by Anne Doughty
She smiled awkwardly.
‘Yes, I am pleased,’ she admitted, leaning back comfortably in her father’s armchair. ‘But I couldn’t have done anything if you and Da and Hugh hadn’t helped me. It’s their work I’ve written about …’
‘And your pictures you sent.’
‘And some of the best were taken on the plate camera you and Da gave me,’ she continued, not to be deflected from expressing her sense of fairness.
Rose laughed.
‘I highly approve of modesty in a young woman.
It is very becoming,’ she said in a teasing tone, ‘but I will not let you diminish what you’ve achieved. Take it, treasure it, build on it. There will always be disappointments enough you’ll have to carry. If you don’t take the goodness of what you achieve you won’t have the strength of spirit to weather the bad bits.’
She nodded and stretched her legs out in front of the stove. A faint mist of steam drifted upwards from the damp hem of her dress.
‘Oh, it is lovely to sit and talk, Ma,’ she said suddenly. ‘That’s what I miss most as a working girl. All our cups of tea after school and on Saturdays if there wasn’t a hockey match. Now its Wednesday or Saturday afternoon, and that’s only when I don’t go to one of the mills.’
‘Yes, I miss you too. But one day you’ll be gone altogether, so I’m enjoying what I have,’ she replied quite calmly.
‘Oh Ma, don’t be daft. I’m not going to marry an English Lord like Hannah. Ireland is my place and Down is my corner. I won’t be far away. There’s work enough to do here without me emigrating,’ she declared. ‘I’ll maybe be one of these fierce old spinsters who are doing such good work on women’s rights. Could you see me in the Suffrage Movement?’
‘Goodness knows what you’ll get up to, but there is something I want you to think about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A blessing on Lord Altrincham for paving the way for me,’ she said sighing. ‘I know you’ll say that other girls have to work even longer hours than you, Sarah, but other girls may not have the gifts you have,’ she began cautiously. ‘If you exhaust yourself out of sympathy for them, you won’t be able to do much to help anyone.’
She nodded and admitted that sometimes she was so tired by Saturday she just wanted to sit by the fire and read a novel.
‘What I want you to do is see this job as a temporary thing. Give it up when you’ve learnt all you can. Take some months off. Go and visit Hannah. I’d love you to come with me to Donegal to visit your Aunt Mary. It would be marvellous for your landscape work. Then, when you’re ready, look for something different. You don’t have to earn a living. That’s a real gift, but it’s you who must take it.’
Sarah beamed at her.
‘Am I easier to talk to than I was when I was at school?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
‘Yes, you are. They say girls in their teens go through a rebellious phase. They always hate their mothers. You didn’t do that, thank goodness, but you did do some hating. I used to feel I was treading on eggshells when I tried to help you.’
‘Isn’t it nice to be old, Ma. One’s got past all that.’
‘Old?’ Rose retorted. ‘Do you mean me, or you?’
‘Both of us. We’re both so old we can talk to each other like friends. I’m so happy about that.’
Rose looked across at her, as she bounced up from her chair and looked out of the window to see if the rain had stopped.
‘Yes, I’m happy about it too. It’s much more restful,’ she said laughing gaily.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The last week of January 1901 brought with it two memorable events: the long-awaited departure of Queen Victoria and the anxiously awaited arrival of Elizabeth Stewart’s first child. While the country went through the rituals of mourning for a Queen who had mourned for most of her long life, Elizabeth, after a long and difficult labour, borne with her customary calm, gave birth to a robust baby boy who already had a cap of the same fine dark hair as his father. Elizabeth and Richard were relieved and delighted. Every moment they could spend together with their child was a kind of celebration.
Visiting in the evenings after work, when Hugh drove her over to spend a few hours with the new parents and her mother, who was looking after Elizabeth, Sarah was overwhelmed by their joy. She held the very new baby, was amazed at its smallness and its perfection, totally entranced by the curling and uncurling of its fingers and amused by his name. James Richard Pearson Stewart seemed such a big name for such a very small creature.
