A Girl Called Rosie

by Anne Doughty

  He began to smile again when he thought of Emily and Rosie and how much they loved going to stay with their granny. Being younger, only a few of their visits were to the farm-house. For them, visiting Granny and Granda meant going on up to the top of the hill, to the lovely old house where they had a garden to play in, books and photograph albums to explore, and a bathroom. He could still remember the excitement when the two girls came home after their first visit and told him how they floated in the long, deep bath, something they’d never met before.

  Only the two youngest girls, Margaret and Dolly and his young son Jack had never visited their grandmother. Though they had all been invited as warmly as Emily and Rosie, Margaret always refused to go, insisting that her aunt couldn’t manage without her. From the time she’d been old enough to visit away from home, she’d taken herself off to her Aunt Maggie’s house just up the road at Sandymount. Now she lived there permanently and her aunt, who had no children, always backed up her refusal.

  Dolly never wanted to leave her mother and for some reason, best known to herself, Martha absolutely refused to let young Jack go to Rathdrum House either with one of his sisters or on his own. There had been arguments about it, but when he saw how distressed the little boy had become, he’d dropped the subject, knowing his mother would understand.

  There was colour in Rosie’s cheeks now. She’d thrown her dark hair back from her face and was wiping face and hands briskly with the pad he’d brought for her bruise.

  ‘Did yer mother lift her hand to you?’ he said calmly, without looking at her.

  Rosie’s smile vanished, she dropped her eyes and twisted the damp cloth in her hands. ‘Did she?’ he persisted.

  She moved her head in an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I’ll give it thought,’ he said quietly. ‘It will never happen again.’

  Although Rosie protested and said her mother would need her help with preparations for the special dinner she always made when Billy came home, Sam insisted she stay where she was and have another wee sleep. This Saturday, Emily had the half day from her job at Fruitfield Jam Factory. She could do whatever was needed, he said, as he got to his feet and went back down to his workshop.

  There, he stood undecided, his eye running over the jobs lined up on the workbench, his mind still resting on his daughter, the image of her small, pale face as she lay on his bed, the lightness of her slim body in his arms as he carried her over from the house.

  Rosie fell asleep almost immediately and woke surprised to find it was so late in the afternoon. She sat up hurriedly, ready to swing her legs out of bed, push her feet into her shoes and go back over to the house, but the moment she moved her head throbbed with pain and set up an oscillating beat, like the one a motor makes when the engine is ticking over. She lowered herself cautiously on to the bed again and was grateful to feel the throbbing slowly die down. A little later, she discovered the pain went away so long as she kept quite still.

  High above her head in the pitched roof the motes danced in a broad beam of sunlight that fell through the one small skylight window. She followed its slanting path to the floor where it lit up a rag rug, its colours still bright, though she and Emily had made it from the carefully folded pieces from dresses and skirts out of Granny’s box, some of them years old, a few even going all the way back to the days when Auntie Hannah and Auntie Sarah were still at home.

  On one of the few wet days in their visit the previous summer, their grandmother had sat in the conservatory at Rathdrum and showed them how to stitch the hemmed pieces on to the hessian backing. They knew already that visit would be their last holiday together for Emily was about to start work at the jam factory and Rosie begin her year at Miss Taylor’s small school in Richhill.

  She closed her eyes and walked round her grandmother’s garden. The details of the paths and flowerbeds were so clear in her mind, for a moment, she imagined she could smell the perfume of the old roses after the rain, but the moment passed even more quickly than a pleasant dream when she caught the tone of a sharp little voice down in the workshop below.

  ‘Ma says, is our Rosie going to lie aroun’ all afternoon an’ leave us to do all the work?’

  Her father’s voice was soft but firm.

  ‘Rosie hurt herself, Dolly. She’s not feeling well. Do you not remember when you fell and cut both your knees? You sat by the fire for a long time. Is Emily not home yet?’

  ‘Aye, she came a while ago, but Ma sent her a message to Loneys.’

  ‘Well, tell your mother that if Emily is delayed at Loneys and she needs help, I’ll come over myself as soon as I’ve finished fitting this blade.’

