by Anne Doughty
‘’Fraid so.’
‘And you still don’t think he might recover?’
‘What do you want me to say, Rosie?’
She stared at him, puzzled by his question, then glanced down at the tray she’d just completed.
‘I must take this up before the pot of tea gets cold. I’ll make some more for you when I come down.’
‘Is Auntie Rose on her own?’
‘No. Da and Emily came over after work. They’re with her now,’ she explained, as he stood up and held open the kitchen door for her.
All was quiet as she brought the tray into the big bedroom where her grandparents slept. Rose sat on one side of the bed, her hand gently resting on John’s, which lay inert on the bedspread. Her father and Emily sat on the other side, Emily’s face taut with distress, her father outwardly as calm as ever.
Her grandmother looked up as she heard her come into the room.
‘Did I hear Richard P. arrive?’ Rose asked easily.
‘Yes, just now. I was going to make him some tea, unless you want him to come straight up.’
‘No, no need. If we want him, he’s close by and I have two good messengers here.’
Rosie arranged her grandmother’s supper on a small table, poured cups of tea for her father and Emily and hurried back to the kitchen.
Richard was waiting for the kettle to boil on the gas, pot and tea caddy at the ready.
‘When did you last look in the mirror?’ he asked, before she had time to speak.
‘Why?’ she replied, laughing. ‘Have I got a dirty mark on my face?’
‘No, you look entirely respectable. Neat, trim and businesslike, a credit to the household. But,’ he went on, ‘you are at least three shades paler than when I left you yesterday morning. When did you last see the light of day?’
‘Saturday, I think,’ she said honestly.
He laughed, poured water into the teapot and set up another tray with cups and saucers and a jug of milk, as if it was something he did every day.
‘Have you had any supper?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t feel like any. But I did have a proper lunch. Casserole and vegetables followed by prunes and custard. Mrs Love insisted.’
‘Where is the formidable lady?’ he asked, as he cast his eye over the cake and biscuits tins, picking them up one by one and shaking them gently to see if there was anything in them.
‘Granny sent her down to help Emily. She’s started and her friend Nellie hasn’t arrived yet to look after the little ones.’
‘Poor old Alex. His best friend dying and his wife in child-birth. Sometimes life is very hard. Has he been up today?’
‘Yes, twice. Emily is very upset she can’t come herself. She’s always been fond of Granda and Granny and the two little girls adore him. Even the baby can say “John”, though she can’t manage “Granda”. She calls him Ganda,’ she added, an undisciplined tear threatening to cloud her vision.
‘Come on young lady, outside,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’ll be sun on the far end of the garden. Open the door and lead the way. I’ll carry the tray.’
To Rosie’s surprise, it was warmer outdoors than in. The kitchen had been in shadow and she’d spent a long time working there, clearing up and making tea for the familiar stream of visitors. Her back ached from standing and her hands had gone icy cold. She felt suddenly so grateful for the sunlight, filtering through the trees and shrubs, soft and golden as the sun dipped in a cloudless sky, and for the gentle movement of air stirring the herbaceous borders and archways of roses, releasing their mixed perfumes.
They walked right to the end of the mown grass path and sat on her grandmother’s favourite garden seat from which there was an uninterrupted view of the mountains outlined in the paling evening sky. Richard had poured her tea and passed her a piece of cake before she’d managed to draw her eyes away from the distant prospect, never mind collect her thoughts.
‘You’re doing my job,’ she said lightly, as he poured his own tea.
‘And I could say you’ve been doing mine. Providing for the needs of an anxious family is part of good doctoring. At least I think it is.’
She thought about what he’d said, began to consider a reply, but found she couldn’t concentrate. What kept coming back into her mind was the question he’d asked her before she went upstairs: ‘What do you want me to say?’
Suddenly finding the effort of explaining too much for her she simply repeated his words and then went on.
‘But what can you say about him, except to tell me the truth? You haven’t got a choice of things to say, have you?’
