by Anne Doughty
She twisted her head back and forth to view the framed watercolours hanging on the pale walls. Most of them, including her favourite, a magnolia bud just beginning to open, had been painted by her cousin Helen when she was still at school in Lisburn, but there were one or two of an old house in Kerry done by a strange lady who used to live in Dublin, someone whom everyone called Aunt Lily, though she didn’t appear to be a relative.
She sighed and made an attempt to push away the less pleasant memories that now poured back into her mind. The very word ‘relative’ conjured up a whole train of thoughts and images jostling for her attention, her mother and Uncle Joe especially.
‘Go away,’ she whispered to herself.
It was one of the things Miss Wilson often spoke about when she gathered her girls together for morning prayer. Life, she said, was full of difficulties and discouragements. Whether you were a member of the aristocracy or a servant girl, it didn’t matter. Everyone had their burdens and sadnesses. What was important was to treasure the good things, the precious moments of rest, or pleasure, or joy. Only if you concentrated on them when they came to you would you have something to help you in the bad times.
She agreed with Miss Wilson and could see what a wise person she was, but she found it surprisingly hard to put her good advice into practise. Here she was, where she was always so welcome, so comfortable and easy on this little bed, in this room she loved. Yet she couldn’t get out of her mind the noise and the smell of the kitchen back at the farm and the look on Uncle Joe’s face. And all that talk between Billy and Charlie about whipping.
Surely what they’d said couldn’t be right. She’d thought whipping was something that belonged to the last century. She’d read about it in Uncle Tom’s Cabin and in many of Dickens’ novels. That was so long ago, yet here were Billy and Charlie talking enthusiastically about whipping suspects, men who had not been charged with any crime, men who might not have done anything wrong in the first place.
She rolled on to her side and began to run her finger round the shapes of flowered cotton that made up the quilt. She concentrated on the tiny individual flowers in each of the small pieces. Granny had promised to teach them how to quilt the next time they came.
Quilts were like stories or photograph albums, she said, you could put your whole life history into one if you really wanted to, provided you could find pieces that reminded you of the people and the places important to you. You couldn’t expect just to have them all in your bag or box. Some of them you’d have to go looking for, like the way one had to recall memories.
Perhaps she hadn’t got enough pretty, bright pieces in her box to make a very nice story, but that might change. Someday, if she worked very hard, she might have a room like this. After all, Granny had been poor and had lost her home in Donegal when she was only eight. Her whole family had been thrown out of their cottage by a landlord who wanted rid of them so he could put sheep on the land in their place. Then Granny had worked for years as a ladies’ maid until she met Granda. Away down in Kerry where her mother had taken her when she found a job as a housekeeper after her husband had died.
Ah, God be with you Kerry
Where in childhood I was merry …
She could remember the lilting tune her father sometimes sang when there was no one about, but the rest of the words had gone.
Her father had been there when she’d opened her eyes in the wash house. He’d been holding up a lamp from the workshop so that Emily could see to bathe her face while Sammy supported her in his arms.
‘What happened, Sammy?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I think it was the heat, Da. She just passed out, but she fell into m’ lap, so she diden hurt herself.’
‘Thank God for that.’
Sammy’s shirt smelt of glueing compound, the kind he used to mend punctures in the bicycle shop where he worked. She recognised the smell immediately. She could hear them talking, Sammy and Emily and her father, but the lamp dazzled on the whitewashed walls and she couldn’t keep her eyes open. The cold water was nice on her hot face, but the voices kept coming and going and were sometimes a long way off.
‘She’d be cooler if she slept in the loft.’
‘Should we send for the doctor?’
‘Couldn’t Charlie and Billy sleep over in the house and you and Sammy and I can keep an eye on her.’
‘Would the doctor come now or will we have to wait till the morning?’
She found out later that it was Sammy who suggested driving her over to Granny the next day. He’d arrived home in his boss’s motor so that he and her father could weld together a metal fitment Harry Mitchell had designed and drawn for them. When they attached it to the back of his motor he would be able to pull a trailer and transport his precious motorbike to race at Clady and on the new Dundrod Circuit in County Antrim. He’d been planning it for years.
Early on Sunday morning, while her father checked over the job they’d done the previous evening, Sammy walked the two miles to the nearest Post Office, spoke to the postmaster’s wife, who was feeding her hens, and explained why he needed to use the telephone. He’d arrived back smiling. Yes, so long as he was back early on Sunday evening when Harry Mitchell needed the car himself, he was welcome to drive his sister over to Banbridge. Harry hoped the wee lassie would feel better soon.
Rosie smiled to herself. She didn’t see very much of Sammy these days, but, like Emily, he was always glad to see her when he came home. At least he wasn’t planning to go to America. What Sammy most wanted was to own a motorbike and race it, like Harry Mitchell, but he wanted to go beyond the circuits in Northern Ireland and take part in the Isle of Man T. T.
‘What’s T. T. Sammy?’ she’d asked, the first time he told her about it.
‘Tourist Trophy. It means anyone can enter, so they get some of the big names.’
‘And would you like to be a big name?’
