by Anne Doughty
‘I haven’t finished,’ he said, holding up his hand, as she jumped to her feet, about to come over to him and lay a hand on his shoulder. ‘Paisley had already threatened he’d lead his supporters to Divis Street and take down the flag down himself unless the police acted. He’d organized a protest march, but when the police broke in and took the flag down, he cancelled it, but he did hold a meeting at the City Hall. Opened with prayer and Bible readings. Then he read a telegram from the Ulster Loyalist Association congratulating him on his stand against the tricolour. Then he let fly with his usual rant. You know the stuff. No Pope Here and O’Neill must go.’
He dropped his head in his hands and for a moment she thought he might be crying, but when he looked up, he was dry eyed, his face stiff and cold with anger.
‘If that man is allowed to go on stirring up hate and confrontation on this scale, I tell you, this place is finished,’ he said flatly. ‘There’ll be no justice for anyone, no equality, no peace, no economic miracle and no place for us. What are we going to do, Clare? What are we going to do?’
They’d had bad times enough before this when Andrew had lost all confidence in the possibility of doing anything sensible or just in a corrupt society. From bitter experience she knew that it was no use trying to present a more positive view of the situation. It would only bring out yet more detail as to why that wouldn’t work. As she came and put her arms round him, at that moment, she had not the slightest idea what she was going to do.
‘Charlie agrees with you,’ she said quietly, as the silence grew between them. ‘He says we’ll have to go.’
‘Does he?’ he said, looking at her for the first time. ‘Why does he say that?’
‘Because he believes O’Neill’s plan is to kill with kindness,’ she began steadily. ‘He’s banking on the hope that making things better economically will create jobs for the Catholics and they’ll forget their discontents. He says it’ll never work because it’s only top dressing that doesn’t change anything. If O’Neill were serious about change, the new university would be in Derry and NOT Coleraine and the new city would be west of the Bann, NOT a mere twenty-five miles from Belfast. Nor would it be called Craigavon, a name seriously insulting to Catholics.’
‘Perhaps I ought to go and have tea with Charlie,’ Andrew replied, with a small, bleak smile.
‘My love, you mustn’t think you’re the only voice crying in the wilderness. There are so many good people who want things to be different. You don’t see June and John looking sideways because Bronagh is Catholic, do you? Or Thelma changing her manner because Anne teaches in a Convent School and Adrian at St Malachi’s Primary.’
He shook his head and pressed his lips together. ‘My dear Clare, you’ll always see the most positive side of things. I don’t know where you get it from. It’s a gift you have and I certainly don’t have it. Perhaps a legal training knocks it out of you. Or perhaps it’s that Roundhead rationalism Cambridge is famous for. Whatever the reason, I don’t see much hope. That’s your department.’
Perched on the side of his armchair, her back aching from the awkward angle needed to put her arm round him, she knew the only thing to do was to get them moving.
‘Well, I hope our supper is nearly ready,’ she said easily. ‘Perhaps if we had something to eat and brought coffee back up here, we could put a match to the fire and see if that sheds any light on the problem. It has in the past. Worth a try?’
‘Yes, of course it is. I’m sorry I’m in such a bad way. It’s not fair on you,’ he said getting to his feet.
‘Who said life was fair?’ she replied with a little laugh. ‘Besides, I’ll probably get my own back,’ she went on, as she took his hand and coaxed him towards the door. ‘It’s usually six of one and half a dozen of the other, isn’t it?’
Twelve
The first week of October 1964 was one that people in Northern Ireland would remember for a very long time. The streets of Belfast appeared nightly on television, the cameras angled on burning vehicles, flaring petrol bombs, angry crowds of stone-throwers and heavily armed police. It was not only the residents of the quiet, damp and peaceful Ulster countryside that could not believe their eyes. Millions around the world now watched what the media set before them. For the first time in its brief history, Ulster was international news.
