by Anne Doughty
‘Are you having a party?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes. One here and one in Tullyard. Ye’d better be free for both or there’ll be trouble. Tullyard on Saturday week. Ye’ll be home, won’t ye?’
‘Yes, of course, I will. What would you and Harry like for your engagement present?’
‘Ach, away wi’ ye. Ye need all the money ye’ve got.’
Clare smiled. What Jessie lacked in perception she more than made up in kindness. As Robert had once said of her, ‘Sure Jessie’s that good-natured she’d give you the bite goin’ inta her mouth.’
‘You won’t believe this, Jessie,’ she said, as she sampled her apple pie, ‘But I’m better off than I’ve ever been. I can’t understand all this business about penniless students. I can pay for Granda’s dinners and Helen Wiley to do a bit of tidying and my food, and rent, and the odd coffee in the Union and still have money left over.’
‘That’s only because ye can make it go twice as far as anyone I know,’ said Jessie promptly. ‘I don’t know how ye manage it. Ye ought to be working in a bank. You’d make their fortune.’
Clare laughed easily, so grateful the dark shadow had passed. How silly one could be sometimes. Jessie and Harry were getting engaged and she would be there at their party in Tullyard, with Mrs Rowentree and Aunt Sarah and all Jessie’s friends and neighbours, nearly all of whom she knew herself. She was looking forward to it already.
‘Mam’selles, Messieurs, je regrette beaucoup …’
The familiar voice cut through Clare’s thoughts just as she’d begun to consider what she should wear to Jessie’s party the following evening.
She rose to her feet as the professor swept in, the sleeves of his gown flapping like an agitated hen trying to collect her chicks.
‘Asseyez vous,’ he said, hastily, his eyes running round the familiar faces.
Suddenly Clare felt chill, though the room was now warm from the ancient radiators and the heat of young bodies.
‘Mademoiselle Hamilton,’ he began.
Although he continued in French and referred to one of the college porters as a ‘custodian’ his message was clear. A gentleman had arrived by car looking for her. The custodian was waiting for her downstairs. He sincerely hoped it was not mauvaise nouvelles, but the look on his face suggested it was. She stumbled from the room and found the porter at the foot of the stairs. When she saw his face, she felt ‘mauvaise nouvelles’ was the very phrase for it.
‘There’s a Mr Jack Hamilton, miss, at the main entrance. I’m afeerd its bad news but he wouldn’t say what,’ he explained as he fell into step beside her. He reached out a hand for her books which she was in danger of dropping.
‘Is there anyone in the family poorly?’
‘Well, all my grandparents are elderly, but my brother lives with Uncle Jack’s parents. He can be a bit wild. He’s broken his arm once and he had to have stitches in his leg when he fell off his bicycle. He will go racing around the place,’ she said breathlessly, as they rounded the library at speed and made for the main entrance.
She could see Uncle Jack’s car parked in the space normally used by important visitors.
‘Mr Hamilton.’
At the sound of his name, Uncle Jack jumped up from his seat by the fire in the porter’s lodge and came towards her in two great strides. The minute she looked at him, she knew it wasn’t Granny or Granda Hamilton or William.
‘It’s Granda Scott, isn’t it?’
He nodded sadly.
‘Aye, it is. Jamsey found him in the forge about an hour ago. He’d slipped down beside the anvil. It must’ve been very quick.’
Clare didn’t even notice the chair that suddenly appeared behind her nor the ‘custodian’s’ sad shake of the head.
‘Would ye drink a cup of tea, Miss? It wouldn’t take a minute.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Clare said, amazed that her voice was perfectly normal. ‘But I shall need to be getting home right away.’
As she walked to Uncle Jack’s car, all she could think of was that she had to get out Robert’s best shirt and a starched collar. He always got so anxious if someone died and he couldn’t find what he needed.
By the time Clare had visited Elmwood Avenue to collect clothes, tell Mrs McGregor what had happened, leave a message for Jessie at the gallery and phone Uncle Bob to ask him to contact the rest of the family, the sun was high in the sky and the promising morning had turned into the loveliest of autumn days.
