by Anne Doughty
Later, they had each told her how she followed him wherever he went, unless he explained kindly, which he always did, that it was not safe for her to be with him just then and she must go back to her sisters.
But it was not Hannah’s devotion to her father that surprised her good-natured sisters the most; it was their father’s toleration of such a young child. From the point at which Hannah could walk they began to see a very different man from the fair, hard-working, but very impersonal father they themselves had known in their growing years.
Now in his sixties, her father had no one to share the solid, two-storey house with. It was once such a busy place, full of life and activity, its small garden rich in flowers, her mother’s great joy, which her sisters had gone on caring for in her memory throughout Hannah’s childhood. They often brought bouquets and posies into the house to add colour to the solid furniture and plain whitewashed walls.
Her sisters were now long married and scattered, her brothers Gavin and James were in Nova Scotia, and she, her father’s youngest and most beloved daughter, in Donegal, his only contact the letters Hannah wrote so regularly. At least Duncan could rely on the yearly arrival of his son-in-law, Patrick, still coming to labour alongside him with some neighbouring men from Casheltown and Staghall who had been haymakers all their working lives.
Hannah still remembered the first time she’d seen Patrick, walking down the lane to the farm, one of a small group hired for the season to take the place of her absent brothers. Lightly built, dark-haired with deep, dark eyes, tanned by wind and rain, he moved with ease despite the weariness of the long walk from the boat that had brought them from Derry to Cairnryan.
Her father had greeted them formally, one by one, showing them into the well-swept barn where they would live for the season.
‘This is my daughter, Hannah,’ he had said, more than a hint of pride clear in his voice. Patrick had looked at her and smiled. Even then it had seemed to her as if his eyes were full of love.
She was just seventeen and working as a monitor at the local school, the one she herself had attended. It never occurred to her, when she offered to help the small group of harvesters with learning what they called ‘Scotch’, that she would also become fluent in another language and through it, come to love a man who listened devotedly to all she said but thought it wrong to speak of his love to a young girl who seemed so far out of reach.
Hannah dropped her work hastily now and reached for the teapot warming by the hearth as a sudden outburst of noise roused her and grew stronger. She made the tea, set it to draw, and stood watching from the doorway as the small group of children of Ardtur ran up the last long slope, their shouts and arguments forgotten, as they focused on open doors and the prospect of a mug of tea while they relayed the day’s news.
‘Oh, Ma, I’m hungry,’ said Sam, rolling his eyes and rubbing his stomach, the moment she had kissed him.
‘You’re always hungry,’ protested his sister, as she turned from hanging up her schoolbag on the lowest of a row of hooks by the door. ‘You had your piece at lunchtime,’ she said practically, looking at him severely. ‘I’m not hungry. At least not very,’ she added honestly, when Hannah in turn looked at her.
‘Well,’ said Hannah, unable to resist Sam’s expressive twists and turns. ‘You could have a piece of the new soda bread. There’s still some jam, but there’s no butter till I go up to Aunt Mary tomorrow,’ she added, as he dropped his schoolbag on the floor.
Sam nodded vigorously. Then, when Rose looked at him meaningfully, he picked it up again, went and hung it on the hook beside Rose’s and sat down at the kitchen table looking hopeful.
‘So what did you learn today?’ Hannah asked, as she poured mugs of tea and brought milk from the cold windowsill at the back of the house. She knew from long experience that Rose would tell her in detail all that had happened at school while Sam would devote himself entirely to the piece of soda bread she was now carving from the circular cake she had made in the morning’s baking.
‘Can I get the jam for you, Ma?’ he asked, as he eyed the sweet-smelling soda bread she put in front of him.
‘Can you reach?’ she asked gently.
‘Oh yes, Ma. Da says I’m growing like a bad weed,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Look,’ he went on, jumping up from the table and standing on tiptoe to open the upper doors of the cupboard. He stretched up, clutched a jam jar firmly in his hand and studied the contents. Hannah saw his look of disappointment and was about to speak, but then he smiled.
He’d seen the jar contained only a small helping of the rich-tasting jam she’d made from the bowls of berries they’d helped her to pick the previous year but now, as he looked at it hungrily, Sam was already reckoning there would be more next season. By September, he would be bigger; he could reach places he’d had to miss last year. He would also be able to get at places where the big boys had got to before him.
He sat down in his place, unscrewed the lid and scraped out every last vestige of the sweet, rich, dark jam and then spread it carefully over his piece of soda bread.
He heard nothing of what Rose had learnt at school that day and didn’t even notice the small envelope she fetched from her schoolbag and handed to his mother.
CHAPTER TWO
The April evening was well lengthened from the shorter days of March, but it was still growing dark when Hannah heard Patrick greet a neighbour, as he walked up the last steep slope of his journey home from Tullygobegley, where he’d been helping to reroof a farmhouse that had fared badly in the winter storms.
The children were already asleep. Hannah moved quickly to the open door and held out her arms. She’d only to watch him for those last few yards to know that he was tired out, his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging limp by his sides. He’d admitted to her earlier in the week that it was heavy work, humping slates up a steep roof, exposed to the wind and rain. Now, as he put his arms round her, kissed her and held her close she could see he was quite exhausted.