Clare and Andrew viewed the rioting only once, slipping into the back of the small television room and standing behind their solitary guest, who sat glued to the set, newspaper and can of beer abandoned by his chair. Afterwards, they made coffee in silence, took it back to the fire in Headquarters before they felt steady enough to say a word. Unlike the night Andrew brought home the news of the assault upon the Republican Headquarters there was no distress between them. The intervening days had given them time to think through what was happening. Tonight they needed but a short time to reach their conclusions.
‘We’re not pretending it hasn’t happened,’ Clare said firmly. ‘And we’re not pretending it’s not as bad news for us as for everyone else. But we’re not going to depress ourselves by watching what goes on in one small area of a large city. We’ll travel hopefully, as you say, until we see how things go. We won’t give up unless we have to. Is it a deal?’
‘It’s a deal, pardner,’ Andrew said, managing his Wild West accent well enough to make her smile.
They sat silent for a little, Clare thinking how comforting and friendly the flames were on such a miserable wet night. She tried to push out of mind the roaring flames of a burning bus, the crash of breaking glass, the faces distorted with anger, and the violence spilling all around the wet streets of a city where she had spent four years of her life.
‘You still haven’t told me about the latest Grand Plan,’ Andrew said suddenly, looking up from the fire after he’d added small logs to encourage the cheerful blaze.
‘Where was I when I left off?’ she asked, gathering her straying thoughts, determined not to let herself be distracted again by images about which she could do nothing.
‘Comforts Fund, out of Robert’s Waterworks shares,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve got details of pond liners for you in my briefcase.’
She laughed heartily and shook her head.
‘My dear Andrew, you have few vices, and greed is not one of them, but you only ever shift yourself to get money out of me, or rather, out of our budget, when it’s birds, bees, wildflowers, or some poor wee creature threatened with extinction. Did you know that?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, looking sheepish. ‘You do think it’s a good idea, don’t you?’
‘I think it’s a splendid idea,’ she said reassuringly. ‘You could have a whole lake in the rest of the paddock if I could find the money. But I’ve got to find it first. That’s all part of the Grand Plan, of course.’
He sat back and listened attentively while she told him where she’d got to in her detailed planning.
‘So you really do think we can stay open over the winter and not have to dip into the money we made last year?’
‘No, I can’t say that,’ she said, shaking her head slowly. ‘That’s crystal ball stuff. But I think it’s worth a try. Keeping a good team like June and Bronagh together is worth a lot of effort. I’d be hard pushed to find a pair as good if bookings do pick up next year. Just think how June would feel if I told her we didn’t need her till March. She’d have to find something else and she might not be able to come back.’
‘I’ve done some research, of course,’ she continued. ‘Armagh is not well equipped for quick lunches for people working in offices. A lunch box has to be easier and probably cheaper if it’s delivered to your desk. But having found that out and done some costings doesn’t tell me whether there will be any demand or not. That’s pure guesswork.’
‘Thelma brings a sandwich most days,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘But sometimes she asks if it’s all right to pop out and she always asks do I want anything for lunch.’
‘Thelma may not have time some mornings,’ s
he began easily. ‘She has her bus to catch from Markethill. That’s one of the unknown factors, isn’t it? Will people pay to save time in the morning? There certainly must be wives and mothers who’d be very pleased if they didn’t have to make a lunch, or several lunches,’ she said laughing, as she remember her own early attempts to do everything that was needed in their first months of coping with guests.
‘What about delivery? You’ll need the car.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Our car might be available on the odd day, but that’s no real help. It has to be regular and besides you have to have it for visiting clients and going to court. I haven’t solved that problem yet but I’m working on it.’
‘What made you think of birthday parties?’ he asked, going back to the other half of the Grand Plan she’d just outlined.
‘Oh, that was Jessie,’ she said wryly. ‘Fiona wants to have all her little friends from nursery school and Jessie is dreading it. You know she’s a good cook, but she doesn’t like baking. She says she can’t stand making small stuff like iced buns and she loathes clearing up the mess when children come to play. She says she’ll be buying everything and hiring an entertainer, but she’s still dreading it. Apparently a lot of women she knows feel just the same. But that’s posh Belfast. I don’t know if there are any in Armagh.’
