by Anne Doughty
In a small curved area where road stone had been quarried from a convenient outcrop, they’d drawn off the road and spread their picnic on a broad, flat rock. Surrounded by wildflowers and shadowed from the heat of the noonday sun by the bare cliff behind them, they’d eaten together, talking and laughing.
After the meal, while her grandparents read and rested in the comfortable back seats of the motor, she and Patrick explored the nearby rock faces and the sheltered crevices, home to a whole variety of small plants. Neither of them knew the names of the flowers they found, but he’d helped her to find the freshest of the blooms and together they’d arranged them carefully and pressed them between the clean pages at the back of her sketch pad.
Only when they arrived in Tralee and made their way through the unfamiliar streets to the railway station did some of the old tension return, but even that soon disappeared. The station was crowded, full of visitors. Some of them were English, some American tourists, easily distinguishable by their clothes and accents, but most were family parties from Cork, or Galway, or Dublin. No one gave them a second glance as they threaded their way on to the platform together, one more family going to welcome friends or setting off to visit relations at the height of the summer season.
Quite without planning it, they’d arrived only moments before the scheduled departure of a train that would take Patrick well away from Kerry. He bought his ticket and began to say thank you to her grandparents as the train itself steamed in.
There were only minutes left as he shook hands vigorously with her grandfather and said something to him she didn’t catch. Then her grandmother moved forward, hugged him and wished him well.
Encircled by a family party already pushing past them from the open carriage doors, he turned towards her. Their eyes had met and she found herself overcome with shyness.
He’d hesitated for a moment only and then, taking her by the shoulders, he’d kissed her vigorously on both cheeks.
‘Take great care of yourself, sister dear, till I see you again,’ he said with a broad grin.
They had laughed as he climbed in, stepping carefully around a small boy who refused to move away from his vantage point at the window.
He waved and disappeared into the crowded carriage as the train began to move out of the station. They watched it disappear in a cloud of steam and smoke knowing he could not look back at them or wave. All she could think of was whether he felt it safe enough now to remove his headgear and reveal his capping of shining red hair.
Now the sun was going down in an orange glow in the shimmering waters of Dingle Bay and the shadows were lengthening across the road ahead. She wondered where the same evening sun would find Patrick and what different prospect he might be viewing from the windows of a train steaming east across the map of Ireland. She was painfully aware the miles between them increased as each minute passed. Not only had no one ever left her before, but she had no idea if she would ever see Patrick again.
Saddened by the thought of their hasty and confused parting, another thought as sad came in on top of it. She caught her breath and stared indifferently at the lively activity filling the large central square in Cahirciveen.
In three more days their holiday would be over. There would be no more drives, no more magnificent prospects of mountain and sea, no more walks on the beach or long talks with her grandmother in the hotel garden. She would be going home, home to Ulster. To the Six Counties, as people here in the south now called it. First to Banbridge to spend a night at Rathdrum, then home to the farm by Richhill Station.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief. It was only when she’d wiped her eyes and was putting her handkerchief back in her pocket that she touched the slim, leather-bound book Patrick had given her only that morning.
With a great sigh of relief, she took out the book and held it firmly in her hand. Here was a token, some tangible evidence of what had been between them, however brief the time and whatever it might mean. Even after so few hours, it seemed as if Currane Lodge and her meeting with Patrick was slipping away from her as fast as the miles between Tralee and Waterville.
She examined the small volume closely, a well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the pages brown and brittle and spotted with age. On the title page, the name of some former owner had faded from black to misty grey. Inside the back cover, a very modest price had been scribbled in pencil. A single leaf from a notebook, folded double and identical to the one she had found on the floor of Patrick’s hiding place, served as a book mark.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day …
She read the familiar sonnet and smiled, then read it again. She leant her head back against her seat. Had he simply left the folded sheet to mark the place where he’d been reading, or was it placed there deliberately, to send her a message? She’d so like it to be meant for her, something that reached across the growing miles. Something to cherish. But she couldn’t be sure. Like Patrick’s kisses, she was sure they were sincerely meant at the time, but something told her that Patrick’s gestures might come and go very easily.
