by Anne Doughty
‘No, it was loud, like when Da snores sometimes. It made a horrible noise in her chest. That was how we knew she wasn’t dead,’ she threw out, tears now streaming down her face.
‘Now then, don’t cry, there’s a good girl,’ Elizabeth said, hugging her. ‘We haven’t time to be upset. Go up to my bedroom. There’s a bottle of lavender water on my table. Bring it to me in the kitchen. On the way there, go to the sitting room cupboard. Bring me a bottle of elderflower wine and the brandy. Have you got Friar’s Balsam at home?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sarah, shaking her head in despair.
‘Never mind. I’ve got plenty. Now go on. Hurry.’
The long procession marched down the road. Letterkenny, Dublin, Southampton, Abyssinian. That’s where people said they were going. Abyssinian was a ship. People in Australia had sent them money to buy tickets and they were going there where it was warm. Even without a shawl Australia was warm. So she’d heard. She wondered if she would ever be warm, even if she was in Australia.
The sun had come out now. It was shining in a clear blue sky. But it was still winter. There was snow on the ground and there was another procession of people coming towards her. They were making the same strange noise, a kind of rhythmic roar, up and down, up and down. But their lips didn’t move either.
She looked around her at this unknown place. Beside her, crowds of people had gathered to watch the procession. The people who approached were barefoot. They carried bundles and small children, their faces were reddish-brown and deeply lined by sun and wind. She looked carefully for a familiar face but she knew no one among these people.
Suddenly, she remembered who these people were.
‘Cherokee,’ she said aloud.
‘Good riddance,’ said a man in the watching crowd.
‘Look around you, Rose,’ said a soft, familiar voice at her elbow. ‘Look at the faces around you. Irish, English and Scots,’ he went on. ‘All the dispossessed who came to America to make a new life. Look at what they’ve done, greedy for gold and land. They’ve evicted the Cherokee.’
‘Sam,’ she cried, whirling round, longing to see her brother’s familiar face, his red hair and kindly eyes.
But there was no one there.
She turned back to the dejected column tramping onwards to new land far away. Many of them wouldn’t get there. Sam had told her four thousand died on that winter march to Indian Territory. Now she was seeing them herself. Individual men and women. Men carrying bundles of possessions, women with babies and children clinging to their skirts.
Great cold drops of water fell from the clear sky and burnt her chest and shoulders. Others dropped at her feet. As she watched, the ground moved and flowers pressed through and bloomed on the surface of the dead land.
Most of the Cherokee moved silently with their eyes on the ground ahead of them, stony ground, cold and hard on bare feet, but suddenly, one woman looked straight at her, her eyes like two black coals sunk in her withered face. She held out a hand as if begging for help.
‘Is there nothing at all ye can do fer the poor woman?’
Rose heard the voice, a man’s voice, somehow familiar among all these strangers asking her to help, but she knew she could do nothing to help the woman. She might die. Or her children might. Sam had told her the only memorial to this long, bitter journey was a flower, a rose with white petals and a gold centre. Everywhere these people had passed on their way to Oklahoma, the white rose had sprung up to mark The Vale of Tears. The Cherokee Rose, he’d called it.
She looked down at her feet. The little roses were springing up all around her.
It took no more than five minutes for Elizabeth to collect up what she needed from the shelves and cupboards in her kitchen, but the few moments it took to wrap the bottles from bedroom and sitting-room in clean, spoilt cloth seemed interminable to Sarah. She’d flown through the familiar house, found what was asked for immediately and could think of nothing but getting back again to Ballydown. Every minute seemed like an hour, a delay she could not bear.
Elizabeth moved quickly enough on the avenue, but she couldn’t match Sarah’s speed on the hill. Nor could she risk dropping the basket full of the precious remedies she’d gathered together.
‘No sign of the doctor,’ Sarah said sharply, as they slithered in the well-tramped snow by the garden gate.
‘We’ll do what we can till he comes,’ Elizabeth said reassuringly as she used the gate post to steady herself.