‘But you do know who could make cakes and buns in her sleep,’ Andrew added with a smile.
‘June will love it, providing Bronagh and I do the sandwiches. That’s what June hates, always has done, ever since I was her Saturday girl, drafted in when she had to feed the five thousand, as she called it. Isn’t it funny the things we so dislike. No logic in them at all.’
‘Clare dear, I don’t think I’m up to philosophical speculations tonight,’ he replied yawning. ‘Have I now been fully informed about all the proliferations of the Grand Plan?’
‘No, actually,’ she replied, grinning. ‘I’ve spelt out all the nuts and bolts, but I’ve kept the best bit till last.’
‘Well, come on. Amaze me,’ he said, eyeing her cautiously.
‘Well,’ she began, giggling. ‘We are not closing over the winter, but we are closing for two weeks next July, the so-called Twelfth fortnight. Next year it occupies weeks one and two on the calendar.’
‘But why then?’ he asked, looking bewildered.
‘Market research,’ she said, teasing him. ‘I looked up the last four years and even the best of them has had far fewer bookings in July. I was still thinking about it when a very handsome young man from the Tourist Board came to ask if I would contribute our booking figures to their databank. He gave me rather a lot of useful information while he was having his coffee. Apparently, more and more people are going abroad in summer and the Twelfth fortnight is the peak time. So we’d do well to close and let the staff have their holiday then.’
‘Mmm . . . good idea,’ he said yawning again.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me where these staff are going for theirs?’
‘Er . . . where?’
‘Norfolk,’ she said triumphantly. ‘To visit your nice Aunt Joan who keeps asking us, and to see Mary and John. Mary’s already booked some time off for when we come. Isn’t that lovely of her?’
‘How splendid,’ he said, waking up considerably. ‘Aunt Joan will be chuffed and it’ll be lovely to see our Hamiltons again. AND we’re off to Fermanagh at the end of the month,’ he went on. ‘What a leisured life we do lead,’ he declared, grinning at her, as he put the fireguard in place.
‘Now, at last, I can show you my favourite piece of Norfolk. I thought it was never going to happen. I promise you it really is not flat.’
Clare’s twenty-eighth birthday fell on Thursday the eighth of October, but the week had been so overshadowed by public events, they decided to wait until Friday the sixteenth and celebrate by having a very nice dinner in a corner of their own dining-room, with a bottle of wine from Robert’s regular birthday case and John on guard in Headquarters. In the event, that same Friday would also be the first occasion when the house would be the venue for a children’s party, for it turned out there were mothers in and around Armagh just as reluctant as Jessie to put on the necessary show and affluent enough to pay someone else to do it.
Like with all first times, Clare was apprehensive. In the course of the preceding week she asked Andrew on at least three separate occasions what their liability was should a child fall downstairs or otherwise injure itself. Each time he explained patiently that you were not ‘in loco parentis’, technically, if the said ‘parentis’ had brought the said children of their own free will to the said ‘loco’ and had signed the usual disclaimer. Nevertheless, she still felt anxious as she stepped into the kitchen mid-morning after clearing her desk. She donned her apron, saw that June was well ahead and preparing to ice the birthday cake, while Bronagh was working methodically in the sandwich factory she’d set up at one end of the kitchen table.
Clare joined her and was halfway through her first sliced loaf when she remembered the aunt with whom she’d once made sandwiches for a whole Lodge of Orangemen, an awkward-looking woman who said little but had demonstrated a very effective way to make sandwiches. Clare was miles away, thinking of that first dance on the bare boards of Cloghan Orange Hall in the arms of her Uncle Jack, when the phone rang. June’s hands were covered with icing sugar and Bronagh had just taken trimmed crusts outside to the bird-table, so there was nothing for it but to pick it up.
‘Hello, Drumsollen Guest House, Clare speaking. Can I help you?’
There was silence on the line and then a cough. ‘I should like to speak to Mrs Richardson, please.’