To her great surprise he laughed and shook his head.
‘Oh Rosie, Rosie, if only you knew how little people want to hear the truth,’ he said quickly. ‘Not just about dying. About living, about making a life, about creating a world fit for us all to live in. Truth is very unfashionable these days. But some people appreciate it. They’re the ones who’ll be most sadly deprived by Uncle John’s loss, though they probably won’t know exactly what they’ve lost.’
She thought of the stream of callers, the bulletins posted up in the mills, the letters and cards and gifts.
‘Is that why Granda is so loved?’
‘I think so,’ he said soberly. ‘In fact, I’m sure that’s why. You see he’s always been himself. There’s never been any pretension about him. He’s never tried to impress or be something he wasn’t. One of my patients mentioned him to me this morning. When he found out I knew him, he told me a couple of little stories. He ended up saying, “Even when he got on in life and had to wear a suit to the boardroom, John Hamilton would still get down on his knees to fix your motor if he came on you stuck on his way home”, and that just about sums up your grandfather.’
Rosie smiled. It wasn’t just the words themselves, it was the broad country accent Richard had used. Sometimes he seemed so sober and solemn, but then, she thought, being a doctor can’t be easy. People would expect him to be sober and solemn, but his dark eyes twinkled when he made her laugh and that she loved.
‘Do you think you could persuade Granny to come out for a breath of air? She only leaves that room to go to the lavatory or to wash.’
‘No, I wouldn’t even try, Rosie,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not many men are loved as John has been loved. I wouldn’t deprive them of a moment of their being together. Would you?’
Rosie just shook her head. If Richard said John would die then he would. What she could not yet come to terms with was the fact that his death would separate her dear grandmother from the love of her life.
Richard left on Wednesday morning soon after his mother and father arrived and the two men had spent some minutes with John. His pulse was stronger, they agreed, but there were still no signs of him opening his eyes.
‘Be a good girl,’ said Richard lightly, as he tramped through the kitchen where Rosie was already at work. ‘Up and down the garden as often as you can and a nice sit in the sun when Mrs Love comes back.’
He paused and looked at her with mock severity.
She returned his look and sensed how tired he was. This was the third night he’d spent dozing in a chair beside John’s bed and now he was driving back to Dromore to take his surgery before going out on his calls.
‘You haven’t had breakfast,’ she said accusingly.
‘No, but I do intend to when I get home. I always have breakfast, I promise you, but that’s because I don’t always get lunch,’ he confessed with a wry glance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She smiled and nodded and felt strangely sad as she watched him stride across the yard and drop his leather bag into the back of his motor. Minutes later he was gone. Before the sound of the engine had faded from the fresh morning air, she heard the doorbell. The day had begun and it was not yet eight o’clock.
Slowly and quietly the hours passed. They were surprised when Mrs Love did not return, but Elizabeth did arrive and insisted on cooking lunch and
Rosie went and sat with her grandmother until it was ready. They ate it together at a small table at the foot of John’s bed.
Rosie had never met Elizabeth before, though Rose had spoken of her dear friend so often. A tall, stately woman, her hair iron-grey, her face still soft and given to smiles. When she laughed, her large, grey eyes lit up and Rosie was startled to discover how beautiful she still was.
There were fewer visitors today though the messenger from Ballievy arrived at regular intervals. It was he who told them Emily was now well advanced in labour, that her friend had not yet arrived from Belfast and that Mrs Love was fully occupied with the three lively little girls, the youngest just starting to crawl.
Rosie did as Richard had asked and walked out into the garden whenever she had a free moment. It gave her the chance to pick sweet pea and put it in vases in the sitting room. There were creamy pink roses just opening which she arranged with spikes of lavender and the shiny leaves of magnolia for the hall table. She took a single, short-stemmed rose in a small bud vase up to the bedroom where Elizabeth and Rose sat in companionable silence. It was still tightly rolled with only a small tip that told her what colour it would be, but it was beautifully shaped, plump and perfect. In the warmth of the sunlit room, it should open very soon.