As they drove out of the city only the merest wisps of cloud remained in the clear blue sky. Beyond the houses and the trees that lined the main road, the steep slopes of Antrim Hills rose clear of all human habitation, only fields and bushes breaking the sweep as they reached higher, and higher, until at last their crests were free of any sign men could put upon them and the rock faces stood sharp against the sky, shaped only by the frost, by the wind, and by the sun.
Clare looked up at them dry-eyed and silent, leaving Uncle Jack free to concentrate on the road, busy enough at this midday hour.
‘I to the hills will lift mine eyes, from whence doth come mine aid, my safety cometh from the Lord, who heaven and earth hath made,’ she repeated quietly, unaware that she had spoken out loud.
Jack glanced across at her, startled by the sound of her voice.
‘What do you think, Uncle Jack?’ she asked, her tone low, but steady. ‘Is there someone up there to help us? Granda never went to church, but he always insisted I went. I’m not sure what he believed. He never talked about things like that.’
‘No, Clare, he didn’t. None of that generation did,’ Jack replied, regretfully. ‘If you want to know what Robert believed, you have to look at how he lived. He was a good man.’
She nodded and tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘I suppose I’m just worrying about what we have to do.’
‘D’you mean, arranging the funeral and suchlike?’
She rummaged in her jacket pockets for a handkerchief, blew her nose, and admitted she didn’t know where to start.
‘That’ll be the least of your problems, love. There’ll be plenty to see to what has to be done. Myself for one, your Uncle Bob for another. That’s not your problem.’
‘What is my problem, Uncle Jack?’
She thought he hadn’t heard her, but her voice had gone again, so she couldn’t repeat the question. Instead, she took a last look at the hills as the road swung away into the gently undulating lowlands beyond Lurgan, where, through a gap in the hawthorn hedge, you might just catch a glimpse of Lough Neagh, shimmering beyond the water meadows.
‘You’ve loved and cared for Robert for half your life, Clare. Your problem is he’ll leave a hole in your heart.’
She hadn’t expected such directness nor such accuracy. She didn’t bother to wipe away the tears, they were flowing far too fast. She just nodded and stared out at the distorted images of trees as Jack turned off the main road and took the road that would bring them home through Loughgall. Already they were in home territory. She and Jessie had cycled, walked, visited and delivered messages over every square mile of it. She knew every house, every tree, every patch of wildflowers. If her world really was a teacup, it was a very full one.
Though the journey from Belfast had taken a long, long hour, the last minutes moved so quickly she couldn’t keep up with them. Loughgall was far behind. Now they were passing Scott’s Corner, coming up the hill, pausing, turning across the road and bumping into the foot of the lane below the forge. They stopped behind another car already parked there.
It was Charlie Running’s.
She got out, took her suitcase from the back seat, stood looking at the silent forge, the door open as usual. Pale smoke was rising from the chimney of the cottage. It was all so ordinary, so normal, it was just as if Robert had stopped off to have a mug of tea with Charlie. But he wasn’t. There’d be no Robert to greet her, as he’d greeted her last Friday. There’d be no Robert to greet her, ever agai
n.
She walked quickly on up the path, her legs shaking, to the front door, which stood open as it always did.
‘William Perrott of Ballyhenry was fined ten shillings at Armagh Crown Court on Thursday last for driving his horse and cart near Keady without a light …’
She heard Charlie’s voice as she went through into the kitchen. He was sitting beside a coffin which stood on trestles across the fireplace in the sitting room, reading from Thursday’s Armagh Guardian.
‘Ach, there ye’are, Clare,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘We were waitin’ for you. Just finishin’ off the paper we were readin’ last night.’
He threw his arms round her and she held him tight as he began to sob. Over his shaking shoulders, she saw Robert’s face, the marble skin drawn tight over his sharp bones. He was wearing his best black suit with a white shirt and a stiff collar. She had never before seen his face look so clean.
