by Anne Doughty
So absorbed was he in all the new possibilities now opening up for him in Robinson Lumbering that he’d managed to upset Polly, usually the most easy going of people. She’d invited him to come and visit them at Christmas, but it seemed he was already booked up for all of the Festive Season. He’d told her he’d come and see them in the New Year. However, as Polly said crisply in her last letter: ‘He’s still comin’ an’ it’s near the end of February.’
Now the sun had dropped below the horizon, the shadows were thickened very quickly, the landscape had grown bleak and unwelcoming, except where a farm set amid the fields, sheltering behind its windbreak, threw out sparks of light from windows and doors in both house and barn.
By the time the train picked up speed outside Portadown Station, the fields had moved from grey to black. As she looked out, all she could now see was her own face and the empty carriage reflected back at her.
‘Rich-hill … Rich-hill …’
She glanced up from her book, thought back to the delight of a June day and wondering if the lights of the Hamilton farm would show in the darkness.
‘Hello, Ellie.’
The young man opened the carriage door, climbed in and sat down, his clothes bringing a great waft of cold air with them.
‘Hello, Sam.’
It was difficult to know which of them was more surprised and they laughed as they explained themselves.
‘I’ve a couple of days owing to me, so I’ve the motor-bike stripped down,’ Sam began, ‘but there’s a special solder I need an’ we’re out of it. They might have it at Turners, or failing that, I’ll borrow some from work. But I have to have it to finish the job otherwise it’s the train or the bus tomorrow. Were you up in Belfast shopping?’
Ellie smiled at the way he ran his eyes over her smart hat and dress, her coat, neatly folded on the seat beside her, and the heavy, leather briefcase she’d inherited from Miss Walker in the rack above her head.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve been shopping all right. You’d drop down dead if you knew how much I’ve spent,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘but it’s not for me. It’s for Freeburns.’
‘Ach aye, of course. You’re their buyer now. Sure I forgot. Daisy told me all about it. She’s terrible pleased about it. I think if it weren’t for Frank, nothing would shift her from Freeburns now. She says it just great since that Miss Walker stopped bossing everyone around. She thinks even yer man himself was afraid of her.’
‘Oh Sam, how funny! When he ‘promoted’ her and she was no longer in charge of Daisy and me, I guessed that maybe he thought we’d do better without her, but I never thought of him being afraid of her. Maybe Daisy’s right, she doesn’t miss much. But I’m going to miss her when she goes,’ she added sadly.
‘Maybe you’ll be goin’ yourself very soon,’ he said promptly.
‘Not before the end of June,’ she replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I’d expected it to be sooner, but I couldn’t bear to see Charlie Freeburn left in the lurch by Miss Walker and then Daisy and me going at the same time. He’s been good to me. I’m rather young to be a buyer, you know.’
‘I always heard he was shrewd,’ Sam replied quickly. ‘That just proves it. You’d be good at whatever you put your hand to, Ellie,’ he added, equally matter-of-factly.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said, looking across at him, aware of the brightness of his eyes even in the low lighting of the carriage.
‘Aye, ye were meant to. You look powerful smart in that outfit.’
‘It’s a bit like a uniform, Sam. These women in Belfast would look through you if you just wore ordinary shop clothes. It’s all about style. My cousin Ruth works in Robinson Cleavers. She says they don’t give as good discounts if they think you’re ‘up from the country’. She and I have a laugh about me being ‘the wee cousin up from the country’, but when it comes to business, it’s no laughing matter. That’s why I’m so smart,’ she ended, turning her head and holding her hands out, so he could view the little close-fitting hat more easily.
‘It suits you,’ he said, honestly, ‘but you’re still yourself, thank goodness,’ he added, as they slid into Armagh station and the squeal of brakes drowned out whatever he said next.
‘Can I give you a lift, Sam?’ she said laughing again, as they came out of the station.