She examined the rosebud carefully next morning as she sat by John’s bed while Rose washed quickly and changed her clothes and Dr Stewart drank a cup of tea in the kitchen before he went home. Though she could smell its rich perfume already, to her surprise it had still not opened.
As she sat watching her grandfather’s face, she heard voices in the kitchen and a step on the stair. It was not Dr Stewart, for she’d hear his motor on the driveway and it was certainly not the young man from Ballievy who always came to the front door.
She had just stood up, wondering if she’d be needed, when Rose appeared from the bathroom at the same moment that Alex reached the top of the stairs.
‘How is he, Rose?’ Alex asked, as they came into the room together.
‘Another peaceful night,’ Rose replied, smiling briefly at him, as she took up her place by the bed. ‘Hallo, Rosie.’
Alex ran his eye over the sleeping figure and then looked from Rosie to Rose and back again to John. ‘I’ve news for you all.’
He paused and Rosie held her breath.
‘There’s another wee Hamilton arrived at Ballydown. A bit hard on Emily this one, harder than any of the others, but she’s all right now.’
He paused yet again and Rosie felt a surge of joy, sure she knew what he was going to say next.
‘It’s a wee boy.’
Much as Alex loved his three little girls, he’d admitted freely how much he wanted a boy. Having no parents that he knew of, only the name, once pinned on the collar of his coat on an emigrant ship carrying orphans to Canada, the family he had made with Emily was even more precious to him than to most men.
Rose beamed at him, stood up, put her arms round him and kissed him.
‘That is wonderful, Alex, quite wonderful.’
‘John Alexander Hamilton,’ he said softly, looking from her to the sleeping figure. ‘But he’ll be called John.’
Whether it was pure chance or the sound of his own name, no one would ever know, but at that moment John opened his eyes and looked around him, a slight hint of surprise on his face at finding Alex and Rosie as well as Rose by his bedside.
He turned his face towards Rose, clearly expecting an explanation.
‘Good news, John,’ she said, quite steadily, as if she had been expecting him to open his eyes any minute now. ‘Alex has got a wee son and Emily is fine.’
John tried to speak, coughed, cleared his throat, and jutted out his hand to Alex.
‘Ach, congratulations man. Sure that is great, just great. Tell Emily I was asking for her.’
Alex nodded and shook John’s hand vigorously. Only Rosie saw that his eyes were so full of tears he dare not risk speaking.
When the young man from Ballievy arrived to make his usual morning enquiry, Rose said he must come upstairs and see for himself the great improvement the night had brought. Within the hour, many friends and colleagues, hearing the news via the four mills, set out to wish John well. Visitors arrived throughout the day, as delighted to see John sitting up in bed as he was to see them.
John himself wanted to get out of bed, but accepted Rose’s decision that he’d better wait until Richard P. arrived later in the day. Meantime, Alex gave him a hand to shave, Rosie made toast for his breakfast and a little later, when Alex had gone back down the hill to his wife and family, Mrs Love returned in a flurry of skirts unable to contain her excitement about the new arrival at Ballydown.
Rosie was puzzled that John did not seem to be at all curious as to why he was in bed or to be aware that time had passed. Only then did she herself go to the calendar in the kitchen, turn over the page and strike off the large squares under the picture of Ben Bulben. Today was Thursday, the seventh of August. It would be a full week tomorrow.
As the afternoon passed and the usual hour of the evening meal drew near, the doorbell rang less frequently. John dozed in the late afternoon sunshine, opening his eyes when Rosie came into the room carrying a tray.
‘Were ye paintin’ flowers?’ he asked, as she put the tray down on the table at the foot of the bed.
‘No,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘but I’ve put sweet pea in the sitting room and roses in the hall.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, nodding as if it were a matter of great importance. ‘I’ll come and look at them when young Richard let’s me out of bed. Your granny says he’s coming to see you this evening.’
