by Anne Doughty
They paused to catch their breath, walked across and leant on a five-barred gate. Sloping away from them lay a meadow where cattle stood, twitching their tails, in the shade of one of the young oaks. Below and beyond stretched the green lowlands of the Bann valley, the river itself glinting wherever it was not hidden among the trees. On the horizon lay the mountains, their outline sharp against the sky though the heat haze increasing by the hour made them seem insubstantial.
‘Granny’s mountains,’ she said, half to herself.
‘I can see why neither of them wants to move from Rathdrum. Imagine looking out on mountains from the end of your own garden. I don’t think I could be prised away if it had been my home.’
‘Is anxiety a symptom of something?’
‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes still firmly fixed on the far horizon. She looked sideways at him and waited. ‘Like pinking. It can mean different things. Plugs, magneto and …’
‘Distributor.’
‘But unlike a car you can’t lift a man’s bonnet up and see which it might be,’ he ended, as they stepped back on to the road and continued up the hill. ‘In many cases you just have to wait and see.’
‘I’d find that very difficult if I were a doctor. In fact, I find it difficult even though I’m not a doctor. I sometimes hate not knowing what’s going to happen next.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s not a symptom. It’s just something we poor mortals have to live with. I’m probably no better than you when it comes to thinking about the future, but things usually work out all right in the end.’
They arrived at the top of the hill and tramped into the welcome shade of the big sycamore overspreading the entrance gates which had been left open for them.
To her great surprise, he reached out and took her hand as they passed between them.
‘Come on, Rosie, let’s put an inch to our step. Just think of Mrs Love’s nice lunch.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rosie woke early next morning and drew back her curtains to find a dark and threatening sky so overcast she felt oppressed by its weight. Not only had the previous day’s bright sunshine disappeared, but also the freshness that followed Friday’s heavy rain. There was not a breath of wind to stir the foliage of the trees, dense and darkened with the maturity of late July.
Sunday morning was always quiet at Rathdrum. No distant murmur came up from the beetling hammers at Ballievy, or crash of sudden rock falls in the quarry at Lisnaree, or the rumble of vehicles moving on the Katesbridge road across the fields on the other side of Corbet Lough. No activity in the yard below until the motor came out to take them to church. The Sunday quiet was familiar from other visits, but this morning even the birds were silent.
There were a few large spots of rain as they came out of church and Rose and John stopped to greet friends and neighbours, but the threatened downpour didn’t materialise. The overcast skies were enough however to make John anxious that it would rain during the afternoon when they were to take her home.
It was not a comfortable drive. Roomy as it was, the Austen felt dark and confining, a strange rubbery smell emanating from the seldom used hood her grandfather had felt obliged to put up. Sharing the back seat with the smaller of her two suitcases, she could only glimpse the passing countryside through the transparent panels in its heavy waterproof fabric and register only the most obvious of the familiar landmarks. Her stomach rumbled uncomfortably as the miles passed, as if her lunch hadn’t agreed with her. She knew it was because she was anxious, dreading the coolness of her mother’s reception and the barbed remarks sure to follow once her grandparents were out of sight.
She felt the vibration as the motor turned off the Portadown road and moved more slowly on the rutted surface and steep slopes of the narrow lane running down to the level crossing. Just before the station itself, they swung left through the open gate, turned round neatly in the empty farmyard and stopped outside the barn, exactly opposite the front door of the house.
She took a deep breath and pushed wide the rear door. As she climbed out she heard her father’s voice. He was already kissing his mother and clasping his father warmly by the hand.
‘Ach it’s great to see you,’ he exclaimed, beaming at the two of them.
‘Hello Da,’ she said, coming towards him and holding up her face to be kissed.
‘Dear a dear! Who’s this young lady you’ve brought me back?’ Sam demanded. ‘My goodness, she’s looking well,’ he added, his eye moving surreptitiously to her left temple where the scratch and bruise were nowhere to be seen.
‘That dress suits you powerful well. I suppose that was your doing,’ he continued, turning towards his mother.