She opened the book again. Inside the front cover, was a freshly written message, slightly smudged, with a generous scrawled signature at the end. She was sure it began ‘To Rose’, but that was as far as she could go for Patrick had written his message in Irish.
Next morning over breakfast, they began to discuss what they might do in the precious few days that remained. Although he seemed tired after the long drive to Tralee, her grandfather was in the best of spirits. He said what he wanted was to make the best of the greatest motor he had ever driven.
Her grandmother smiled to herself, not at all surprised that all he wanted to do was drive. She confessed what she wanted was to see the mountains, from any angle, even from a seat in the hotel garden. She’d lived with the remembrance of these mountains, she said, for almost half a century, and she wanted to make sure they’d be with her for the rest of her life.
When they turned to Rosie and asked her what she’d most like to do, she made them laugh, because she suggested they just opened John’s guide book at random because there was nowhere she’d been so far she hadn’t loved.
In the end, they did two drives. They went west to Valentia Island, took the ferry to the island itself and saw the place from which the very first telegraph message had been sent across the Atlantic. The next day they went east to see the lakes at Killarney, for her grandmother said that no one could come to Kerry and not go to see them.
The time passed even more quickly than Rosie had expected. Sitting at breakfast on the very last morning she felt unspeakably sad. It needed a real effort to eat the tasty breakfast which Bridget had just served.
Looking down at her plate, she knew there’d be no bacon and eggs for breakfast when she got home. Nor smoked salmon kedgeree. Probably not even a second cup of tea, unless she was quick enough. She couldn’t imagine that ever again anyone would ask if there was anything she’d like, or anything they could do for her.
The previous evening, after dinner, Bridget had knocked on her bedroom door.
‘I’ve come to do your packing, miss,’ she said politely.
‘Oh Bridget, come in. I’ve done it. It only took me a minute, but I’m so glad to see you. Come and sit down.’
‘I’m awful sorry yer goin’ miss,’ Bridget said bluntly, as she followed her to the window seat that looked out over the garden.
‘And I’m awfully sorry to be going,’ she replied honestly, as they sat down facing each other.
‘Maybe ye’ll come again next year, miss. Yer granda and granny enjoyed themselves, diden they?’
‘Oh yes, they did. We all did. But it was a special holiday for them. They’ve wanted to come for a long, long time, but something always came to stop them. For a very long time they couldn’t even afford the train fare. Then, when they could, there was family and work. They had it all planned in 1914 when the war broke out and then there were all
the troubles that came after. Some people thought they shouldn’t even have come this year with all the bad feeling there’s been over the Boundary Commission but Granny said they weren’t getting any younger. So they came. But I don’t think they would come again.’
‘But you could come, miss.’
‘Bridget dear, you mustn’t call me miss. There’s no one to hear you now and I’m not a guest any more. I’m just a girl like you, though I’ve turned sixteen now and you’re probably younger.’
‘I’m fifteen an’ this is m’ first job since I left school. An’ I only started last week the day you’s came, miss.’
She paused as Rosie smiled and shook her head.
‘Rosie,’ Bridget corrected herself, with a shy smile. ‘It’s a nice name, it suits you, miss. I mean, Rosie.’
She laughed at herself and then looked at Rosie cautiously.
‘What’ll ye do Rosie, when ye go home? D’ye live with Granny and Granda?’
‘No, I wish I did,’ she admitted. ‘I live on a farm about fifteen miles away and I don’t see them very often. I’ve eight brothers and sisters and I’ve been trying to find a job. No luck so far.’
‘I’m saving to go to America,’ said Bridget suddenly. ‘And your granda was very good to me. He gave me a wee envelope with money. Paper money,’ she added, her eyes wide. ‘If there were a few more like him I could go next year.’