It was only when Elizabeth was on her feet again and Rose safely back home that Sarah admitted she was so exhausted she felt she could sleep for a week. She wondered how women who worked all day in shops and factories could manage to buy food in their brief midday break, cook an evening meal, keep up with the laundry and housework and be up early enough to get to work by eight o’clock the next day. She’d done it willingly enough for three weeks, but she wasn’t sure she could have kept it up much longer.
With Rose’s encouragement and the knowledge that her mother would be away again quite soon, she gave up her job gratefully in the middle of March and spent her first week of freedom having breakfast in bed and getting up very late indeed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Rose asked, the morning her sailing tickets arrived.
‘But, of course, Ma. I’m absolutely fine now,’ she reassured her. ‘If it weren’t for looking after Da while you’re with Hannah, I’d be thinking of a new job. But I won’t even look at Situations Vacant until you’re back.’
‘You won’t get bored?’ asked Rose cautiously.
‘No. I’ve got lots of plans,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going to work out how I can use my old bedroom as a dark room. Da says he can fit a frame over the window and I’ve found a filter I can use on a torch to make a dark light. That’ll keep me busy when I’m not cooking and cleaning.’
‘You will get out in the fresh air, won’t you?’ Rose went on, suddenly remembering what Lady Anne had said about the smell from the knife room at Ashley Park when Teddy had used it as a darkroom.
‘Yes, I will. Hugh’s offered to help me with my landscapes,’ she explained. ‘He got me to admit you can’t carry a plate camera and a tripod on a bicycle. He says the motor needs regular outings to keep it running sweetly, so he might as well drive me around the countryside rather than just take it out for the sake of keeping it ticking over.’
Rose looked at her carefully. Her daughter’s eyes were bright, her usual good spirits completely restored. Clearly, she was looking forward to the next month, her plans already made. She wondered what changes might occur in her absence. A month was a long time. Only a week earlier, Lady Anne had enquired if Sarah had any admirers.
‘She is such an attractive, lively girl,’ she’d written. ‘I can’t imagine she hasn’t her admirers.’
She’d sat for a while thinking about it, her regular letter already half-written.
I hardly know how to answer your question about Sarah, Anne dear. I sometimes think of what you said about Teddy, that he couldn’t even remember the names of the girls he danced with. Sarah’s a bit like that. Quite disparaging about most of the boys she was at school with. Occasionally, I mention a name, like Peter Jackson, our new neighbour’s son, who is a nice lad and distinctly good-looking, but Sarah just laughs.
I sometimes wonder if it’s because she’s always had such a good friend in Hugh that she finds boys of her own age so very young and unappealing. I must say I’m surprised Hugh has never married. He’s an attractive man and although he does still have a scar, the damage of that terrible fall seems to have been completely corrected. He hasn’t even got a limp now. What marvellous things they can do these days to mend damaged bodies, though I must say Hugh worked terribly hard himself and suffered a great deal to get his muscles working again. I really did think when Elizabeth got engaged to Richard Stewart, Hugh would look around him.
&n
bsp; But speaking of looking around, Anne, I’ve remembered something else I must tell you. Sam arrived last Saturday afternoon looking smarter than ever. I’ve never know anyone who could get such a shine on their boots! Sarah began teasing him right away. Sam, of course, said nothing. He has a way of just smiling. But John and I both think there’s a girl in it somewhere. Sarah is perfectly certain there is. She says he may not be saying anything, but she won’t be one bit surprised when he does.
So much happening, my dear, babies and engagements. I’m so much looking forward to seeing you next week when I come over for Hannah’s confinement. What a mercy she is so well and has you at hand. I am so grateful for that. Love and kisses to you both,
Rose
Francis John Molyneux Harrington was born at Cleeve Hall, one of the manor houses on the Ashley estates, on the last day of March 1901, arriving just before midnight in the midst of an equinoctial gale that felled timber in the park and disrupted sailings to and from Ireland. But within the comfortable old manor, all remained calm and quiet. Shortly after the birth, Rose and Anne retreated to the sitting room to drink tea, leaving Hannah holding her child as if she’d spent her young womanhood caring for babies, while Teddy sat beside her, unable to take his eyes from her face and the fall of her hair.