A waiting taxi drew up and the driver gave her a wave and a smile.
‘Dear goodness, I’m surprised you even speak to the likes of me. Hats and taxis,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Back up to the shop, Bob, please,’ she said through the window. ‘And can we drop Sam here at Sleators. Unless it’s Turners you want,’ she said, suddenly remembering and turning back towards him.
‘Sleator’s will do nicely, thank you ma’am,’ he said solemnly, touching his forelock, as he opened the back door for her.
Ellie looked at his face, collapsed onto the back seat and had a fit of giggles.
‘Sam, would you look at the shoes? How would I walk to Freeburns from here in those,’ she said, sticking out her small feet for his benefit. ‘It’s all part of the job.’
‘So how’ll you get home?’ he asked, suddenly concerned.
‘I’ll get out of these clothes, put on my own things in the staff-room and add a pair of Wellington boots if I think it’s going to snow again.’
‘Sounds like Cinderella?’
‘Not as long as my bicycle doesn’t turn into a pumpkin,’ she said cheerfully, as Bob stopped opposite Sleators.
‘So long, Ellie. Hope I’ll see you again soon,’ he said quietly, as he stepped out on to the pavement. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he added, before he shut the door and raised a hand in farewell.
She watched him as he walked across the road and disappeared between two parked vehicles. As Bob drove off and headed up English Street, she caught herself wishing it wasn’t two whole months till the opening of the tennis season.
It was already six o’clock before Ellie had gone through the invoices with Joe and had a chance to talk to Daisy and Susie about what they’d managed to do during the day. For a long time now, the three girls had agreed that they could keep things looking really nice if it wasn’t for the customers. The shared comment kept them going when the customers were so frequent, or so difficult, that at the end of the day there were a pile of jobs outstanding. Then they had to decide what could be left for the critical half hour in the morning before the shop opened and what simply had to be done before they were free to go.
Today, it looked as if the afternoon had been cold enough to keep customers away, so there was no backlog of garments to be folded and bales of cloth to be re-rolled. The sales ledgers and stock books were up to date. With three of them working, the sweeping, and dusting, and polishing of glass in the show cases, wouldn’t take more than another twenty minutes.
‘See you in the morning,’ they chorused, as they parted in the entry, Ellie and Daisy wheeling their bicycles, Susie dropping into step beside Joe who had been waiting to walk her home.
Because she was later than usual, English Street was almost empty, the wet surface shining under the gas lamps. As she pedalled slowly along Railway Street, she realised there was no moon. By the time she crossed the railway line itself and headed out of town, it would be pitch black, only the light of her bicycle lamp to pick out the grassy verges with their surviving sprinkle of snow.
She was tired and cold and felt suddenly alone after the company and shared activity with her friends and colleagues, but there was no traffic on the road, the air was still, the snow stayed away and she made good progress. After twenty minutes she found herself making a final effort up the hill to her own lane, the fresh white smoke from the forge billowing out against the dark sky, the faint glow from its main window a real encouragement.
‘Hello Da, Hello Charlie. What’s new?’ she said, trying to keep her voice light.
Charlie made some sharp comment about politicians but she didn’t catch it properly, t
he final words lost in a bout of hammering.
‘Yer Ma’s lyin’ down,’ her father said, as he thrust a horseshoe into the fire. ‘But there’s some dinner at the back of the stove. Yer wouman Jinny is a right han’ at a stew. She made it before she went.’
‘That’s good news, Da, I didn’t know she could cook.’
‘No more did I, but when yer Ma went to lie down, she said wou’d she put a bit of somethin’ together and I said yes.’
‘Glad you did, Da. I’ll see you later. Cheerio, Charlie.’
Ellie wheeled her bicycle up to the house, parked it under the shelter of the elderberry bush, pushed open the outer door, crossed the small, unlit hallway and went in to the kitchen. The room was empty, but the Tilley lamp was lit and sat hissing quietly on the table and the stove had recently been made up. She opened the metal window at the front and warmed her hands at the flickering glow. On the back of the stove, she found a dinner plate sitting on top of a saucepan of water with a lid over it. When she lifted the lid, she smelt the warm aroma of meat and potatoes.