She paused and hesitated. Then it all came out with a rush.
‘Maybe we’ll meet in America,’ she said brightening, her dark eyes flashing into life. ‘Irish people always meet each other over there. There’s so many clubs and societies, ye’d never be afraid of being lonely. That’s what my sister says. She went last year.’
‘My sister Emily is hoping to go too.’
‘Sure, you could come as well. Sure what’s to keep you here if you haven’t a job and don’t live with your nice granny and granda?’ She paused and added shyly, ‘Though I know you wouden want to leave them.’
‘That’s true. I’m so lucky to have them.’
‘Aye, an’ they’re lucky to have you,’ Bridget replied, as she stood up. ‘Sure don’t old people need young people to keep the life in them and to stop them thinkin’ long.’
Rosie looked up at her and smiled, watched as she straightened her apron and her cap with a practised twitch, a skinny, vulnerable figure.
‘If I don’t go now, someone ’ill be lookin’ for me,’ she said quickly, though she still made no move to go.
‘Yes, I suppose you must. A pity we couldn’t go out for a walk on my last evening.’
Bridget hesitated, as if she had something more to say, but felt to shy to say it.
‘Rosie, would you write to me?’ she managed at last, blurting out the words as she put her hand on the well-polished door knob.
‘Yes, of course I will, if you want me to.’ She got up and followed her to the door. ‘Maybe not very often if I’m living at home, but I will write.’
‘That would be great, really great,’ Bridget replied, holding out her hand and giving Rosie a great beaming smile. ‘And then we can plan where to meet if we’re both goin’ to America.’
‘Two messages for you, Mr Hamilton,’ said Bridget, approaching their table quickly as they finished breakfast. ‘The young man from Tralee is here.’
For one startling, heart-stopping moment all Rosie could think of was Patrick. But that was silly. Patrick had left from Tralee. The last thing he would be doing was coming back to Waterville.
‘Ah, thank you, Bridget,’ John said, folding his Irish Times and looking at his watch. ‘He’s a good bit early, but the cases are all ready and I settled up last night. Would you tell him we’ll be with him shortly.’
‘He’s in no hurry, Mr Hamilton,’ she replied, giving him a big grin. ‘The housekeeper is his mother’s cousin. She has him sat down with bacon and egg.’
Leaving them all laughing, she had just hurried away when she stopped, put her hand to her mouth and came back again.
‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s another message,’ she apologised, putting her hand to her apron pocket and taking out a badly crumpled piece of paper. ‘It came last night late and there was only the night porter on reception. It’s not very clear and Jimmy’s a desperit bad han’ with a pen.’
‘It says,’ she began, peering at it crossly, ‘Mr Hamilton’s cat safe. Dublin … something … something … will send to North.’
Rosie smiled and said nothing, a great wave of relief sweeping over her.
‘I wonder,’ said her grandmother slowly, ‘could it be that cap you left behind in Dublin, John.’
‘Aye, cap, not cat,’ said John, his face lighting up.
‘I left my other driving cap behind in Dublin, Bridget,’ he explained. ‘Maybe the hotel thought it best to send it to our home address.’
‘Ach yes, they would. It’s what we do here as well. You wouden believe what people leave behind that has to be packed up and sent. England and America inta the bargain.’
‘Well, we’ll try not to do that, Bridget,’ said Rose, getting slowly to her feet. ‘Will you come out to see us off?’
‘Indeed I will, ma’am. As soon as I see ye’s gettin’ inta the motor, or yer man finishin’ up his tea, I’ll take a wee run out. I’ve sent the porter up for yer cases.’
Rosie went back up to her room knowing she had nothing left to do but look out at the garden, at the pattern of shrubs and flowers that had been her companion for nearly two weeks now and at the sea beyond. She stood by the window not knowing whether she wanted to treasure these last precious moments in this world, or wishing she was back and settled in the very different world that awaited her.