Sarah ran ahead and opened the door. The kitchen was still stone cold, but both gas lamps were now lit. Sam rose from his knees by the stove, a box of matches in his hand, his face pale, a dirty streak across his forehead. He stood staring silently, his body stiff with tension as he watched them take off their capes.
‘Could you make a pot of tea, Sam?’ Elizabeth asked gently, as she cast a long glance at him.
‘Aye, surely,’ he said, grateful to have something to do. He picked up a kettle from the newly-lit stove and went towards the dairy.
Elizabeth heard Rose before she saw her. The harsh breathing vibrated as far as the small landing outside the bedroom door. It confirmed her worst fears.
She came to the bedside where John sat, his head bowed, his face tear-stained, holding one of Rose’s hands. Hannah, held the other.
‘Rose might do better sitting up,’ Elizabeth said quietly. ‘We’ll need all the pillows you can find,’ she added, nodding at Hannah and Sarah. ‘While there’s life there’s hope, John,’ she said softly. ‘Can you lift her right up for me.’
He put his arms round her and lifted her as if she’d been a child, her face against his shoulder, her long, dark hair clinging to his jacket as they piled up the pillows, settled her back against them and tucked a blanket over her shoulders.
When she heard sounds outside, Sarah stuck her head out of the window.
‘It’s him. The one we saw yesterday. Hugh’s with him.’
They stood back from the bed as they heard the heavy tread of feet on the stairs and the doctor appeared, his riding cape still in place.
A small, squarish man in his late fifties, he nodded curtly to John and ignored Elizabeth and Hannah. Sarah had stepped behind the door to let him pass. Re-emerging, she stood watching him with a fixed, steely glint in her eyes as he parked his leather bag and took out his stethoscope.
He examined Rose’s chest, pressing the cold metal against her warm skin and listening, his lips pressed tightly together. He looked at her and shook his head.
‘Do you have other family nearby?’
John stared at him uncomprehendingly and said nothing.
‘My brother works in Belfast,’ said Hannah quietly.
‘Better send for him right away. The chest is filling up. There’s nothing I can do,’ he said abruptly, folding up the stethoscope, dropping it in the bag and snapping it shut.
‘Is there nothin’ at all you can do fer the poor woman?’ John asked desperately, jumping to his feet, his eyes dilated, his face tight with anxiety.
‘No, I fear not,’ he said coolly. ‘There is an infection for which we have no treatment. She might be more comfortable lying down,’ he added, with a slight backward glance as he picked up his bag and made his way downstairs.
Hugh had ensured that his fee awaited him on the table.
‘I did warn you the journey might be wasted,’ he said, as he picked up the coins and put them in his trouser pocket. ‘Good evening, Mr Sinton,’ he added politely, as he let himself out.
Hugh had been standing awkwardly in front of the stove, fidgeting restlessly and casting his eyes round the empty kitchen. At his words he dropped down into John’s armchair and buried his head in his hands, unable to fend off the weariness of the day and the strain of these last hours any longer. His body ached from the effort of riding, mounting and dismounting in snow with one leg always liable to give way under him. Being civil to a man whom he’d found it hard not to dislike, and trying desperately to set aside h
is own anxiety for Rose and the family had left him spent and discouraged.
His situation he now acknowledged. He was exhausted. But exhaustion was no cause for despair. Not only had he been taught that despair was a sin, but long ago he’d proved to his own satisfaction that despair leads nowhere. Even sitting on a chair, too tired to move, there must be some way he could help his friends. It was up to him to find it.
‘Tea, Hugh?’
He looked up into Sam’s face and saw someone he hardly recognised, his face ash white, his voice little above a whisper. Sam the carefree one, the lad who always had a smile and an easy word had disappeared. It had probably happened the moment he’d stepped over the threshold of his parent’s room and seen his mother laid out on the bed.
‘Is the Doctor still with her?’ Sam asked, as he poured tea awkwardly from a very large pot.
‘No, he’s gone.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing to help us, Sam,’ replied Hugh, honestly. He took a long drink from his mug of tea, made up his mind and got to his feet. ‘I’m going up the hill to get Elizabeth. If there’s anything to be done, she’ll do it. Will you give me a hand up on the mare?’