‘Robert asked me to see to things for him a long time ago, Clare, after yer Granny died,’ Charlie began, collecting himself and wiping his face on his sleeve. ‘He reminded me a couple o’ weeks ago, just before ye went away. Yer not annoyed wi’ me, are ye?’
‘No,’ she said honestly. ‘I’m very grateful. I wouldn’t have known what to do,’ she said quite steadily. And then her voice gave way again. ‘Charlie, what’ll we do without him?’
Standing by the coffin, looking down at the details of a face never before seen in repose, Clare felt as if time had stopped. There was no moment beyond this moment. The clocks in the house had all been silenced at the hour of his death. She could not imagine them ever striking again. She stared at the satin and lace that overlapped his dark suit, the one she had brushed for every Twelfth, every funeral, for the last nine years. So clean. Pristine. After all his years of toil and sweat in the soot and grime, he was so clean he would laugh if he could see himself.
‘God bless all here.’
She turned and saw Jamsey lay a large dish wrapped in a clean cloth on the kitchen table. He nodded at Jack who was standing over the kettle, waiting to make a cup of tea, and came to stand beside them.
For a moment, he looked at Robert’s face. Silent tears grew in the corners of his eyes. He held out his hand to Clare.
‘Ellie, I’m sorry for yer trouble. He was a good father to you.’
‘Yes, Jamsey, he was,’ she said, shaking his hand and ignoring her own tears.
She wondered if she dare ask him why he’d gone looking for Robert this morning when normally he would have left the water in its usual place, if there was no one around.
‘He was gettin’ very frail, Robert was,’ began Jamsey abruptly. ‘I coud hardly hear the hammer when he did a wee bit of work. An’ I couden hear a bit of it this mornin’. His hammerin’ days is over, Clarey, an’ he’s in a better place. Will we sing Robert a hymn before I go?’
Clare nodded.
When the new minister from the parish church on the hill arrived a little later to make arrangements for the funeral service, he was surprised to find three men and a young girl standing by an old man’s coffin singing. It was not the singing that puzzled him, for psalms were sung often enough and prayers said, by grieving families. But he had never before heard ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ sung over a coffin.
As Clare struggled with the hours of that tear-stained Friday, Aunt Sarah’s words of long ago came back to her. ‘All things pass,’ she said to herself again and again. What worried her most was what would happen later in the day and on the following day. Scores of visitors would come, for the forge had been a fixed point in the universe for so long, for so many. She wanted to be able to make them all welcome, but however was she to manage.’
She was standing down by the forge, saying goodbye to Jack who had to go over to Liskeyborough, when a grocer’s van turned into the lane and made its way gingerly towards her. After saying how sorry he was for her trouble, the driver began to unpack and carry into the house enough food to have kept Robert and Clare going for months. Johnny had not forgotten the needs of a wake. As soon as Bob told him of their father’s death, he’d rung the grocer in Armagh with whom he’d served his time thirty years earlier and put through an order.
While Johnny was summoning food, Bob was on the phone to the Railway Bar, placing an order which Eddie Robinson went and collected later that afternoon. When Eddie arrived to stack the boxes in Robert’s empty bedroom, Margaret came with him, bringing all her better china and glass, so they’d not run short.
Bob and Johnny themselves turned up early the next morning with Sarah and Sadie and made it clear to Clare that whatever she wanted done would be done. To Clare’s surprise even Sarah and Sadie made themselves useful without any of their customary awkwardness.
Confused as Clare was by the turbulence of her own feelings, and unsure how she could cope with the days to come, she was soon deeply heartened by those who came to pay their respects. She found herself surrounded by people who would not allow anything to mar the proper and seemly departure of a man whom the whole community had known and respected.
As the hours passed, people came and went. They stood by the coffin in clean clothes and spoke the expected, well-used phrases. Whether they knew her personally or not, all who came offered her their love and support, because they knew Robert had loved her. It seemed as if they spoke to him by comforting her. She knew every soul who had crossed the threshold since she came home, would have done anything she asked of them and been honoured in the asking.