There was something familiar about the voice, but Clare couldn’t place it. All their advertising said: Friendly family run guest house. Ring Clare or Andrew. No one ever called her Mrs Richardson, not even the Bank Manager.
She looked at the large black handset and observed some sticky fingerprints on the mouthpiece, but no further sound came to help her.
‘This is Clare Richardson speaking,’ she said clearly. She waited as the silence continued. Then, suddenly, with a stomach-turning wrench, she placed the voice. ‘Russell, is that you? Is His Lordship unwell?’
‘Not exactly, madam,’ Russell replied, his voice sounding perfectly normal. ‘I fear I have to tell you His Lordship is no longer with us.’
Tears sprang to Clare’s eyes as she picked up a strange muffled sound on the other end of the line. Oh, the poor man, she thought. Goodness knows how many years Russell and Hector had been together.
‘Russell, I am so terribly sorry, so terribly sorry. Can you tell me what happened? Was it a heart attack? I spoke to him a few days ago and he was in such good spirits,’ she went on, the tears trickling unnoticed down her cheeks.
‘His Lordship has been going down to the lake each morning,’ he began. ‘You may recall that he has an interest in the arrival of the geese.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Mrs Watkins and I became concerned when he did not return at his accustomed hour, so I went down to the lake myself,’ he continued, in his usual measured tones. ‘He was sitting there with his binoculars beside him, but he had passed away.’
Clare could not speak, but she was grateful for the clean handkerchief June pushed into her free hand before leaving her. She blew her nose as quietly as possible.
‘Russell, you must tell Andrew and me if there is anything we can do to help you and Mrs Watkins. We shall, of course, come down for the funeral. Perhaps I could ring you back later this morning when I’ve spoken to my husband,’ she said, knowing that the aching sob in her throat could not be held back a moment longer.
‘Thank you, madam, that would be most kind,’ he said, and rang off.
Clare dropped the receiver into its cradle, sat down at the table and laid her head on her hands among the abandoned remnants of the sandwich she’d been making. She cried as if her heart would break. She was still weeping when June peeped round the do
or and saw her.
June had never seen Clare so distraught. Nothing seemed to help her, though she drank the tea Bronagh made for her and nodded when asked if she could drink another cup. Finally, June suggested that she have ‘a wee lie down’ and more or less marched her along the corridor to the bedroom.
Clare lay there weeping silently, seeing so sharply in her mind’s eye the tiny, emaciated figure so full of life. She’d told Andrew once that hugging Hector was like embracing a skeleton with clothes on. He’d teased her about their embraces and said he had not had that pleasure.
‘No more hugs. No more Hector. Gone. Gone forever.’
She felt as if a light had gone out, taking with it some magic power she had been given without knowing she had it. How would she survive in a world with no Hector, with no one apart from Andrew who would let her say anything she wanted to say? She lay and wept and could not stop.
‘Clare, Clare darling, don’t cry. I’m here,’ Andrew announced, crossing the bedroom in two strides. He sat sideways on the bed and tried to coax her into his arms. ‘What is it, love? What’s making you cry so? It’s sad and it is a shock, but Hector was a very old man.’
‘I don’t know, Andrew, I just don’t know. I shouldn’t be so upset, I really shouldn’t. I’m just being silly,’ she gasped, the words rushing out between her sobs. ‘And why have you come home? Have you forgotten something?’
‘I came because you’re so upset,’ he said, as she struggled to sit up. ‘June phoned me. I knew it had to be bad if June was willing to pick up the phone.’
She swallowed hard and searched for the handkerchief June had given her. She couldn’t find it, took the one he offered her, wiped her face and blew her nose again.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Andrew,’ she said, making an effort to stop crying. ‘I was so looking forward to going down next week. Looking forward to seeing him and asking all the questions I didn’t ask last time. I was going to wear that lovely ring he gave me and take him some gloves to match the scarf I sent him for birdwatching. I only had him for a little while and now he’s gone. I know I have you and I’m so lucky to have you, but for a little while there was Hector as well.’ She buried her head in his shoulder and just managed to get out, ‘The people I love are always taken away.’