  Rosie smiled in spite of herself. Now ten years old, Dolly had grown so like her mother she’d picked up her mannerisms and her sharp way of speaking. Her father’s offer would have brought a sour look to her face for she knew it was not the answer her mother wanted.

  When he made an offer to help in the house, she could never be quite sure whether or not he did it deliberately, for he knew as well as she did the last thing her mother ever wanted was to have him in her kitchen.

  She eased herself up in the bed and leant back against the headboard. The throbbing didn’t start up immediately, but suddenly she felt so weary all she wanted to do was go to sleep. She smiled wryly and admitted to herself how much she was dreading stepping in to the kitchen and facing the comments which would inevitably come her way. At this moment, she had not the remotest idea how she could bring herself to go, but she knew it would have to be done.

  As she bent over gingerly to lace up her shoes, she heard a different voice below, a hasty word to her father and a flurry of skirts on the wooden stair.

  ‘Ach, Rosie dear, what happened at all? You look ghastly.’

  Her sister Emily dropped down on the edge of the bed beside her so awkwardly that the springs protested and she nearly knocked Rosie sideways.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Rosie replied, managing a smile.

  Over a year older, tall and skinny, with the same pointed features as her mother, Emily resembled her in no other way. She put her arm round Rosie and hugged her, then pushed her sister’s hair back and scrutinised the bruise and the cut outlined with iodine. She screwed up her face in concentration.

  ‘Ma said you fell against the door,’ she said, her voice heavy with disbelief. ‘Well, if you did, you hit it the queer dunt. That wou’d be more like somethin’ I’d do. It’s not like you at all.’

  To her great surprise, Rosie found tears had begun to trickle down her face. She didn’t know why she was crying, but the more she tried to stop the faster the tears flowed.

  ‘Ach, dear a dear. Is it very sore?’ Emily asked, her face screwed up with anxiety.

  Rosie shook her head and poked about in her pockets for a handkerchief.

  ‘Here y’ar, here’s mine,’ said Emily quickly, pulling out a crumpled square and putting it in her hand. ‘Now, c’mon on. Tell me what happened for I don’t believe a word of what I’ve bin told.’

  It was only then Rosie realised it was Emily herself had brought the tears, the big sister who had always stood up for her, who’d listened to her even when she knew she hadn’t much idea what she was talking about. Emily and Sammy, her older brother, were her best friends. They had been her playmates, her companions on the walk to Richhill School, the two people she could rely on day by day. While she had them she felt safe, even when her mother was in one of her rages, but now Sammy was working in Armagh and only came home when he had a half day on Saturdays or a Sunday off. Emily was putting away every penny not demanded by their mother. As soon as she had enough money saved she would buy her ticket to America.

  Rosie cried in Emily’s arms until the tears finally stopped. Then she told her what had happened.

  ‘Ach dear, what are we goin’ to do?’ Emily said with a great sigh. ‘It’s not fair that you get the worst of it. She’s never as bad with me. But then she knows I’m goin’ as soon as I can,’ she added, wiping Rosie’
s damp face with the sleeve of her second-best blouse. ‘Did you see anything in the paper last night?’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘Six jobs for “smart boys”,’ she said briskly. ‘Two in Armagh, two in Richhill, one in Portadown and one in Loughgall.’

  ‘No smart girls?’

  Rosie laughed.

  It was the earnest look on Emily’s face that cheered her. It was so characteristic of her. Emily’s greatest gift was figures. From the day she’d been asked to count wooden beads she’d changed her mind about not liking school. Numbers made her happy. She recited the multiplication table for pleasure. Counted the money in her mother’s purse. Measured and recorded the milk given by each of the four cows. Laid out the nails and screws from the workshop in multiples. Words were a different matter. Emily often had no idea what to say.

  When Rosie laughed, Emily beamed with relief. She couldn’t bear to see her sister all upset and worried. There were so few jobs around and that made it all the harder. Billy had had to work on the farm until he was old enough to join the police and she’d been at home for over a year before one of the clerks at Fruitfield left to get married. There were so many in for that job she probably wouldn’t have had much chance if her father hadn’t worked there for years and all the bosses knew him.