Late on Saturday afternoon, with all the preparations made for a busy evening and her aunts drinking tea by the stove, Clare slipped out of the house and made her way into the orchard. She went to find some berries or leaves to put in the green glass jar that always sat on the table, something everyday, to compliment the florist’s wreaths, the heavy creations of massed blooms which filled the whole house with the scent of autumn.
The light was fading, the lank grass already damp with dew, as she made her way along her own familiar path. At every season, the orchard gave her flowers for the table. The celandines and wood anemones in early spring, the primroses and violets in April and May. After them came the turn of the trees in the hedgerow, blackthorn, wild cherry, crab. In May the whole orchard was a cloud of pink and white, the apple blossom itself. Later, after the damson and pear had shed their short-lived blossoms, there were buttercups and honeysuckle to pick. Then came the fruits of autumn, blackberry clusters with tinted leaves, dark sloes with tiny dark green leaves and murderous thorns, and hawthorn, crooked twigs hung with passionate red berries and a few surviving bright yellow leaves.
Only in the deepest winter months was she at a loss to find something for the table. Then she would look hopefully at the geraniums stored in the boys’ room hoping for a late flower and a few spicy smelling leaves, or remember to ask Jessie for twigs of winter jasmine from her mother’s garden. The old green glass jar she found in the rubbish dump had never gone empty. It must not be empty now.
The air was already cool, the sun’s rays slanted at shallow angles, picking up the windfalls, pale globes in the tangled grass, well marked by the boring of insects and the determined pecking of the blackbirds.
She ran her eye over the rough barks of the apple trees and made for the hedgerow, spotted some rosehips well out of reach and the feathery fronds of Old Man’s Beard, which flew away if only you touched it.
Disappointed, she made for the old well in search of the small sharp-toothed ferns that made their home just above the water level. But there were none. The well was low after a dry autumn, what remained of the ferns were dry and shrivelled.
‘There’s always the spindleberry,’ she said aloud, as she sat herself down where she could contemplate the bars of evening cloud reflected in the clear water.
So many people, so many words spoken. Only when she thought of the spindleberry, a bush which grew right opposite the front door, did it dawn on her it was solitude, not the flowers, that she needed most.
Perhaps it’d always been so. Since she’d been a little girl, she’d tramped the lanes and hedgerows ‘looking for flowers’. Often she found them, for she had discovered many quiet corners over the years. She knew what bloomed and when it bloomed, unthought of and unseen. In those walks and searches, she’d put together her thoughts as much as the posies she brought home for Robert.
‘Just one more posy for Robert,’ she whispered.
Tomorrow, somewhere after three, the polished oak coffin would be lowered into the reopened family plot. According to the gravestone, three generations of Scotts had been buried there. But gravestones were recent things and costly. He always said himself he was the fifth blacksmith in the line. Then he’d laugh and say his son Robert was a bank manager and he didn’t blame him one bit.
She could smile now. Last night she’d even found herself laughing as Charlie told stories about the mischief the village boys got up to and how Robert would try to get them out of the trouble they’d landed themselves in. So many who’d sat in the big kitchen in the course of the long evening had similar stories to tell about Robert’s kindness and shrewdness.
The sun came out below a smoky band of evening cloud and turned to liquid gold the pool of water where she sat. Suddenly, she was sitting by a stream with Andrew, throwing pebbles into the shallow water, delighting in their tiny splash, the way the ripples spread in the dappled shade where the trees overhung the riverbank.
‘How long ago was that,?’ she whispered, as she tossed a fragment of twig into the sunlit pool and watched the ripples rush towards her.
‘How I wish you were here, Andrew,’ she said, as she got up, suddenly aware the aunts would wonder where she was.
Deep shadows filled the hedgerows and lay beneath the old trees. She shivered in the chill, misty air and glanced towards the cottage as she made her way back. Through one of the small windows she saw a bent and shadowy figure lean forward to trim a lamp.