Rosie looked at her grandmother and wondered if she’d picked up John’s mistake. If she had, it was clear she didn’t intend to point it out. She simply gave him his tea in a china mug which he grasped firmly in his large brown hand. When some of the tea dribbled down his chin, she wiped it up without him even noticing.
With Mrs Love back in the kitchen and the doorbell now less demanding, Rosie took the opportunity to go and wash her hair. Coming out of the bathroom, a towel round her shoulders, on her way to her own room, she caught the sound of voices. Rose and John were talking to each other. Through the open door, she saw her grandmother was no longer sitting in her usual chair, but had moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, her face close to her husband.
She tiptoed past and went out into the garden to dry her hair in the sun.
‘So he’s awake?’ Richard said, as she met him by the sweet-pea hedge.
‘Yes. It happened quite suddenly when Alex came this morning,’ she replied as they walked towards the kitchen door.
‘So I heard. Your man at Ballievy rang me before I left for my calls. And Alex has his son,’ he continued, grinning at her.
She nodded happily.
‘Have you had a lot of visitors?’
‘Yes. Particularly this morning. But it’s been quiet since about five. Granny said we’d wait and have a bite of supper when you came. Granda is expecting you to let him out of bed. At least, that’s what he said earlier.’
‘So he’s in good spirits then?’
There was something in his tone that made Rosie pause. She looked up at him.
‘Is that a Richard question or a doctor question?’ she asked, a hint of anxiety in her tone.
‘Both,’ he responded quickly. ‘Who’s with him now?’
‘Just Granny. I was there when we all had a cup of tea, but she said I might like some fresh air. I think she wanted to be by herself with him. She sent Mrs Love back to Emily, because she kept popping in and out. But I expect the children will keep her busy and she’ll leave Emily in peace.’
‘I think perhaps I’ll go straight up,’ he said, a grave note in his voice.
‘All right. Is there anything you’d like?
‘Yes. I’d like you to come with me.’
Rose had heard their voices on the stairs and was sit
ting in her usual chair, one hand outstretched to where John’s lay on the bedspread.
‘Ach Richard, how are ye? How’s your mother and father? Are they well?’
Rosie listened as they had the sort of conversation she’d heard a thousand times. John seemed unaware of his illness, yet was perfectly clear about the arrival of Alex’s son. Richard made all the predictable replies, his tone warm and relaxed, but she saw that he made no move to take John’s pulse or even open the leather bag he’d dropped casually by the foot of the bed.
There was a pause. John appeared to be about to say something. They waited. It was more than a minute before he opened his mouth again to speak.
‘This is the wee girl that paints the flowers, Richard,’ he said, jerking his head towards her. ‘I was telling you about her yesterday when you came to see us. She’s great company for her granny when I’m busy in the workshop …’
Rosie felt a sudden sense of tension. Something wasn’t right. John had turned to look at Rose and lifted his hand as if he wanted to touch her hair. He seemed confused, as if suddenly he could no longer see quite clearly. He glanced at Richard, a look of puzzlement on his face, then turned back to Rose, to whom he always turned for explanation. His hand, suspended for a moment in mid-air, fell suddenly, jarring the bedside cabinet where the single rose in a bud glass had now opened its dark red petals. The glass fell over and it dropped to the floor, followed by a trickle of water.
Rose got to her feet and caught him in her arms as his body slowly fell forward.
Richard reached for Rosie’s hand and led her from the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Despite the warmth of the August afternoon and the mass of dark-clothed bodies packed into every corner of the spacious parish church of Holy Trinity, Rosie felt cold. When she’d taken her place at the end of the long pew where her sister and her brothers were already seated, her hands were so numb she’d dropped the printed service sheet left ready in her place.
Now she was grateful for the soft, black wool shawl Rose had lent her. She’d wanted to wear ‘Granda’s dress’ and had been anxious, because it was a deep, autumn red, the colour of ripe hawthorn berries, not perhaps what some people would think appropriate for a funeral.