‘Elizabeth’s here,’ said Sam shortly. ‘Sarah went for her. She’s been upstairs since just before the doctor came.’
‘Thank God for that, Sam,’ he said, with a huge sigh of relief, as he subsided again gratefully. ‘I’ll wait and see what she wants me to do. Stay or go, or fetch something, whatever would help, before I see to the mare. Now, come on, Sam, pour some of that tea for yourself and sit down with me here till we’re called for. Elizabeth knows what she’s about. I’m the living proof of that,’ he added encouragingly.
Rose was tired. Very tired. She’d spent all day scrubbing and cleaning and now it was nearly dark. She couldn’t go and leave it all behind, the garden Granny Sarah had cherished for so many years. Perhaps, if she made the effort to go out into the fresh night air she might feel less exhausted. The air in the house was unpleasant, moist and humid. There was a smell too, like what you got in hot weather when you had to boil towels, or working clothes stained with grease or oil. Not a very pleasant smell at all.
‘Come on now, Rose, another breath or two and you’ll feel better.’
She didn’t recognise the voice and she didn’t feel better. She would just lie back in her chair for a minute and close her eyes.
Granny Sarah was making lavender bags. Rose watched her. She’d laid out the stems to dry on the sideboard in the parlour and now she’d brought them back into the kitchen to draw the dry blooms from the shrivelled stems. The whole room was full of the spicy smell as she freed the purple flowers into a bowl ready to dish them out into the little bags she’d made. The pieces of ribbon to tie them were cut and waiting.
‘Lavender lifts the spirits,’ she said, looking across at her, her eyes twinkling.
Rose smiled to herself. If only that noisy machine outside would stop its thumping she probably would feel better. It must be Robinson’s thresher. If it was, it would go on till darkness fell. But then she’d sleep. All she wanted to do was sleep.
Elizabeth looked from Rose’s colourless face to John’s gaunt and tear-stained one. Then she glanced at Hannah and Sarah. Above the harsh, effortfull rhythm of Rose’s breathing, she could hear the murmur of voices downstairs, but not what was being said. The front door closed, feet tramped the churned up path. The high pitched whinny was most certainly the doctor’s horse. He was gone and with him what hope he might have brought. She was in little doubt now that whatever she herself might do the outcome was between Rose and her Maker.
‘Hannah,’ she said softly, ‘I need a bowl of hot water, a towel and the Friar’s Balsam from my basket. I also need you to start making a hot meal. I had some supper with Mrs Lappin, but no one else here has had a proper meal all day. Can you manage that?’
Hannah nodded silently and was out of the room in moments.
‘What can I do?’ demanded Sarah.
‘Go and tell Hugh to make up some brandy and hot water for your father. And then see what you can do to help Hannah. There’ll be vegetables to prepare.’
John opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. One look at Elizabeth’s face told him she’d not give up hope till all was lost. He gathered himself and waited to see what part she had for him.
‘I’ll need you to help me when the balsam is ready,’ she said steadily, ‘but please go down and speak a word to Hugh. He’ll be exhausted by now and maybe not able to keep up heart. Encourage him,’ she said, as she put her hand on Rose’s forehead and smoothed back her tangled hair.
In the few moments when she was alone with Rose, Elizabeth prayed. Once, in her schooldays, in an account of the English Civil War, she’d read the prayer one of the commanders was supposed to have offered up before a major battle. She’d never forgotten the simple words. ‘Lord, if I forget You this day, do not Thou forget me.’ Her own prayer was not much longer, but there was a difference. She was in no danger of forgetting God, for she was sure that He was Rose’s only hope. Her own part was simply to do His will. So she asked for guidance at all times through the evening and through the long night which might lie ahead.
When she opened her eyes, Hannah was coming through the door with a steaming bowl of water, a towel over her arm. Sarah followed behind with the bottle of Friar’s Balsam.
‘Da wants to know what you think we should do about Jamie?’ Hannah began, as she set the bowl down on Rose’s dressing table. ‘Hugh says he’ll go up to Belfast on the train and bring him back. Sam says he’ll go. He heard this afternoon there’s no snow in Belfast. They could be back together on the last train.’