‘A birthday present, Sam. One wee dress from me and one from your da. Now you wouldn’t deny us that, would you?’
‘Ach no, I couldn’t say a word and you’re so good to all of them. Come on away in an’ we’ll see about a cup o’ tea. I think maybe Martha had to go down to see Cissie Loney. One of her we’ans has took bad, but she’ll be back any minute.’
Rosie followed them into the kitchen. To her amazement, there was no one there at all. Neither Uncle Joe reading his Sunday paper, nor young Dolly absorbed in her Girls Own comic, nor any of her brothers or sisters, not even young Jack who always used the table for his models whenever he could lay hands on it. She watched her father draw forward the kettle on the stove and pull back the rings to stir the fire. The sudden flicker brought the only brightness in the oppressive gloom of the empty room.
‘Ach, Granny, Granda, hello. It’s great to see ye.’
Without the slightest warning, Emily burst into the kitchen like a gale of wind, her hair and clothes tossed and untidy, her face wreathed in smiles.
‘I heard the motor all right but I couldn’t let go what they had me holdin’. I had to give Uncle Joe and Bobby a hand mendin’ the fence,’ she explained hastily, as she put her arms round Rosie and hugged her.
‘The wee brown heifer is the very divil for breaking out into Hughie Lamb’s field and aul Hughie doesn’t be one bit pleased,’ she gasped, finally running out of breath.
‘Did ye’s have a good time?’ she demanded, releasing Rosie, but keeping an arm round her waist. ‘Granny, I’ll swear she’s grown since she left. Don’t you think so? If she goes on like this she’ll grow out of this nice, new dress.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, Emily,’ Rosie begged. ‘I like this dress so much I want it to last forever.’
The words came out so fervently that even her father laughed his slow, gentle laugh.
Emily took over making the tea, while Rosie fetched cups and plates from the dresser. There was no cake in the tin, but she found an unopened packet of biscuits, which would be better than nothing. Emily was just pouring the first cup of tea for Rosie to hand to her grandmother when they heard the scrape of boots in the yard.
Bobby came in, did a shy and awkward shuffle towards the stove, but greeted his grandparents warmly. Uncle Joe didn’t so much as glance at the assembled company. He pulled open the door by the fireplace and tramped through to his bedroom without a word to anyone, banging it closed behind him. His studded boots echoed back from the bare boards.
‘Is Uncle Joe not feeling too good?’ asked Rose.
‘No, he’s not right,’ Bobby admitted, shaking his head. ‘It’s his stomach, he says. But then,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘Uncle Joe always has something wrong with him, as you very well know.’
‘We’ve been tryin’ to get him to go to the doctor,’ Sam explained, as he took his cup of tea from Rosie and pulled a kitchen chair over to the stove. ‘He’s got an awful bad colour and he’s eatin’ next to nothin’. But sure whatever I say wouden be right,’ he added, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. ‘Joe’ll do his own do, as the saying is.’
‘And how’s Bobby?’ asked Rose, turning away from Sam to smile up at the sturdy young man who was doing his best with a cup and saucer when what he’d really have liked was his usual ha
lf pint mug.
‘I’m rightly, Granny,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘but I’m still lookin’ a job with motors if I could find one.’
‘Jobs are very hard to come by these days,’ said John very slowly. ‘I was talking to a man from Belfast the night we stayed over in Dublin and he told me, “There’s green grass growing in the shipyards.” If it’s that bad in Belfast, it affects everybody …’
He broke off, suddenly short of breath. Teapot poised to pour second cups, Rosie paused and looked towards him. She caught her own breath and looked quickly away. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him go pale, his speech slow, his manner withdrawn, or anxious, but that was before Richard Stewart had asked his casual question as they walked up the hill to Rathdrum. Now she saw her grandfather with different eyes and was so distressed by what she saw she had to busy herself with the teacups to hide her feelings.
She was sure her grandmother had noticed. Before she had even finished her tea, she bent over and began to produce presents from a large shopping bag. There were presents for all the grandchildren. Rosie watched Emily’s face light up when she unwrapped a pretty blouse she herself had helped to choose. There was a biplane model for Jack, and books and board games for Margaret and Dolly.