  Poor old Bobby was just the same. He’d left school the previous year and couldn’t find a job of any sort. He wanted to be a mechanic, but he was still having to put up with Uncle Joe on the farm for a few shillings a week. Rosie was smart, far cleverer than any of them, but that wasn’t much help if all the jobs going were for boys.

  ‘Rosie,’ Emily said suddenly. ‘I’ve thought of something.’

  ‘What, Emily? What have you thought of?’

  ‘Something I read in The People’s Friend. There was this story about this girl who goes to America and marries a rich man and the first thing she does is send a ticket to her sister,’ she said quickly. ‘I could do that. Not find the rich man. Not with my face,’ she said, laughing. ‘But I could save up again and send you a ticket. And it woudn’t take near so long as it’s taken me this time. It’ll take me sixty-five weeks at two shillings a week here and I’ve lost over three weeks with expenses at work I hadn’t reckoned on, but wages are higher there and I could save maybe a dollar a week for thirty weeks or two dollars for fifteen weeks or even three dollars for ten …’

  She broke off.

  ‘Isn’t that an idea?’ she asked quickly, not sure what to make of the look on Rosie’s face.

  ‘That’s a great idea, Emily,’ Rosie replied, giving her a hug. ‘That’s awfully good of you.’

  Rosie hadn’t the heart to tell her sister that if she went and she herself had to stay at home, waiting to find work, then she would feel so lonely and vulnerable that even a week would seem more than she could bear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Shure the Govermint is far too soft on them’ems. They oughta be put out. Why aren’t they sent down to their own Free State, as they call it? Shure what do we want with them up here, a lot o’ Fenians and troublemakers.’

  Rosie’s heart sank and she felt her hands go moist as they always did when she was anxious. She didn’t even need to glance across the kitchen to where Uncle Joe sat in his usual place to the right of the stove to see the twist of his lined and wrinkled face and the bright, malicious flicker in his eyes as he stared up at Billy, the eldest and tallest of her five brothers, who stood with one arm casually stretched along the mantelpiece, a small smile on his face as he looked down at the old man.

  The meal had hardly been finished when Uncle Joe got launched. The sound of his voice was often enough to make Rosie feel queasy but she’d managed perfectly well so long as he held forth about the farm, the hard work he and Bobby had put in on the low meadow in the desperate heat with not a soul lifting a hand to help them. She’d even smiled to herself at one point as her uncle went on to complain that the new-cut grass was lying moist on the ground with not the ha’pence worth of a breeze to dry it. So much for Uncle Henry and his confidence about what a good year it would be for the hay.

  How the conversation had moved from the hay to the subject of their few Roman Catholic neighbours and Joe’s uncompromising attitude towards them she had no idea.

  It might simply be the way Billy was standing in front of the stove, his large frame dominating the still-seated figures of his family. It didn’t take much to irritate Uncle Joe and that might have been enough to do it.

  ‘Well now, I think you’re too hard on the Government,’ said Billy, whose tone had grown more assured since he’d been away from home. ‘If you wou’d read the provisions of the Special Powers Act, I think you’d take heart.

  ‘An’ I can tell you, in confidence, of course,’ he went on, lowering his voice significantly, ‘that there’s more to come. But we in the police are not supposed to talk about it,’ he added pompously.

  Outside, the long June evening was fading to a warm, pale dusk, the smell of cut grass on the evening air, but indoors, even with the door propped open, it was so dim Emily had just been instructed to light the lamp. In its glow, Rosie watched the faces of her brothers and sisters. Moist with sweat, they gleamed in its light. Though she was sitting at the end of the table furthest from the lamp, she could feel the heat vibrating above the hot mantle. The faces at the other end of the table began to waver in and out of focus. The smell of the rising fumes from the paraffin was beginning to make her feel sick again.