Rushed to the nearest Post Office by one of the younger servants, the expected telegram arrived at Ballydown next morning. Sarah heard the scrape of handlebars against the garden wall and hurried to the door.
‘Here y’are. I hope it’s not bad news,’ said the telegraph boy, as she flew down the garden path, grabbed the envelope he held out to her and ripped it open.
‘Lovely boy. Hannah well. Letter follows. Love Ma,’ she read, her stomach doing a double somersault before it settled back into its normal position.
‘No, it’s not. It’s good news,’ she said beaming. ‘My sister’s had her baby. All’s well. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Ach aye. That’s great. An’ how’s Sam?’
Sarah paused, confused and somewhat taken aback. She looked more closely at the young man in his smart uniform.
‘Billy?’ she said, still a little uncertain, ‘of course it’s Billy. I didn’t recognise you for a minute. You were Sam’s flagman.’
‘Aye, till I got abolished in ’96,’ he said wryly.
‘But you went on working at Tullyconnaught, didn’t you? It was you went for Da when Sam broke his leg. Thank goodness you did.’
‘Aye,’ he replied, lifting up his bicycle and preparing to mount. ‘But when I came up to see Sam an’ he told me he’d got his cards, I thought to meself. That’s that. And I started to look about. I’m a lot better off where I am. And I’m learning the telegraph forby. As long as they don’t invent somethin’ else for sendin’ messages quicker, I’ll do rightly,’ he declared, as he got into the saddle. ‘Tell Sam I was askin’ for him,’ he called over his shoulder as he pushed off down the hill.
‘I will indeed, Billy. Thanks a lot.’
She read the telegram three times more as if it still had something new to tell her. Laughing at herself, she pulled on her cape and set off up the hill, the bright, torn envelope in her pocket.
The stiff, chill breeze from the north-east almost took her breath away, but it was powerful enough to blow holes in the clouded sky. By the time she got to the top of the hill, great patches of blue sky had already appeared. Against them, the still bare branches of the limes swayed back and forth, the light picking out the pale, swollen buds that would break into leaf as soon as they felt the touch of some real warmth.
She made her way to the workshop, but finding it empty and silent, she proceeded to the conservatory. It was Hugh who saw her first and sprang to his feet, setting aside a pile of papers.
‘Sarah,’ he said, beaming.
‘Hallo, Hugh,’ she replied. ‘Sorry to interrupt the work. I have a message for Granda Hamilton,’ she continued, almost managing to keep her face straight.
‘Ach dear,’ said the man himself, looking up at her, his eyes suspiciously damp. ‘When did you hear?’
She pulled out the crumpled telegram, put it in his hand and dropped down gratefully in the chair Hugh brought for her.
‘And all well?’ Hugh said softly, meeting her eyes, as John read and reread the brief message just as she’d done.
She nodded happily.
‘About ten minutes ago,’ she said, answering her father’s question as Hugh disappeared in search of Mrs Lappin and a pot of tea.
‘I can’t rightly take it in,’ he said, blowing his nose and glancing again at the insignificant piece of beige paper.
‘Tea in a couple of minutes,’ Hugh said, coming back into the sun-filled conservatory. ‘Mrs Lappin says “congratulations,” John. This makes you an aunt, Sarah. How do you like the idea?’ he asked, his sober, grey eyes unusually bright.
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ she replied laughing. ‘I hope he’s as lovely as Elizabeth’s baby. What does it feel like to be an uncle?’ she demanded in return.
Tea arrived. Mrs Lappin was not noted for her enthusiasm or her smiles but even she seemed delighted. What was it, Sarah wondered, that brought such joy? A child born in another place, to a girl once known, a neighbour’s daughter, no relation or close friend. She’d never seen her look so cheerful.