Bobby watched his grandmother take the last boxes out of the shopping bag. He could be sure he was not forgotten, any more than Sammy, who couldn’t get home this weekend, but he was puzzled as the bag emptied and still no gift had emerged.
‘I’m afraid you and Sammy will have to wait just a little while for your present,’ Rose began, smiling at the young man ‘I don’t think you’ll mind sharing it,’ she went on, looking across at John, who stirred himself and managed a small smile.
He raised his hands to his face, placed his thumbs against his cheeks and wiggled all his fingers at once.
Bobby’s face lit up.
‘Cat’s whiskers?’ he demanded, hardly able to avoid tripping over the words.
‘Aye,’ said John. ‘We saw the advertisement for a kit in a magazine in the hotel. It might take a wee while to come, but it’s all there. All the parts you need. Next time I come I’ll be wanting to hear all the news.’
‘Wireless,’ Rosie whispered softly to Emily, totally perplexed by John’s grotesque gestures and Bobby’s beaming smiles.
‘Well now,’ said Sam, ‘that’s very generous of you, Da. There won’t be many round here that has all the latest news straight from London.’
‘Aye, and beyond,’ insisted Bobby, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Once Sammy an’ I get an aerial up on top o’ the barn we’ll be able to get stations abroad forby. We’ve got all the frequencies from outa the magazines, its just a matter o’ tunin’ …’
Rosie and Emily were sitting side by side at the kitchen table, the empty teacups still scattered across its worn surface. The door had stood open since Sam had brought them across from the barn. Now, some change in the light, some small sound of footsteps or rustle of clothing, caused Rosie to look round.
Martha stood in the doorway, her face expressionless, her pale, bright eyes moving quickly over the small gathering.
Rosie opened her mouth to speak, but Martha ignored her.
‘I see I’ve missed the tea,’ she said, a small smile playing round her lips. ‘It’s a pity that, for it’s not often I get a cup made for me,’ she went on, her tone thin and cutting as Bobby stopped speaking and John and Sam got to their feet.
‘Ach, sit yer ground. Sure, don’t ye need all the rest ye can get with the busy lives ye both lead, driving to the far ends of Ireland or lying down on the railway banks chattin’ with your friends?’
John sat down gratefully, glanced across at Rose and said nothing, but Sam remained standing, a look on his face that Rosie could not read.
Aware of the tense situation, Rose did her best.
‘How are you, Martha?’ she began.
Martha looked at her as if she were about to reply, then turned on her heel and addressed Bobby.
‘Mrs Loney has her han’s full with that girl of hers. I told her you and Emily would go down an’ see to the milkin’ to help her out. I diden think your sister wou’d be much help, even if she did arrive back. Rosie has never been one for work on the farm,’ she added, to no one in particular.
‘Perhaps, Martha, that’s because you find so much work for her in the house,’ said Sam, who had kept silent as long as possible, observing the small, tense figure of his wife, and now felt compelled to speak.
‘An what do you know about keepin’ house?’ she fired back at him. ‘An’ what are you two waitin’ for? Do I have to tell you everythin’ twice?’ she went on, swinging round to glare at Bobby and Emily.
John got to his feet, excused himself, and walked out of the house. At the same moment, Emily got up and followed Bobby across the yard and into the lane.
Rosie saw her grandfather set off in the direction of the privy behind the barn, but she was sure he would not come back into the kitchen. He would go into the barn or sit in the motor and leave it to Rose to extract them from a situation he found unbearable.
‘Sam dear,’ said Rose, getting to her feet, ‘there’s a conversation you and I must have before we go back to Rathdrum. Shall we go over to the barn and get out of Martha’s way? There’s nothing worse than visitors who don’t know when to go, is there?’ she continued sweetly, turning to Martha. ‘Especially when you’ve been so busy helping your neighbour.’
‘Oh, suit yourself, Rose,’ Martha retorted. ‘You and your pet granddaughter are very good at that. I have the hen’s feed to make.’
