by Anne Doughty
He had been so unsure of himself. She’d found it hard to grasp how confident he was in his medical practice, yet so awkward with her. As the weeks of her grandfather’s last illness progressed, he grew easier, able to talk to her about his work and his hopes for the future. He’d showed her how to watch for the early signs of distress and how to treat them before they became a trouble to the old man. They were watching together when he died, slipping away so peacefully that they embraced each other, dry-eyed and thankful, before setting about what had to be done.
A year later, on a hot summer day, when she was working in the garden at Rathdrum, a message had arrived to say Charles had been taken ill in a village near Armagh where he’d gone to help the local doctor with an outbreak of cholera. Later that day, while she was making preparations to go and take care of him, a letter was delivered telling her he had died.
She had taken care of others since. First her father, then Hugh. At one time, she’d thought of training to be a doctor, now that some medical schools were open to women, but it always seemed there was some more pressing need in her immediate surroundings. Now, surely, she had left it too long. Her place was here at Rathdrum, her consolation her friends and family, her dear friend Rose and her four young people.
She picked up her morning’s letters and looked at them. An elderly aunt and uncle now living in the farm at Fruit Hill, a cousin in England, another in Canada, a brother of Charles who practised in Manchester and still wrote to her about his work and his family. A web of loving thoughts, spanning distance, weaving the past to the present. It was something to give thanks for. Something to set against the ache of loss, of what might have been if Charles had lived to be her cherished husband.
The snow had stopped and a pale sun glinted feebly on the horizon as Hannah and Sarah cycled out of Banbridge on the wet and muddy strip of main road where the road engines had passed, their back wheel strakes scraping the fresh snow and leaving it to melt as they hauled in loads of coal for the mills and carried off webs of cloth to Newry and Belfast.
Rathdrum Hill was a different matter. Stopping at the junction of their own road with the main road, Hannah looked at the deep, unmarked surface dubiously.
‘I think we’ll have to leave our bicycles at MacMurrays,’ she said, testing the depth with her front wheel.
‘We can carry them,’ said Sarah. ‘They’re not heavy.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Hannah agreed.
If you wanted to get anywhere with Sarah it was best to begin by agreeing with her.
‘They’re not heavy at all, but if we slipped when we’re carrying them we could hurt ourselves quite badly. If we have our hands free, we might be able to save ourselves. Ma would be so upset if one of us had a bad fall, don’t you think?’
Sarah nodded briskly and Hannah breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Then we’ll just have to be extra careful as far as MacMurray’s,’ she said briskly, lifting her bicycle clear of the snow and stepping cautiously towards the nearby farm entrance.
The MacMurray’s had cleared their yard and one of their barns stood wide open. They parked the bicycles and greeted Michael MacMurray who was pitching fodder into the byre.
‘I expect the brougham will be back soon,’ he said, walking with them across the yard. ‘Don’t think Mr Sinton an’ yer Da could do any better on the hill than you. I’ve a space cleared ready for them.’
The sun had disappeared behind the trees that sheltered the MacMurray’s farm from the westerly winds and the light was beginning to fade as they tackled the hill. The snow lay much deeper than usual and Hannah soon began to tire.
‘I shall be glad to get home,’ she said breathlessly, as she stopped again to rest.
‘I’ll make you some toast,’ Sarah replied quickly, turning round and tramping back to encourage her sister with a warm smile. ‘There’s baker’s bread from yesterday. And damson jam,’ she added, rolling her eyes.
Hannah laughed and moved forward again, using the tracks Sarah had made.
‘Here, give me your hand,’ said Sarah, grabbing at her. ‘I’ll give you a tow up. It’s not very far now.’
Despite Sarah’s vigorous efforts, Hannah was even more breathless by the time they got to the garden gate. Her creamy skin looked paler than usual, while Sarah was bright-eyed, her cheeks rosy from exertion. She pushed open the gate as far as it would go against the snow and left Hannah to close it as she clumped down the path to the front door. She threw it open and stopped dead. The kitchen was empty, dark and cold.
‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’ Hannah asked sharply, as she caught up with her. She peered past her and took in the empty room. ‘Where’s Ma?’
‘She’s not here. And the fire’s out,’ Sarah replied hastily, a note of alarm in her voice.
‘Perhaps she’s still up with Elizabeth,’ said Hannah soothingly.
‘But she knows we’re early today,’ Sarah protested. ‘Anyway we’re not early any more. It must be way after four by now,’ she went on, stepping over to the stove to peer up at the clock on the mantelpiece, its face just visible in the pale light reflected from the snow.
Hannah followed her gaze and registered sooner than she did that the clock had stopped. A bad sign, for she knew her mother wound it regularly every morning after they went to school. She scanned the room desperately for some explanation.
There was no note on the table, but in the dim light she recognised a familiar shape. Her mother’s basket was still sitting there, the corner of her well-wrapped sewing poking out. She took a deep breath and stopped herself from hurrying upstairs.
‘She had a bit of a headache this morning. Maybe she’s having a lie down,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll go up and have a look while you light the lamps, Sarah.’
But Sarah wasn’t listening, she was flying upstairs and along the short landing to the largest bedroom. Hannah followed hastily and they arrived at the open door together.
Rose lay face down on the bedside rug, her everyday boots lying beside her. The bedspread had been thrown back and the covers opened, but she’d not succeeded in getting into bed. She’d caught at the bedspread as she fell and it was twisted round her slim body like a winding sheet.
It was almost completely dark by the time Hannah and Sarah managed to take off Rose’s dress and get her into bed. Her body was stone cold and only her hoarse breathing convinced them she was alive, for her eyes were shut and she seemed unaware of being moved.
‘Go and boil water on the gas, Sarah, and fill the stone jars while I get more blankets,’ Hannah said, the pallor of Rose’s face reducing her voice to a whisper.
‘Can I not go for the doctor?’ Sarah whispered back.
‘No,’ Hannah said firmly, desperately looking round for a reason to stop Sarah racing off into the night. ‘I need you to help me. We must get her warm again. Go on, get the kettle on, quickly.’
Hannah paused long enough to light the gas lamp before she brought extra blankets from the chest in Jamie’s room. She covered the still figure and tucked them well in at her sides, then put her warm hands against her mother’s face. It felt colder than snow.
At the foot of the hill, John and Hugh manoeuvred the young mare out of the shafts of the brougham and noted the two bicycles parked against the wall of the barn.
‘I see the girls did the sensible thing,’ said John easily, as Michael MacMurray came up to join them.
‘Aye, the hill’s as bad as I’ve known it, but they’re safe home maybe an hour ago,’
‘A good night to be indoors,’ said Hugh agreeably, as Michael walked with them across the well-swept yard to the snowy road beyond.
‘Da, Da.’
John turned away to stare up the hill. Against the smooth dim surface a small figure raced headlong toward him, tripping and recovering itself by turns.
‘Sarah, what are ye doin’ out? What’s wrong at all?’
‘Ma’s sick. She was lying on the floor,’ she gasped, leaning against the
gate for support. ‘We have to get the doctor.’
John stared at her, his eyes large in the light of Michael’s lantern. Distress written all over her, her chest heaving, her cape was covered in snow where she’d fallen in her haste to get help once Hannah let her go.
‘It’ll be quicker to ride the mare,’ Hugh said. ‘Can you lend me a saddle, Michael, and get me up on her?’ he said urgently. ‘You go up home, John. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
He urged John away with a gesture as Michael threw a saddle over the mare’s back and bent to tighten the girths.