‘Well, it’s not so much that,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You see, if you race with the big people you learn a lot. You learn about racing technique, and about the bikes themselves. Racing is a kind of test. You find out weaknesses in the bike you wouldn’t have known about.’
‘And about yourself?’
‘Aye, I suppose you do. I never thought of that,’ he said laughing. ‘That’s you all over, Rosie. You’re always looking to see a bit more, aren’t you?’
She couldn’t see anything very much at the moment. She certainly couldn’t see where she could go or how she could go about finding a job. Except when she visited Granny and Granda, she’d never been away from home. While she and Emily had been with them, Granda had taken them into Banbridge to help Granny shop and to Newcastle and Kilkeel for outings, but beyond that the only places she’d ever visited were Armagh and Portadown.
Miss Wilson had hired a charabanc and taken them to visit the two cathedrals and the museum in Armagh. They’d climbed up the tower of the old cathedral and looked out over the whole city, then walked down the hill, through the Shambles and climbed all the dozens of steps up to the new cathedral to marvel at its exotic decorated interior, full of the strange, unfamiliar smell of incense. Afterwards, they’d been so glad to go and sit under the trees on the Mall, eat their sandwiches and watch the nursemaids with their large perambulators and the groundsman cutting the grass in front of the little cricket pavilion.
It was last February she’d gone to Portadown. Her friend Lizzie was one of the guides in the Guard of Honour that lined up outside the station when the Duke and Duchess of York had arrived on their visit to the province. Mr Mackay had cleaned up his timber lorry and she’d gone with Lizzie and her mother and some of their neighbours to see the Royal couple.
It had been a very different sort of day. No great buildings or old stone houses, but crowds of people, bands and parades. The Duke and Duchess smiled and waved, the Duchess wearing the longest gloves she’d ever seen and one of the new cloche hats. She and the Duke had seemed so happy together. The crowd had roared
and clapped and waved their handkerchiefs and scarves, but she hadn’t. She’d fallen silent and felt her eyes fill with tears, but she’d never worked out why she should have felt like that.
‘Come in,’ she said quickly, as she heard a foot on the landing and a knock at her door.
‘Ach, yer awake. Are ye feelin’ better?’
‘Yes, I am, Granda. I don’t know why I keep falling asleep. I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance.’
‘Not a bit of it. Sure that was a nasty accident you had,’ John Hamilton said, shaking his head. ‘We’ll have Dr Stewart over tomorrow to have a look at you. Granny was wondering if you’d be able to come down for a wee while. Sammy says its time he and yer da were going back, so he can return the motor.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ll just put my shoes on.’
‘Don’t hurry yourself now. I’ll away down an’ tell them yer comin’.
Just in time, Rosie remembered not to bend over quickly. The last time, she’d nearly passed out again. She pushed her toes into her shoes, stood up, then tied them carefully one after the other by putting her foot up on the edge of the low windowsill and holding her head as high as she could. She stepped out on to the landing, saw the afternoon sunlight streaming into the house through all the open doors and heard the sound of voices from the sitting room.
‘Oh, Rosie dear, you are looking better,’ her grandmother said, as she slipped into the room and stood smiling at them.
Sam Hamilton stood up, his glance casual as he watched her come back into the room. Only his mother noticed the change in his face as he saw his daughter smile.
‘Granny says you can stay here for the week,’ he said, giving her a kiss. ‘We’ll see how you are then.’
‘But what about Miss Wilson?’
‘I’ll walk up tonight an’ have a word with her,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sure you could go an’ see her yourself when you come home, couldn’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course I could.’
She turned towards her grandmother and grandfather.
‘She’s been so good to me,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t possibly leave without thanking her.’
Rosie didn’t see the glance her grandparents exchanged as Sammy moved forward to give her a quick hug.
‘I’ll see them off,’ said John firmly, as Rose was about to get up.
‘Your granny has a bad back, Rosie. See if you can keep her sittin’ down,’ he added, giving her a wry smile over his shoulder.
He followed his son and grandson into the hall and turned towards the back door and the former stable yard where Harry Mitchell’s motor stood waiting.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’m sorry about your back, Granny. Were you gardening?’ Rose laughed as her granddaughter sat down in the armchair opposite and pushed her dark hair back from her face.
‘No, not guilty this time.’
She straightened herself awkwardly in her chair.
‘It just takes a notion to itself from time to time. It’ll go away if I behave myself. But what’s good for us isn’t usually to our liking, is it?’
‘I know you’re not much good at watching the weeds grow,’ Rosie replied, grinning at her.
Even as she spoke, Rosie was aware what a relief it was to talk to someone who didn’t criticise, someone who listened to what she said and actually asked questions when she didn’t understand or wanted to know more. It was nearly a year since her last visit to Rathdrum and she had almost forgotten that her grandmother loved her and cared about her whatever her faults and failings. The awareness was such a shock, she forgot completely what she was going to say.
‘Have you still got the headache, Rosie?’ the older woman asked quietly.
‘Yes, it’s still there, but I hardly notice it at all if I keep still.’