  When the meal was served up, the very sight of food had almost been too much. The plate set in front of her was piled high with mashed potato well-moistened with thick, brown gravy. While her mother’s back was still turned to the stove, she moved the roast meat from underneath on to Sammy’s plate. Later, when her mother’s entire attention was devoted to Billy’s second helping she managed to pass over the vegetables she’d only been pretending to eat.

  Sammy asked no questions. He always had a good appetite and it wasn’t the first time he’d helped her avoid her mother’s sharp comments when she wasn’t feeling well, but she noticed he and Emily kept looking at her whenever they could do it without their mother catching them at it. It occurred to her that she probably still looked ghastly. Even Billy had given her the odd sideways look when he arrived home.

  When Emily got up to light the lamp she’d bent down and whispered that maybe she should go and lie down, but although it would get her out of the kitchen, it wasn’t going to help very much with Billy and Charlie now hard at it with Uncle Joe. You could probably hear the three of them down at Richhill Station, never mind in the wee room she shared with Emily on the other side of the fireplace wall.

  As the kitchen became hotter Rosie wondered if she could possibly manage to go outside. Sandwiched in between Sammy and Emily, it would be difficult to get out without attracting attention. Her mother had ignored her all afternoon, but now, from time to time when she wasn’t looking up at Billy and smiling, she cast her a sour look. The other problem was standing up. She was soon going to have to go to the privy at the far end of the yard. The thought of being outside and in the cool air was very appealing but she felt so shaky she wasn’t entirely sure she could make it.

  Billy was talking now about the provision for whipping in the 1922 Act, and Charlie, who had recently joined the B Specials, the new part-time police force, was paying close attention.

  ‘An’ ye mean that male offenders can be whipped in private as well as whatever punishment the courts give them?’ he asked thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s a fact. The police’ll not be as soft as some here might think,’ Billy replied sharply, glancing down at Uncle Joe who was filling his pipe. ‘An’ you’ll find, Charlie, that when the new act goes through next year, you can be sure the provisions will extend to all the forces of the law. B Specials included. It’s only a matter of time.’

  The stove had been allowed to burn out after the meal was served, but the low-ceilinged room continued to grow warmer
. Not a breath of air moved between the open door and the single small window set in the thickness of the back wall of the house. Dolly had been sent to bed and her father had left quietly when Joe began to hold forth about the hay, but the room was still uncomfortably crowded, bedroom chairs having been brought in to the kitchen to provide enough seating round the big table.

  ‘Sure maybe, Charlie, you’ll go for the police yerself when you’re the age, like Billy here,’ Martha began. ‘Hasn’t he had a great time to himself down in Enniskillen? Good pay. An’ the uniform looks powerful well on him. It wou’d suit you too.’

  Rosie heard her mother’s voice echo as if it was reaching her from a long way away. She glanced towards her where she sat opposite Uncle Joe. He was puffing crossly at his pipe and poking the stem of it with the end of a spent match.

  As the blue tobacco smoke drifted towards her, she caught the familiar acrid smell, saw her mother’s face crease in a warm smile as she turned her gaze upon Charlie and felt her own eyes close as she fell sideways into Sammy’s lap.

  When Rosie opened her eyes she had no idea where she was. Looking down at herself, she saw she was wearing her best skirt and blouse and she was lying comfortably on top of the bedclothes in a room she didn’t at first recognise. The ceiling above her was neither the whitewashed square with the damp mark in one corner of the room she shared with Emily, nor was it the high-pitched roof of the barn.

  She couldn’t remember what day it was either. Suddenly, the light fragrance of lavender from her pillow brought it all back. It was Sunday. She was at Rathdrum, in the room she and Emily had often shared, the room Granny always kept ready in case family or friends would suddenly find the opportunity to come and visit.

  She took a deep breath and sighed. This must be what Heaven was like. To lie on soft covers, with blue sky and birds singing in the trees outside, the pretty flowered curtains moving silently in the light breeze, in a room full of well-loved, familiar things, a big, comfortable chair you could curl up in, a small bookcase with some books you still hadn’t read and a table by the window where you could sit to write or paint.