Sarah followed John upstairs and saw him look at her mother’s inert figure. When she heard him speak to Hannah, his voice breaking with distress, she slipped downstairs and out into the night. Even if the doctor was in his dispensary and even if he came on his horse right away, she didn’t think he’d be much use. It was fully dark now and the wind was getting up, blowing fallen snow from the hedgerows in her face. It didn’t matter about the snow. It didn’t matter how many times she fell over, she would just keep going till she got there. The only person who might be any good was Elizabeth and she must fetch her.
CHAPTER SIX
Rose felt cold. Icy cold. Even in the barn where she slept curled in a blanket in the hay it was cold, but outside it was even colder.
When she heard her mother call, she ran across the farmyard to the tall, whitewashed pillars that supported the gate into the Ross’s farm. Ma was standing there with her friend Emily, and Emily’s husband, Walter. They were all looking up the road from Ramelton and waiting, the January sky a monotonous grey, the wind catching at Emily’s wispy hair.
Back in the barn, she’d been holding the sheepdog pups in her arms, small helpless creatures, their eyes not yet open, but their bodies fat and warm, well-fed and well-licked by their mother, a bright-eyed border collie, Walter’s best servant when he was working with the sheep. She longed to feel their warmth again.
‘Look, Rose, they’re coming.’
Rose stared into the distance and listened. The tramping feet made a strange, rhythmic roar. As the straggling procession of figures drew closer she began to recognise faces. Friends and neighbours from Ardtur, children she’d been at school with before Adair turned them out of their home. She waved at Owen Friel and Danny Lawn who were walking side-by-side carrying a big bundle between them. As they passed, she saw it was a child, all hopped up in an old cloak. It was crying, but it made no sound. The rhythmic roar grew louder.
‘Come, we’ll go part of the way with them,’ Hannah said to Rose, taking her by the hand. ‘We’ll never lay eyes on them again,’ she added, turning to Emily, a bent old woman who leant wearily against one of the great white pillars with their conical tops. There was a stone sticking out of each pointed top to stop the fairies dancing on them and bringing bad luck to the house.
Walter stood under the other pillar. He didn’t believe in fairies. He read to them every night from his Bible. Some nights he read from King James’s Bible, some nights from the Gaelic Bible Ma gave him when they’d come to shelter in his barn. She could understand both. What she couldn’t understand was how Walter came to have King James’s Bible in the first place.
Even more puzzling now was the roar these people were making. They didn’t look as if they were making a noise. Their lips weren’t moving. They weren’t speaking to each other, or shouting, or cheering, they just moved silently past, but the noise went on. It drowned out the sound of their tramping feet and it went on just as loudly even after they’d passed by.
‘They’re going to Gartan to say goodbye,’ explained Hannah. ‘We’ll follow them there and wish them luck.’
Gartan was their own lough, grey and still, in the morning light. But she knew it wasn’t to the lough itself they were going. They would be following the track well above the shore to the old ruined church with its graveyard and the Holy Well. The hill up to the church was steep and she was out of breath. If she hadn’t held on to her mother’s hand she’d never have got up that hill at all.
There were crowds and crowds of people everywhere, all round the church, most of them were crying. Men and women and young girls and boys. They knelt by graves and kissed the crosses that marked their family burying grounds. Many of them plucked grass and put it in their bundles or in their clothes. Some of the women wore only a shift. They didn’t even have a bundle. They wiped their tears on bare arms.
Rose stood listening to the roar they made as they lined up outside the tiny stone chapel Saint Columbkille had built. She watched as one by one the figures went inside and lay down on a big flat tombstone.
‘What are they doing that for?’ she asked.
‘For forgetfulness.’
She stared at her mother baffled, her mouth open.
‘They say that lying on the saint’s stone will spare you memories,’ Hannah began. ‘If you’re going to Australia and may never come back, it would be best to forget the happiness and joy there was with the friends and family you’ll never see again. It would be a small mercy for the poor souls if it were so.’
‘Ma, what’s that noise?’ she asked, at last, as she watched the company forming up to take to the road again.
‘That’s a lament, the caoine, they call it.’
But whatever it was called, she still didn’t grasp how people could make such a noise if their lips never moved.