Now that the cases had gone, the small one her father had brought from Richhill and the larger one her grandfather had bought her for her birthday, all that was left of her presence in this bright, pretty room was a woven bag from a gift shop in Killarney. In it she had put a book for the journey, the maps her grandfather said he no longer needed, her half-filled sketch book with its treasure of small pressed flowers secured by rubber bands and the slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
She took it out and leafed through it yet again, her mind moving back and forth over her meetings with Patrick. He had seldom been out of her thoughts since they’d sent him off on the train from Tralee. Now they knew he was safe. From somewhere in Dublin he’d phoned his coded message to let them know he’d arrived.
It was almost time to go down to the courtyard. The motor would be waiting, the young man from the hire company ready to drive them to the station at Kenmare before returning with the Bentley to Tralee. She was about to close the book and put it back in her bag when she caught a slight noise outside her door. There was the briefest of knocks as her grandmother came into the room.
‘Goodbyes are so sad,’ she said, taking one look at Rosie’s face.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, making an effort to smile. ‘Is it time to go?’
‘Yes, it is. He’s finished his tea, and Bridget is waiting.’ To Rosie’s own surprise, she held out the book to her grandmother.
‘Granny, could you tell me what this means?’
‘Well, yes. I’m a bit rusty,’ said Rose, slightly taken aback.
‘But this is quite easy. It says: To Rosie, who will always be my angel and my rose. Patrick.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, as she took the book and put it away. ‘I meant to ask you sooner …’ she added awkwardly.
‘He’s a very charming young man. I’m sure you’ll meet again some day.’
She slipped an arm round her waist and drew her out of the room and along the landing to where the broad, carpeted stairs led them down to the courtyard from which they would begin their long journey home.
CHAPTER TEN
There were wisps of cloud on the far horizon as they drove briskly along the southern stretch of the Ring of Kerry to the station at Kenmare, but by the time they reached the little town heavy gre
y swags had covered the sun. As they unloaded the luggage, tiny stabs of warm rain fell. Sitting by the window, as the train steamed steadily eastwards, smoke billowing around the carriages in the strengthening breeze, Rosie watched the heavier rain catch up with them, driven by the strengthening westerly wind from the Atlantic, and spatter noisily against the window beside her.
The rain continued to chase them eastwards throughout the day. She watched the green countryside slip past beyond the streaming carriage windows, its rich colours even more intense under the laden grey skies than in the brilliant sunshine of their journey down.
They arrived in Dublin in a downpour, heard thunder in the night and set off again the next morning as the first gleams of light broke through the massed clouds. As they stood outside the hotel waiting for the luggage to be loaded, she watched the wet pavements begin to dry, the pale centre of each flagstone expanding outwards in the fresh breeze, moment by moment.
Halfway to Drogheda, the clouds parted and the sun finally broke through. Rosie, focused on the ruffled white caps fretting the navy-blue of the sea, stared in amazement as the broad expanse of dark water was transformed to a deep turquoise. She would never have believed that any stretch of Irish coast could look like the cover illustration on Coral Island, a tropical sea bathed in sunshine and rimmed with golden sand. Only the palm trees were missing.
She wondered if she would ever see this gleaming expanse of sea again, or stand by the shore on the west coast gazing out over the Atlantic with nothing but ocean between her and America. Her grandmother had waited a lifetime to revisit her beloved mountains of Kerry. She wondered where her own life would take her and whether she’d have the chance to return to somewhere she’d been so happy.
As so often since they’d left him at the station in Tralee, she found herself thinking of Patrick. Somewhere in the city rapidly being left further and further behind them, he was going about his everyday life. Doing whatever job he’d been able to find to earn enough money to stay at college. Meeting friends, reading History, his chosen subject, or poetry, clearly his passion, or any of the hundreds of books he would have access to, as a student in a very literate city.