She pulled out a bucket of scraps from the low shelf under the dresser with a noisy rattle that would drown any response and then stamped out into the yard and across to the potato house where the Layer’s Mash was stored.
Left alone in the empty kitchen, Rosie put her head in her hands and let the waves of despair flow over her. She’d been dreading coming back and apart from Emily’s big hug and her father’s shy smile, her welcome, or lack of it, had been pretty much as she’d expected. The presence of her father and grandparents had somewhat modified her mother’s customary hostility, but no doubt that would come soon enough. In all the ordinary working days and weeks that lay ahead she was only too aware neither her father, nor Emily, nor her grandparents would be there to deflect her mother’s anger and frustration.
She studied the deep grain of the much scrubbed table, cast her eyes to the floor below and considered the accumulation of dust and crumbs. The floor certainly hadn’t been swept for some time and there were no signs it had been scrubbed either. The windows were dirty and marked with the squashed bodies of bluebottles swatted with a rolled newspaper, a favourite pastime of Uncle Joe. The stove hadn’t been blackened, nor the fender polished.
In the heavy atmosphere of the late afternoon, the lingering smell of boiled potatoes and cabbage lay on the warm air mixed with the faint aroma of paraffin oil and greasing compound almost certainly emanating from two pairs of very dirty blue dungarees hanging on a hook beside the front door. From the small bedroom beyond her own, she heard Uncle Joe hawk and spit. Moments later, she heard the sound of running water as he peed in the large chamber pot which he was never required to empty.
There was nothing for it, she decided, as she got to her feet. Sitting here would only leave her more vulnerable should her mother return and find her doing nothing. She picked up the suitcases she’d parked by the door and moved as quietly as she could along the echoing boards to the bedroom. She shut the door firmly behind her, took off her dress with its pattern of tiny dark blue and light blue squares and opened the wardrobe door. The stink of mothballs was overwhelming, but there was nowhere else to put it.
She took out her black working skirt, pulled it on, and then, reluctant to give in completely to the situation she now faced, she searched in her suitcase for an old red blouse, faded and mended but still wearable. She unpinned her hair, brushed out the dark mass and caught
it back with one of the neatly trimmed pieces of ribbon she and her fellow pupils at Miss Wilson’s gave to each other as birthday gifts or marks of friendship.
She looked at herself in the long mirror on the open wardrobe door. Despite the dim light and the starred and broken reflection where the silvered backing had peeled with age, what she saw surprised her. Even without her grown-up dress, with her hair down and wearing her old skirt, she looked different. What made her so, she couldn’t work out yet, but the change was one she found strangely comforting.
When Sam and Rose emerged from the barn, John was already sitting behind the wheel, anxious to drive off before the threatened rain finally arrived. Rosie heard the sound of voices and ran out to join them, leaving the washing-up bowl and the clean cups and saucers behind her.
‘Your da will tell you everything later,’ her grandmother said, as Sam took up the starting handle and stood waiting.
‘He’s promised to consult his conscience about what should be done for you, so you know he’ll do his best. I’ve asked him to bring you over one Sunday towards the end of August,’ she went on, as she put her arms round Rosie and hugged her. ‘It’s only a month and the children are at home,’ she whispered softly in her ear before she released her.
They walked hand in hand round to the passenger seat.
‘Write me the odd wee note if you can. I’m going to miss you after all the long talks we’ve had,’ she added, as she stepped into the motor and settled herself for the drive.
Sam swung the handle vigorously. The engine fired first time. Father and son looked at each other with satisfied smiles.
‘She’s in good order, Da,’ commented Sam, as he placed the starting handle back in the motor.
‘Aye. She’s a good motor, even if she’s not a Bentley,’ John replied. ‘We’ll see you soon. Take care of yourselves,’ he called to them as he let in the clutch and moved slowly forward.
Rosie and her father stood watching as they crossed the yard. John took his time, for he was always on the lookout for a stray hen or the elderly, half-blind sheepdog. As the vehicle turned right up the hill, they saw two arms shoot up in the air and wave.