She dropped down on the wooden settle and held out her feet in front of the stove. It was always a relief when her mother took to her bed and she didn’t have to listen to a monologue of comment and complaint or sort out her confused questionings. She and her father had found Jinny to help with the housework when her new job no longer left her time to do all she’d been doing. It would be such a relief if she could help them out with some cooking as well.
Although she was hungry, she found she had little appetite, but she finished her meal, washed up her plate and cutlery and put the teacloth to dry. As she straightened up from spreading the damp cloth on the metal bars over the stove, she saw two Airmail letters, resting against the clock.
She felt her heart jump to her mouth, more with anxiety than excitement, as she reached up and brought them across to the table where the light was better. They were both for her. One was from George, a little thicker than usual, the other from Polly. Instead of a fat letter with extra postage it was only an official pre-stamped Air Letter.
She sat examining both envelopes, studying the postmarks, the stamps, the handwritten return addresses on the back, as if they would tell her what to do next. Then she collected herself, took a knife from the drawer in the table and sawed carefully along the inside of George’s envelope to avoid damaging the thin folded sheets.
There were three sheets, not the usual two, but his writing seemed to have got larger. She read the short letter quickly, jumped to her feet, then read it again, anger and disbelief overwhelming her, as she walked up and down the kitchen.
Dear Ellie,
You know I am not very good at writing letters, but I do think of you so very often and I think I must explain why I have not been able to plan a holiday or a visit.
You see Canada is such a very different place from anything you have ever been used to. Peterborough is such a lively city, full of activity and large enterprises, not just Robinson Lumbering but Quaker Oats and the biggest electrical works in Canada and many others I may not have told you about. It is a very busy, noisy place.
The more I think of it the more I think you just would not be happy here. You are used to living in the quiet countryside and Armagh is only a wee country town compared to Peterborough. You are a home bird and now that I’ve lived in Peterborough for a while and have got to know it I think it would be wrong for me to take you away from all that you know and all your friends and family to bring you here.
It may be several more years before I have the opportunity to come home but I shall certainly want to see you. We had some good times which I shall never forget. I’m sure when you think it over you will see that I am right and that I have your best interests at heart.
Sincerely, your friend,
George
She dropped the flimsy sheets on the table and burst into tears. It had happened. Some part of her had always known it would happen, but she’d never imagined it could come as a miserable letter full of absolute rubbish. For a moment, she was so angry she almost thrust the letter, envelope and all, into the cheering flames of the stove.
‘No, Ellie, don’t do that,’ she said, jumping to her feet again and tramping up and down the empty room. ‘Come on, dry your eyes in case Da and Charlie, come up to the house and catch you.’
She did as she bid herself, then she fetched a glass of spring water from the enamel bucket in the press and forced herself to drink it slowly.
‘A home bird,’ she repeated furiously. ‘He makes me sound like an idiot. A poor wee thing that has to be looked after. If he’d read his history of Peterborough, like I have, he’d have found that some of the settler women that came out from wee country places like here were every bit as tough as the men. Providing, of course, they had a decent man to work with. AND he’s forgotten that he once said HE was a home bird.’
She paused, hearing a sound, thinking it could be a foot at the door, but a moment later the sound came again, clearer and sharper. It was the barn owl that lived somewhere nearby.
The lonesome cry of the owl in the darkness made her think of the book Polly had sent her, an old, musty-smelling book she’d bought at a sale in aid of the church. It had been written by a woman who’d arrived in Peterborough when it was still Scott’s Plains. She’d gone North with her husband and young children on a trail marked only by blazes on the trees, to what would later become Smith, except there was nothing there at all, only a concession and a Lot number. This was a woman who’d braved the Atlantic and an unknown world full of danger, Indians and fevers, hunger and cold in the winter months.