Elizabeth stood up and counted drops into the boiling water.
‘Tell your father, I’d rather Sam went. I might need Hugh here. And I need one of them now, while you girls make the meal. See you give Sam something he can eat on the train,’ she said quickly, as she stirred her mixture. ‘Hurry now, I need John or Hugh. Either of them.’
The hours passed. In the bedroom, Elizabeth worked out a routine that she hoped might ease the rough, noisy breathing. Friar’s Balsam to keep the upper chest moist and open. Lavender to comfort her distress. It was Charles who had given her the idea of using lavender. He’d insisted that a body was much more likely to give up its struggle if it felt there was no comfort to be had. For want of it, he’d seen unhappy women die in a difficult labour where others in greater straits had pulled through. Even on the battlefield, he’d read, a man with a sweetheart, a wife, or a family, could often sustain a wound that brought death to another, but he did need support and comfort.
By ten o’clock the heat from the gas lamps and the steam from bowls of boiling water had made the bedroom moist and warm. Elizabeth was pleased that Rose was warmer to the touch, but she herself found the damp warmth was making her sleepy.
‘John, I need a breath of fresh air,’ she said quietly, as she stood up. ‘I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Is that all right?’
‘Aye. She seems steady enough, even if she’s no better,’ he said calmly.
‘It’s a long journey, John, if she can make it. Every hour is an achievement.’
She closed the door gently behind her and went downstairs. Hugh was sitting by the blazing fire, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on the carved American clock on the wall by the dairy door. Hannah was in her mother’s chair opposite him, sewing. Only the set of her shoulders told her she was making an effort for the sake of Sarah, who was sitting on a low chair, staring into the fire and yawning hugely.
Hugh was praying, of course. That was how he always prayed when he had a need and there were people present.
She went out through the diary and across the back of the house to the privy. From the stable, she heard the small movements of Dolly and Hugh’s mare, Bess. Black as night was Bess, hence her name. And tonight was black. No moon, the stars lost beyond thick cloud.
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sp; She stood for a moment in the cold, frosty air, drawing the freshness into her lungs, relaxing the tension in her shoulders and stretching her legs, cramped with sitting for so long, so close to the bed. She had no way of knowing if fluid was still gathering in Rose’s lungs and she knew no way of stopping it if it was. Only one more remedy still sat in her basket. A large jar of sprigs of dried rosemary.
‘Rose and Mary,’ she said aloud, suddenly seeing the familiar name as two names. The herb that grew so prolifically in the sunniest part of the garden at Rathdrum was named for Rose herself and for her dear friend Mary, who had died in the Armagh disaster.
‘Life and death, such close companions,’ she whispered to herself, as she stared up at the starless sky. As they would be tonight. She wondered if John, or Hannah, or Sam, knew how significant the later small hours would be, the hours when the body’s reserves were at their lowest and the spirit most likely to slip away.
Across the valley beyond Dolly’s field, she saw a point of light in the deep darkness. Somewhere in the hamlet of Lisnaree, there were people not yet abed. Perhaps the family of that child Hugh had told her about, the one he’d driven to the dispensary when Sarah came running to fetch him. Poor child. Whatever ailed it, it stood small chance of living, so frail its little body. So Sarah had said. Wide-eyed and angry she’d been, Hugh had told her, later that evening. She’d blamed him for the woman’s need to walk to Rathdrum to fetch a ticket.
Poor Hugh, it had vexed him to see Sarah so upset. She’d meant to talk to Rose about it this morning. Ask her what best to do. How they could explain things to Sarah and comfort Hugh. All that was irrelevant now. Their hurt would be as nothing if they were both to lose Rose.
She took one more deep breath to clear her head of sleep, shivered, and went back to meet whatever the night might bring.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elizabeth didn’t know what time the last train left Belfast for Banbridge, but it stopped at all the stations on the way and there was a two mile walk at the end of it, so it might well be midnight before Sam and Jamie arrived back at Ballydown. With the main road icy and the snow cover on the hill now freezing, it could be even later. She sighed and went back into the house.