‘Bad news, astore,’ he began, speaking Irish as he always did when they were alone. ‘The job will finish the end of the week. No money then till yer father sends the passage money for me an’ the other boys,’ he said anxiously.
‘That’s not bad news, my love,’ she said warmly, drawing him over to the fire and closing the door behind them. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Have you forgotten I’ve four weeks’ pay due to me sometime next week when your man from Creeslough comes for the napkins?’
‘Aye, I had forgot,’ he said, looking up at her, his face pale with fatigue. ‘Sure, what wou’d we do if ye hadn’t hans for anythin’ an’ you never brought up to a rough place like this?’
She saw the anxiety in his face, the dark shadows under his eyes and suddenly became sharply aware that sometime in the next few weeks the letter would come with the passage money. Her heart sank. When the letter came, they would be separated for months.
Parting never got easier. No matter how hard she worked on the piles of napkins, the cooking over the hearth, keeping the floor swept, the clothes clean and mended, when he was here, she knew at the end of the day there would be the warmth and tenderness of the night. It never ceased to amaze her how despite their exhaustion they could still turn to each other’s arms for comfort, an enfolding that quickly turned to passion.
When the letter with the postal order came from her father, her days would be the same as they were now, but there would be neither comfort, nor passion, nor shared laughter, just notepaper in the drawer so she could write a little every day, as he did, for all the long months till the first chill of autumn stripped the yellow leaves from the hawthorns and the birds feasted on the red berries.
‘You must be hungry, love,’ she said quickly, as he released her and sank down heavily in his armchair by the hearth. ‘It’s all ready over a saucepan. Do you want to wash?’
‘Oh yes, indeed I do, for I’ll not bring the dust of that roof to our bed,’ he said firmly.
He
stood up again with an effort and went out by the back door to the adjoining outhouse, where he’d set up a wash place for them all with a tin basin on a stand, a jug for water and hooks on a board attached to the wall for the towels.
She heard the splash of the water she’d left ready for him as she poured a glass of buttermilk to go with his meal. She checked that his food was properly hot, carefully lifting the saucepan lid that covered the large dinner plate set over the simmering water below.
She thought then of her sisters who had used this same method of ensuring their father’s meal was hot. He always intended to be in at a certain time, but in this one thing that most reliable of men was unreliable. It was almost a joke between Duncan and his daughters, the way he would assure them he’d be in by such and such a time, and then, invariably, he would find yet one more job he must do before he could possibly think of coming in for his meal.
Hannah picked up her sewing and watched quietly as Patrick ate in silence. He had never spoken much at the table in their time together, but these days, she knew it was not the long shadow of his own father’s strict rule about not talking with food on the table; it was simply tiredness. At least when he went to Dundrennan he would be doing work he enjoyed, and her father, though he expected a lot, would not expect any man to work harder for him than he would expect to work himself.
Patrick cleared his plate, pushed it away from him and crossed himself. ‘That was great,’ he said. ‘It would put heart in ye. Did they have a good day at school the day?’ he asked, as he moved his armchair nearer to hers.
She put her sewing back in its bag and took his hand.
‘They did indeed,’ she replied smiling. ‘Rose got all her spellings right and Sam managed to give out the slates this time without dropping any,’ she said laughing. ‘But there’s more news than that,’ she went on more slowly, suddenly concerned that he was so tired he might be anxious about what she was going to say next.
‘Oh, what’s that then?’ he asked, a flicker of a smile touching his lips.
To her surprise and delight, she saw his blue eyes light up.
‘Sure, ye know I always need a bit of news to pass on to the boys tomorrow,’ he said, his tone lightening as she watched him.
‘Well, it seems Daniel’s niece, Marie, has been walking out with a young man from Creeslough direction and they’ve named the day.’
‘Ach, sure, that’s great,’ he said. ‘That’ll be a bit of a gatherin’ at some point or other,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They’ll maybe have a kitchen racket at Daniel’s.’
Daniel’s house was not only the place used as the local makeshift school he presided over, but also a popular place for gathering to hear the best stories and songs shared between friends of an evening.
‘Yes, it is good news,’ she agreed, ‘but it will be hard on Daniel. She’ll be living down in Creeslough so she’ll not be able to go on working with him in the schoolroom. He can do so much and everyone says it’s like he’s got eyes in the back of his head, he’s so sharp, but he is blind. How can you teach children if you haven’t got at least one pair of eyes in the room, and a woman as well as a man when there’s wee ones to look after?’
‘Ach dear, it would be a great loss if that wee schoolroom were to be no more. Sure, where wou’d our childer go? I know there’s been talk of getting a National School up here for years now, but nothin’s ever come of it. If it weren’t for Daniel being an educated man there’d never have been anywhere up this part of the mountain where they could go. How could he do anythin’ at all on his lone? Sure, he can talk away, an’ teach them their history, and tell the old stories and hear their readin’ till the cows come home, but what about the writin’ an’ the figures? Sure, Marie must have done all that. How cou’d he do anythin’ where he had to look at their work?’ he asked, his voice suddenly weary again.