George had no idea what a woman was capable of, had he, but then George hadn’t much idea about people in general. In fact, she thought bitterly, he didn’t have much time for thinking about other people, he was far too busy thinking about himself.
She stopped, startled. It was not like her to be so uncharitable, but perhaps that was her mistake. Daisy always said she’d let George off too easily, he could do more. There was no doubt that listening to Daisy talk about the plans she and Frank were making had made her feel sad and lonely. She kept remembering the night he’d told her he was going to Canada. They’d gone on his motorbike to a dance and he’d never even noticed how cold she was, nor how long he’d kept her standing while he took care to see it wasn’t stolen. Yet today, Sam Hamilton had worried about her shoes, and how she’d get home, dressed in her going-to-Belfast outfit, and he was just a friend.
She sat on the settle looking into the fire, determined not to cry. She felt if once she started she could cry all night and that would not do. Sometime soon her father would be coming up weary from the forge needing water to wash and a cup of tea. She drew forward a kettle on the stove, removed the dry tea cloth and remembered there was also a letter from Polly.
My dearest, dearest Ellie,
I am so upset I hardly know what I’m writing but Jimmy says I must tell you right away. I didn’t believe it at first and thought there was some mistake, but Uncle Jim came last night and told us and then Rebecca came today with the wee newsletter thing they give out at Church. She has a friend goes to that Church and it was in it. Robinson and Marriott, an engagement. It’s George and the daughter of his uncle’s partner. Rebecca’s friend Mary goes to that church and that was how Rebecca first heard that Gwen Marriott had a new boyfriend that was the nephew of the other partner. Then Uncle Jim got someone he knew to try to find out. That didn’t work, but then Mary brought Rebecca the Newsletter. There it was in black print in the Church Notices.
Oh Ellie, I wasn’t happy that time he came to see us in November, but I thought Jimmy was wrong, but when he didn’t come and see us at Christmas and made no effort in the New Year, I began to think something wasn’t right. This Gwen is quite a bit older than he is, but if she has set her cap at him he’s old enough he should know better. And maybe the uncle has encouraged him. Nothing like having business all in the family.
I am so
, so sorry Ellie that all our lovely plans have gone wrong, but please God there is a good man somewhere waiting for you. Please write soon and tell me you are all right. Jimmy says you’re better off without him, but that’s poor comfort if you are upset.
Your loving sister,
Polly
Ellie pushed the letter quickly into her pocket as she heard voices on the path and steps in the hall.
‘Kettle’s boiling,’ she said, with a calmness that amazed her, as her father and Charlie Running came in bringing with them with a draught of icy air.
‘A cup of tea would go down well,’ said Charlie, standing to one side of the stove to let Robert draw off a basin of warm water from the tank.
‘You timed it well, Charlie,’ Ellie said, ‘I’d just pulled the kettle forward thinking you might be up,’ she went on, surprised she could behave so normally, as she reached up to the mantelpiece yet again, for the tea-caddy with its silver, Coronation spoon.
George’s letter still lay on the table, but she swept it up deftly into her other pocket as she went to trim the lamp. Neither of the two men even noticed, as she moved around the room collecting cups and saucers and making the tea.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Friday the first of March, 1934, was a mild, breezy day in Armagh, glints of sun falling on green fields where every trace of snow had gone. The road was bone dry as Ellie set off for work, the wee country town of George’s letter as busy as ever when she paused at the Post Office to send off a note to Polly.
Written by candle light in her bedroom, a blanket over her shoulders, she knew it was neither as legible nor as coherent as she would wish, but she needed to tell Polly not to worry. However upset she felt at the moment of writing she was grateful that Polly’s note had come when it did. It had made things a lot better and would be very useful when she came to write to George herself. But that, she said to Polly, would have to wait till it suited her.