‘We must go to Dromore and tell Elizabeth and Richard this evening,’ said Hugh, as he finished his tea. ‘What time can I pick you up?’ he asked, looking from Sarah to John and back again.
‘I think maybe I’ll write Rose and Hannah a few lines this evenin’,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘But you and Sarah away over an’ see them. They’ll be powerful pleased to hear the news.’
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ enquired Hugh, one calm April evening two weeks later, as he reached out to take the camera and tripod from her. He waited while she climbed over a stone wall.
‘I think so,’ said Sarah slowly. ‘I have a feeling the light level dropped just as I was ready to take it. But I couldn’t work any faster. There are so many pitfalls with landscape,’ she explained solemnly. ‘One wobbly tripod leg and that lake drains out down the main road.’
He studied her closely, surprised to hear her tone so flat.
‘You look tired.’
‘Do I?’
‘You often do when you take pictures. I think it’s because you concentrate so hard.’
‘I never thought of that,’ she said honestly.
‘Come and sit in the motor. It’s better padded than this wall.’
She laughed and climbed up gratefully into the parked motor. Behind her, she heard Hugh make sure her equipment was safely wedged on the back seat.
‘That sky just gets more beautiful,’ she exclaimed, as he got in beside her. ‘But I can’t do anything about it till they invent the colour film we talked about after Elizabeth’s wedding.’
‘Probably won’t be all that long before they do,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up with the rate things change at these days. Probably a sign of advancing age,’ he added, with a slight, wry laugh.
She looked at him and grinned.
‘Da says it’s all the fault of the change of century,’ she declared, leaning back comfortably. ‘Making him feel old, that is. Francis and James will be twentieth-century men, but all the rest of us span two centuries. And two reigns,’ she added, as the thought struck her.
‘Yes, we’re Victorians and the babies will be Edwardians,’ he mused. ‘Just think what they’ll live to see. More radical things than colour film, I suspect. What do you think?’
‘Moving pictures certainly,’ she replied, as she watched fragments of tinted cloud move across the paling sky. ‘Marianne persuaded Lady Anne to go to the cinematograph in London. They do marvellous things with horses. She said some people screamed when they came racing towards them and flew over their heads on the screen,’ she went on, laughing. ‘But I expect that’s only a beginning, like me using a plate camer
a and a Kodak.’
He smiled at her and gazed out over the broad prospect below them, the calm surface of a small lake perfectly reflecting the low hills that surrounded it, a solitary fisherman standing thigh deep in water, creating ripples that vibrated outwards into the still water.
‘So what’s your next project, Sarah, now you’ve got your darkroom going?’
‘Belfast,’ she said promptly. ‘I want to learn portraiture and I need a big studio for that.’
He glanced away and for a moment Sarah wondered what had caught his eye. A blackbird in the hedgerow or a patch of light on a distant field.
‘You’d go into lodgings?’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, not looking at him. ‘I thought I’d have a word with Elizabeth. She always knows people who know people,’ she said smiling.
But to her surprise, Hugh didn’t smile at all. He just looked thoughtful and rather sad and said it was time they were getting back.
Sarah stood on the shallow steps of the Great Northern Railway Station and looked up and down Great Victoria Street. It was full of vehicles of all kinds coming and going, the noise of hooves and wheels on the cobbles, the cries of carriers and street sellers loud in her ears. There was no sign at all of a cab, but Hugh had insisted she would need one. The Abercorn Studio was in Anne’s Street, he’d said, studying the street plan in his Trade Directory. It was too far to walk through crowded streets carrying the albums of work she’d decided to take.
It was much warmer in the city than in Banbridge and her smart straw bonnet seemed to make her head hotter rather than keep her cool. She patted her face with her handkerchief. It was much noisier too. She’d have to get used to that. But the thought of getting used to this continuous noise oppressed her.
‘It’s just a question of giving it time,’ she said to herself, thinking of what her mother would say.