came to pour it for him. ‘What he’ll do and what he’ll not do. It’s a great life when ye can get others to work for ye an’ put a roof over yer head and spread up a table for yer comp’ny like they was gentry.’

  He reached across the table for a slice of cake and turned towards Alex.

  ‘Maybe, they’d like ye t’think they were someone, but let me tell you somethin’,’ he continued, adopting a confidential tone, ‘Yer man Sam’s mother was a servin’ girl down in the south an’ her brother had t’ get away overseas outa trouble with the pollis. An’ now he’s back lukin’ for more trouble, up an’ down to Dublin from Donegal. That’s where all their Papish connection live.’

  He paused, drained his mug at one go, snatched up his cap from the floor and stood up abruptly.

  ‘Irish Volunteers they call themselves. Nothing but a lot of Shinners. An’ now Sam McGinley’s in the thick of them. God knows what he’s up to. Just watch yourself, Alexander,’ Joe said, his voice lingering sarcastically on the full name he insisted on using, as he paused in the doorway. ‘That’s my advice to ye. Ye don’t know these people and the shifts of them. Ye cou’den be up to them with all their fancy ways. They’ll have ye as bad as they are if ye don’t watch out,’ he threw back over his shoulder, as he pulled open the lower portion of the half door and banged it closed behind him.

  For what seemed to Sarah like a very long time, no one spoke. Then Sam got to his feet, picked up her teacup, walked to the door and threw the cold, unpleasant-looking contents into the drain that took the rainwater away from the front of the house.

  ‘Is there still a drop of tea in the pot, Martha?’ he asked, as he came back into the room and held out the empty cup in front of her.

  ‘Shure there’s half a potful. Didn’t ye say to use the big teapot,’ she said shortly as she filled the empty cup.

  ‘Here ye are, Sarah,’ he said quietly as he put the cup back in her saucer. ‘What about you Alex?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Alex said. ‘That was a very nice tea,’ he said, looking over at Martha. ‘Lovely fruit cake.’

  ‘Does Rose not give you fruitcake for your tea?’ Martha asked, a sarcastic note in her voice.

  ‘I’m sure she would if I ever went for tea,’ said Alex cheerfully, ‘but I’m at work all week and I give Michael Jackson a hand on Sundays. I find I miss farm work, now I spend all my days with machinery.’

  ‘Ye wou’dn’t miss it if ye were here, that’s for sure,’ Martha replied sharply. ‘I’ve the milkin’ to do,’ she went on, getting to her feet. ‘The two wee ones are asleep in the room, Sam. Ye may give them a bottle if they wake up,’ she added quickly, as she left the kitchen without a word of farewell.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Sarah, standing up and smiling at Sam, ‘Ma’s sent a wee dress for the new baby and a jersey for Sammy. They’re out in the motor.’

  ‘I’ll fetch them, Sarah,’ said Alex promptly, disappearing outside before she could object.

  ‘Take no notice of Joe,’ said Sam, turning towards her and putting his hand on her shoulder. ‘He an’ his brothers are all the same. Ye wou’dn’t get a civil word outa one o’ them. Don’t pay a bit of attention,’ he finished quickly, as Alex reappeared with two paper bags.

  Sam opened the first bag and held up the tiny dress in his large square-fingered hands. ‘Ach that’s lovely,’ he said softly. ‘An so’s that,’ he added, as Sarah drew out a brightly-coloured Fairisle jersey. Wee Sammy’ll be a pleased as Punch,’ he continued, turning to Alex. ‘Ma has great hans. She takes it in turn up and down the family for sweaters and Sammy’s been askin’ every week since Charlie got his.’

  ‘Well, tell Emily it’s her turn next,’ said Sarah, making an effort to show Sam she was herself again. ‘And then it’s Rose.’

  She looked around her and out through the door, suddenly aware of the complete absence of children. ‘Where’s she got to? And where have the boys gone?’

  ‘Martha sent her down after Sammy and Emily to play at Loneys,’ he said, pulling a kettle back onto the hottest part of the stove. ‘Billy and Charley are up the road helping the Hutchinson’s lift their potatoes, and Bobbie and Johnny are asleep. An’ I hope they’ll sleep till I have their bottles made,’ he said,
breaking into a broad grin.

  ‘Now I could give you a hand with a bit of welding, Sam, but I’d be no good at all on making bottles,’ said Alex lightly.

  Sam laughed and looked pleased and Sarah decided it would be best to go before Martha reappeared again.

  ‘And we’d better be going, Sam,’ she said quickly. ‘I still don’t like driving in the dark even with the more powerful lamps.’