Sarah felt no cold at all as she struggled up the hill to Rathdrum, her face prickling with heat, her breath streaming round her in the frosty air. The breeze was strengthening. When it caught up snow from the hedgerows and threw small flurries in her face, she was glad of its cooling touch, wiping the moisture from her face with the back of one gloved hand.
She’d told herself as she set out that it didn’t matter if she fell in her haste to get to Rathdrum, but the first time her foot skidded on ice below the snow and she fell sprawling, she changed her mind. It wouldn’t be much use to Ma if she twisted her ankle and couldn’t get there. Better to slow down a bit however much she wanted to get there quickly.
‘Keep to the middle,’ she said aloud, as she picked herself up hurriedly and shook out her skirts.
Hugh’s mare would have left its tracks before the morning’s fall. If she could find them, there’d be only eight or nine inches of crisp undisturbed snow above them, while at the edges of the road in the shadow of the hedge, there’d be double that amount. What she had to avoid at all costs was blundering into the ditch, invisible where the faded grasses of winter masked the deep channel, freshly cleared and deepened to drain away the heavy rains of autumn.
There was no moon and the starlight was dimmed by fleeting wisps of low cloud. Only from the snow itself came a feeble gleam in the enveloping darkness. She knew the hill so well she could hardly believe it went on for so long. She was gasping for breath by the time the gradient evened out and she peered around for any sign of the square stone pillars that marked the entrance to Rathdrum.
She stood breathing heavily, unable to pierce the darkness. It had never occurred to her she might arrive at the top of the hill and not be able to find the entrance. It had to be to her right, but where exactly was it? If she were to leave the road at the wrong place, she’d be sure to end up in the ditch. Tears of anxiety and frustration sprang to her eyes.
‘Think, Sarah, think. Ask for help.’
She sent up a quick, incoherent prayer and stood quite still. Elizabeth always said there was no point asking God for help and not waiting for an answer. She stood and listened as intently as she knew how. Now she’d stopped struggling through the snow, the night was completely still. Far away, she heard a dog bark in the silence. Suddenly, unexpectedly, and very close at hand she heard a soft, rushing noise. A tree had shed part of its burden of snow only a few yards away and she knew the limes of the avenue were the only trees on this part of the hill.
She ran towards the sound and almost fell over again. As she straightened up, she saw the faint outline of a gatepost
and much further away, the misty gleam of light spilling from the fanlight above the front door of Rathdrum. Between her and it, partly sheltered by the trees, the avenue had only half the snow she’d ploughed through on the hill.
She picked up her skirt, raced to the front door and banged the knocker vigorously. She’d never before knocked at the front door, but the light spilling from the sitting room showed her the piled up snow at the side of the house. Besides, it was nearer.
‘You must come quickly,’ she gasped breathlessly, as a startled Elizabeth opened the door.
‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’ Elizabeth asked, as calmly as she could, having taken one brief look at her distraught face.
‘Ma’s ill,’ she said, choking on the words. ‘Hugh’s gone for the doctor, but if he’s that man I saw yesterday, he’s no use. Please hurry,’ she pleaded. ‘Get your cape quickly. I’m so afraid she’ll die.’
‘All right, Sarah, I’ll come this minute,’ Elizabeth said reassuringly, ‘but I need to know what to bring. Now tell me quickly what happened.’
‘We came in from school and it was dark and the clock was stopped and her basket still on the table with her sewing,’ Sarah began hastily. ‘We thought she was here, but she was lying on the bedroom floor. She was as cold as ice.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘We put her in bed with stone bottles and blankets.’
Elizabeth nodded as she reached for her outdoor boots and sat down in the hallway to put them on. She swung her cape round her shoulders and fastened it, then reached for a shopping basket.
‘What was her breathing like?’ she asked, as Sarah edged her towards the door. ‘Soft and whispery?’ she suggested, stopping firmly by the closed door.