Even before her grandmother spoke, the silence had filled up with unwelcome thoughts. She could hear her mother’s nagging voice, the high-pitched tone that warned her there was trouble ahead, that she’d best stay silent and unobserved if possible. If she had to work under her eye then the tone warned her she’d be well advised to work faster and yet more vigorously, even if it exhausted her.
If she was scrubbing the kitchen table, or washing the stone floor, her mother would be sure to say, ‘Don’t hurt yourself now.’ It was the sarcastic, cutting edge in her mother’s voice that gave the meaning to the words. No matter how hard she’d worked or how clean the result might be, she could be sure of a hurtful comment. If she paused, even for a moment, to work out what it was best to do next she’d be told off for ‘standin’ there daydreamin’.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a nuisance,’ she said, when she realised she’d fallen silent again.
‘You mustn’t say that, Rosie,’ her grandmother replied, looking quite shocked. ‘You’ve had a very nasty accident and you need to rest until you feel better. We’ll get Dr Stewart to come over and see you tomorrow.’
Rosie opened her mouth to protest, but her grandmother was ready and waiting.
‘He’s very nice,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Rather good-looking too,’ she continued, raising an eyebrow and hoping to get a smile. ‘Besides, he’s my godson and I don’t see him as often as I’d like.’
‘I thought Dr Stewart was quite old.’
‘Yes, he is. We are all old now. Richard and Elizabeth, your granda and me. Richard has almost retired. My Dr Stewart is his son. He’s Richard as well. James Richard Pearson Stewart,’ she added. ‘Elizabeth has always called him Richard, or Richard P. when his father is there as well, but I remember thinking it was such a big name for such a tiny baby. Then, of course, two month’s after he was born your Auntie Hannah and Uncle Teddy had their first child and they called him Frances John Molyneux Harrington, which is even longer.’
‘Why do you think parents give babies long names like that?’ Rosie asked suddenly.
‘When you and I got just plain Rose?’ her grandmother retorted, her eyes twinkling.
Rosie laughed and sat back more comfortably in her chair.
‘It’s partly a matter of social class, I suppose. Certainly the Molyneux family all had long names made up of important ancestors. I remember when I first met your granda down in Kerry, he was working for Sir Capel Molyneux from Armagh and I was working for Sir Capel Molyneux in Kerry. Capel was a family name so they both had it. It was very confusing at times. I suppose little Frances was lucky he didn’t have Capel as well.’
‘And why didn’t he?’
‘Do you know, I don’t know. Or maybe I did know and have forgotten!’ she said, laughing again. ‘Oh dear, Rosie, I do keep forgetting things these days. I hope I’m not going to grow into a silly old woman.’
‘No, of course you’re not,’ Rosie protested vigorously. ‘I don’t see how one can possibly remember everything. There wouldn’t be space in your head if you remembered absolutely everything, would there?’
‘Well, I certainly hadn’t thought of that,’ Rose said levering herself cautiously to her feet, ‘but it’s a much nicer idea than thinking I might end up being silly.’
‘Can I help? Can I fetch anything for you?’
‘No, my love. I need to stand up from time to time. Besides, I’m supposed to be looking after you, and you are very pale and have big dark circles under your eyes. Do you want to lie down again and let Granda bring you up some supper on a tray?’
Rosie shook her head.
‘What I’d really like is to go out into the garden and sit on your seat,’ she replied, as she got to her feet and stood looking down at the small, compact figure who regarded her so closely.
‘You’ve grown, Rosie. I can’t look you straight in the eye any more. I won’t be able to scold you,’ she declared, her tone light and teasing.
‘But you never have scolded me, Granny. Never ever.’
To the surprise of both of them, Rosie dropped back down into the armchair, burst into tears and wept as if her heart would break.
‘Is
she reading?’ Rose asked, looking up from her knitting as John came back into the sitting room.
He bent down and put another log on the small wood fire he’d lit when the long summer evening began to grow chilly under a pale, yellowing sky with not a trace of cloud.
‘I think that was the intention all right,’ he said, nodding as he sat down gratefully in his comfortable armchair. ‘But by the time I’d got her the towel and the wee cake of soap you asked for, she was asleep. I had to take the book out of her hand. But she looked very comfortable. Apart from that big bruise.’
‘What do you think happened?’ Rose asked, catching his eye.
‘Oh, I think it was an accident. Our Sam wouldn’t tell us a lie. He’s very particular about that sort of thing. But, as you would say, I don’t think he told us the half of it.’
‘So you think it was Martha?’
‘That wumman’s capable of anythin’.’
Even if she hadn’t glanced up at him, Rose could tell he was badly upset. Over his many years as a director of Bann Valley Mills, dealing with people of all sorts, fellow directors, customers, foreign buyers, machine builders, bankers and insurance assessors, John had lost much of his Armagh country accent. The one time it really came back was when he was seriously upset.
‘Sure she’s fit for anythin’,’ he went on hastily, ‘an’ you know she picks on Rosie. Sure Emily as good as told us that the las’ time the pair of them were here.’
‘But why Rosie?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘I know Martha’s a law unto herself, but Rosie’s the most willing, good-hearted girl. She’d do anything to help anyone. From what I can see she just about runs that house now Emily is out at work. Martha’s never there. When have we ever called to see them and Martha’s been there?’