  ‘Aye, ye need to be doin’ it regular to get the hang of it,’ he said sympathetically. ‘The days is gettin’ very short already, but ye shou’d be home before dark.’

  It was not until they’d passed through Richhill and turned south towards Banbridge that either Sarah or Alex said anything. Finally, it was the young man who broke the silence.

  ‘I don’t think Uncle Joe would be quite my favourite relative,’ he said, with great deliberation.

  Sarah looked at him, caught the sparkle in his eyes and burst out laughing.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she replied, relaxing her fierce grip on the steering wheel. ‘It might have been the end of a beautiful friendship.’

  They drove on, talking easily now, the afternoon sun declining into a glow of gold on the horizon, the sky paling above, the temperature dropping rapidly. By the time they reached Seapatrick, they could see their breath streaming on the crisp air as they glanced across at each other on the empty road.

  ‘Sarah, what’s a Shinner? I don’t think I’ve heard of them before?’

  ‘Sinn Fein. Political party. Very active in America in the last century. Not much talked off at the moment, but then, Joe has a long memory.’

  ‘Of course, I’ve heard of them,’ he said shaking his head, ‘But your Uncle Sam’s a socialist, isn’t he?’

  ‘All the same to Joe,’ she replied, now laughing easily. ‘If you don’t agree with Joe, it wouldn’t matter what you were, he’d find a way to disparage you. Uncle Sam worked for the Land League back in the 80s, but he was opposed to violence. He always has been. He did go to America to take letters and raise funds for the League, but it was because of Eva he stayed,’ she explained. ‘He was probably on some of the police lists, but anyone who worked for the League was then. He’s told me often how any organisation can be infiltrated by people who want to use it for their own purposes. There were people in the Land League who moved to the I.R.B. when it was founded.’

  ‘Irish Republican Brotherhood?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about them. Hugh always tried to keep up with politics, but I’m afraid I feel defeated by great causes and marching men,’ she went on, as they drew to a halt and let a column of Ulster Volunteers cross the road in front of them.

  Weighed down with heavy packs, some carrying rifles, they tramped solidly along behind their officer, scaling the wall alongside the road with practised ease.

  ‘All I can do is try to see that no one in the four mills goes hungry or dies for lack of care,’ she said sadly. ‘But even that seems a struggle at times,’ she added, as the last of the long column disappeared into the nearby fields.

  ‘Wouldn’t anything be a struggle when you lose the man you love?’

  Tears sprang to Sarah’s eyes and she had to blink furiously as she revved up the engine and moved off again.

  ‘Maybe one of the lives you save will do more for mankind than all the political groups and volunteers put together,’ Alex went on, without looking at her.

  ‘I’d never thought of that,’ she replied honestly. ‘I’ll try and remember next time there’s a threatened strike or a punch up over a bit of coloured ribbon.’

  ‘Well then, Alex,’ said Rose laughing, ‘you’ve met Uncle Joe and lived to tell the tale. Are you sure you shouldn’t take his advice about the Hamiltons before it’s too late?’ she went on, as she and Sarah led the way into the new sitting room where a log fire blazed invitingly.

  ‘I think I’ll take a chance on my own judgement,’ Alex answered her with a broad smile.

  The roast dinner Rose had ready for them had gone down well. In the warmth of the kitchen, the events of the afternoon were recalled, softened somewhat by distance and touched with humour by both Sarah and Alex in the telling.

  ‘I don’t know how our Sam puts up with it,’ said John slowly, as he straightening up from putting another log on the fire.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, Ma, Martha’s expecting again,’ said Sarah, as she looked across at her mother.

  Rose sighed, took one look at John’s face and wished Sarah hadn’t mentioned it just then.

  ‘Well, she certainly keeps my hand in with babies’ dresses,’ she said as she bent down to leave the teapot on the hearth.

  ‘I think Sam is very fond of children,’ said Alex unexpectedly. ‘Maybe that makes up to him for something in Martha. He has only to say a word and they do what he tells them. Little Rose seems to adore him.’

  ‘Yes, Alex’s right,’ added Sarah. ‘He’s stronger in himself than ever I remember. I used to think Martha walked all over him, but it’s different now. I just wish he didn’t have to work so hard, evenings and weekends as well as a long day.’

  ‘Aye,’ said John, ‘I know what ye mean, but he once said to me that work keeps you from thinking long. When he’s working he has a whole world inside his head, figuring out things, planning things …’

  ‘Like you used to do yourself, John, on the fortieth horseshoe,’ said Rose, smiling at him across the fireplace. ‘Maybe we can only see one side of things. I must say Sam never seems unhappy when he comes here.’