‘They did seem to work very well together,’ Hannah said slowly, her unease returning, now it had come to the point where she’d have to tell him about the note Marie had sent with the children.
‘Would you like a mug of tea?’ she asked, getting up and hanging the kettle over the fire.
‘That would go down well,’ he said, watching her carefully as she moved about the room fetching mugs and milk.
He always knew when she was thinking about something, for she moved more slowly and kept looking at the kettle as if she expected it to start singing at any moment when she knew perfectly well it would take a while. He waited till she had put his mug in his hand and then said: ‘Are you worried there’ll be nowhere for our pair to go?’
She couldn’t help but laugh, for he had taken her by surprise. So often, it was she who read his thoughts, but this time he had tried to read hers. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t got it quite right. It just somehow made it easier for what she needed to say.
‘Daniel was wondering if I would come and give him a hand,’ she replied. ‘Apparently, I told him once years ago that I was a monitor back in my own old school in Dundrennan. He has an extraordinary memory,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘An’ wou’d ye like that?’ he said quickly, his eyes widening. ‘Sure, it wou’d be company fer ye when I’m away,’ he went on, brightening as she looked across at him.
‘It wouldn’t pay very much, Patrick,’ she said cautiously. ‘Certainly not as much as the sewing.’
‘Aye, I can see that might be the way of it,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘Sure, none of the families up here has much to spare. There must be childer Daniel takes in that can’t go beyond their pieces of turf for the fire. I know some of them bring cakes of bread and a bit of butter for Daniel himself,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but that would be because there was no tuppence that week, or whatever it is these days, that wou’d otherwise be forthcomin’. How does Daniel manage at all? Sure, everyone knows the masters of these hedge schools don’t see a penny when times are bad and Daniel wou’d never be the one to turn a chile away if it hadn’t brought its few pence.’
Patrick himself had never been to school and he’d never figured out why people called these local places where children could learn to read and write ‘hedge schools’. But Daniel’s house, which he used for the school, was not typical. Most of the other schools in the area were far less robust: abandoned cottages, or caves, or even old cattle pens with a bit of a roof thrown over. But then, there was a time when running a school would have got you into trouble. There were laws against schools, like there were laws against celebrating Mass.
‘Maybe yer da will give us all a bit more money this year, if the price of cattle keeps going up,’ he offered cheerfully. ‘Are you thinking about doin’ it?’ he asked directly.
‘Well . . .’
‘Well, indeed. What wou’d stan’ in yer way if you had a mind to do it? Sure, Sam and Rose wou’d be there with ye . . . and sure, what’ll they do if Daniel has to give up? Though you could teach them yourself like you taught me, couldn’t you? Sure, you’re a great teacher and me no scholar,’ he ended sheepishly.
Hannah laughed and felt her anxiety drain away. She remembered again how she’d offered to help her father’s harvesters to write their letters home, and how, in the process, she had ended up learning Irish. Patrick had been a diligent pupil. He had learnt not only how to read and write, but also to make his way in English. It might well be English with a strong Scottish accent but it still stood him and his fellows in good stead when work called from south of the border around Carlisle, or even Lancaster.
She could still see the scrubbed wooden table in the farm kitchen where they had normally sat at mealtimes, covered with reading books in the evenings. Her own school, where she was then a monitor, had let her borrow what she needed for when she taught the haymakers, while her sister, Flora, the youngest of the three older sisters, still living nearby in those years, had bought jotters and notepaper for her pupils out of her egg money until she and her husband, Cameron, moved to take up a new job in Dumfries.
‘My Irish isn’t that great,’ Hannah said feebly now, remembering her own difficulties when she had first begun to teach the Irishmen and found they had so very little English to begin with.
‘An’ when have I ever not been able to understan’ you?’ he asked, his voice gentle, his eyes looking at her directly. ‘I’m for it, if it’s what ye want. Sure, why don’t we sleep on it,’ he added, standing up and putting his hand on her shoulder.
*
It was still dark next morning when Patrick picked up his piece from the kitchen table and kissed her goodbye. She walked out of the cottage with him, pausing on the doorstep as they looked up at the sky.
‘That’s better,’ he said, slipping his arm round her and pulling her close for a few moments.
It was a fine-weather sky, the sunrise clouds tinted pink, the air calm with a distinct hint of mildness. As she stood watching him make his way down towards the lough, she found herself hoping that the mildness might go on to the end of the week. If it did, then the last few days of the roofing job would not be as taxing as it had been, especially during the last weeks when the turbulent west wind had made the exposed site bitterly cold and the pitched roof more hazardous.
He stopped and waved to her as he reached the bend in the track. Beyond this point he would be hidden by a cluster of hawthorns and the last group of cottages before the steep slope to the main track. She stood a moment longer till he was out of sight and then, already thinking of all she had to do, she turned and went back into the big kitchen.
She stood for a moment looking at the table, the empty bowls and crumbs from her breakfast with Patrick, as if they would help her to decide what to do. Certainly, she would always want to help Daniel in any way she could. Patrick was indeed keen for her to have company in the long months when he was away, but he had paid little attention to the possible loss of her earnings from the sewing.