  ‘Ach, how would he, love, an’ this his home an’ him so welcome?’ said John hastily.

  ‘Yes, but sadness hangs round a man like a cloak,’ said Alex promptly.

  Rose and Sarah exchanged glances and they both smiled. They’d got used to it now, but to begin with some of Alex’s sudden offerings had taken them by surprise. He had a way of summing up a situation or observing a characteristic in a person that was perceptive and shrewd.

  ‘Ye said, Sarah, that yer man mentioned Uncle Sam,’ began John, as he settled himself more comfortably in his high-backed armchair. ‘What was this about goin’ up and down to Dublin. Where did he get that?’ he asked, looking at Rose. ‘Has your Sam been to Dublin?’

  ‘Yes, he has,’ Rose said, ‘but I don’t know how Joe found out. Maybe I told our Sam that Uncle Sam had been down to see Lily.’

  ‘Lily?’ Sarah gasped. ‘Ma, you never told me he’d seen Lily.’

  ‘Did I not? I must have forgotten,’ she said laughing. ‘It seems to be a feature of getting older,’ she went on cheerfully.

  ‘Lily is the younger sister of my friend Lady Anne,’ Rose explained, turning to Alex. ‘When Sam was seventeen or thereabouts he thought he was going to die of love for the beautiful Lily,’ she went on, as both Sarah and John began to smile. ‘She was very pretty, I admit,’ added Rose, ‘but Sam might as well have been a sparrow in a tree for all Lily noticed him.

  ‘Lily took care of her father when he moved from Currane Lodge to their Dublin house. She still lives in Dublin but when he died she found a smaller house in Dawson Street. We met her again at Hannah and Teddy’s wedding and she insisted John and I to go and visit her. Teddy is her nephew, of course. She was very welcoming, I must say. I think she’s rather lonely with all her sisters in England or America. She never married, herself,’ added Rose, with a sigh, ‘despite all the admirers she had. When I wrote and told her Sam was home on a visit, she wanted to see him too. I think he went out of curiosity, but they seem to have got on very well.’

  ‘But Joe said “up and down to Dublin”. Was he just exaggerating? He’d be capable of it,’ said Sarah sharply.

  ‘Well, I think Sam has been several times,’ she began thoughtfully. ‘Now that I think of it, he has mentioned in a couple of letters what an easy journey it is on the train from Creeslough and how much he always did love Dublin. Last time he was here he said Lily has no one to talk to about the old days in Kerry. The cook
and butler from Currane Lodge are long gone. Her only friends seem to be in the artistic world, mostly young men trying to make a living. She’s a very good watercolourist, Alex,’ she added, nodding to a landscape of sky and water in the alcove by the fireplace. ‘She’s promised me a painting of Currane Lodge the next time we go down.’

  ‘It’s a pity she didn’t take your Sam when he was so keen on her,’ said John thoughtfully. ‘But then I suppose he wouldn’t have met Eva and had a grand family and done so well for himself. It would always have been Lily’s house and Lily’s wee bit of money, once Currane Lodge went. And who knows how Sam would have made out.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be sitting here,’ said Alex, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I must be very grateful to Lily Molyneux. If it weren’t for her I’d never have met Sam McGinley. And maybe I’d never have got back to where I belong.’

  ‘Ye have a point, Alex, indeed ye have,’ said John vigorously. ‘Sure if a groom at Castledillon hadn’t had his old mother ill, I’d never have laid eyes on Kerry m’self.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be sitting here either,’ said Sarah, so promptly that they all laughed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sam McGinley smiled to himself as he took his sister’s letter out of its envelope once more. He had read it the previous day, but now he laid it on his breakfast table where he could see her generous signature and the scrawl of kisses with which they’d always decorated their letters. Whether Rose wrote about the ordinary every day things of her life, or asked for his opinion on matters political, literary, or personal, he always found her letters soothing. Not because they were pleasant or without distress or anxiety, but because he could always see her small figure sitting at the table, totally focused on what she wanted to share with him. It was an image that had comforted him for most of his life.

  Sometimes it seemed her very existence helped him to keep at bay the sadness, the despair even, which came upon him as he considered the world around him, a world which he’d struggled to change since his mid-teens. Now, at fifty-four, his sons and daughters married with growing families of their own, he wondered just what, if anything, had been achieved for Ireland, or for the millions of Irish who laboured on the other side of the Atlantic, in the three decades he himself had spent as an exile working for their betterment.