by Anne Doughty
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said awkwardly. ‘And I’m not sorry,’ he went on more firmly. ‘I’ve had more kindness since I stepped off the boat in Belfast than I’ve ever had before. I’ll not forget that, whatever happens me now,’ he said, smiling unexpectedly.
Rose was completely taken aback. She had never before seen a face so utterly transformed by a smile. At this moment he seemed so full of warmth and liveliness that she found it almost impossible to imagine his former sombre appearance.
‘Are you going to stay?’ she asked tentatively.
‘I’d like to stay ma’am, but I need to find a job. Ned here took me to Thomas Scott and he said he’d be happy to have me if there was more work, but he and young Robert have only enough to keep them both going. It was he suggested I come and speak to your good man,’ he said looking at her quite directly. ‘I don’t want to impose on your kindness but I’m a good worker and I’ll not let him down if he can find me a place in one of his mills.’
‘Aye, he’s as strong as an ox,’ said Ned, his sudden intervention and easy manner lightening the tension Rose was feeling.
‘Sure when Peggy said he could stay with her a day or two and look round him, there was no stoppin’ him. The place doesn’t know what’s hit it. Forby mending the reaper and the harrow.’
Rose felt her heart lift and a great wave of relief envelop her. Even before she asked the question shaping in her mind, she had a marvellous sense that she knew what the answer would be.
‘What is your line of work, Alexander?’
‘I was trained up to farm work, but down in Lafayette I worked with a blacksmith and he let me mend machines. I like machines,’ he said simply, with a glimmer of a smile.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rose was surprised at how easy John appeared to be when he walked into the kitchen and found a totally unknown young man sitting by the fire absorbed in the pages of one of Sarah’s picture albums.
‘John dear, this is Alexander Hamilton,’ she began, hurrying in from the dairy. ‘Ned Wylie brought him over from Annacramp and our friend Thomas sent you a message with him,’ she went on. ‘He says he’d like fine to have him but his loss might be your gain.’
Alexander stood up and the two men shook hands warmly.
‘And how would that be?’ John asked, nodding with pleasure at the mention of Thomas.
‘I need a job, sir,’ said Alexander quietly, ‘and Thomas said you might be able to find me something in one of your mills.’
‘Now sit down to your supper, both of you,’ Rose interrupted before either of them could say another word. ‘There’s the whole evening to talk about jobs and I’m sure you’re hungry.’
Rose had had to think quickly as to what she had in the house that would make a supper when there was an unexpected guest. As she served champ with a well for butter and crisp slices of bacon to garnish it, she was delighted to see John’s eyes brighten and the young man’s face break into a broad grin.
‘My goodness, ma’am, this smells good,’ Alexander said, as he picked up his fork.
‘Aye, she’s a great cook,’ said John, making vigorous inroads into his own meal.
It was when John paused to take a long drink of water from his glass that he suddenly looked at Alexander.
‘Did I hear right that yer name’s Hamilton?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Alexander replied, nodding, his mouth full.
John looked across at Rose to see what he was to make of this.
‘It looks as if Alexander might be the grandson of one of your brothers, John,’ she began, smiling at him reassuringly. ‘He was born in Canada and his mother mentioned Annacramp to him when he was a wee boy, but sadly both his grandfather and his parents are dead.’
‘Ach dear, that’s a hard thing,’ said John kindly. ‘What age were ye when ye lost them, Alexander?’
‘I think I was about seven when my mother died, but I’ve no great memory,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I never knew my father at all.’
Rose noticed his faltering tone and the anxious look that returned when John asked his question, but he just nodded sympathetically at the thought of the young man’s loss. What he said next took Rose completely by surprise.
‘Well, there’s one thing for sure, you have the Hamilton shoulders. Both m’ brothers had shoulders broader than mine. An’ yer dark forby, ye look just like m’ father in his prime,’ he said matter-of-factly, as he handed his plate to Rose, the first time he’d asked for a second helping in months.
Next morning, Rose watched the two of them walk down the garden path together, Alexander wearing a pair of John’s dungarees, the legs turned up at the hem until she had time to shorten them, the shoulders showing signs of strain.
When they arrived back for lunch, it was hard to tell which of them was the more pleased.
‘I’ve got m’self a new helper,’ John said, beaming at her, as he bent to give her a kiss.
Alexander’s eyes were bright and his smile had become an almost permanent feature as they settled to eat bread and cheese with small pieces of cold bacon.
‘Is it a big change from farm equipment, Alexander?’ Rose asked, as she cut slices of new-baked wheaten for them all.
‘It is in one way, ma’am,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘The textile machines are more complicated, but they run on the same principles. They’re more interesting to work with,’ he said, pausing as he spread butter very thinly on his bread.
‘Aye, he has the measure of it, Rose,’ said John warmly. ‘Far better than I had when I first worked with Hugh.’
‘Did you meet Sarah, Alexander?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Ach, it was a quick word, Rose, for Sarah had the motor out,’ John explained. ‘She was goin’ over to Elizabeth and Richard to see about this new scheme for medical examinations. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for them to get t’ know other now all’s settled,’ he added reassuringly.
September, which began with anxiety over John’s health, now moved on in a glow of sunlit autumn weather that would have brought delight to the whole family had the political situation in Ulster not stirred up a whole set of new anxieties.
Encouraged by the activists in the Orange Order and by Sir Edward Carson in particular, the 28th of September had been designated Ulster Day. On that day, after church services to appeal for the help of the Almighty, all true born Ulstermen were expected to sign the Solemn League and Covenant, committing themselves to use all means which may be found necessary to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a Home Rule Parliament in Ireland.
After the recent changes to the power of the House of Lords, everyone knew they could no longer veto bills passed by the House of Commons and there was every likelihood that the Home Rule Bill would pass. With two opposing volunteer forces recruiting and training vigorously, what would happen next lay like a dark shadow on many a household beyond that of the Hamilton’s and their friends.
Along with every other place of work, the mills were forced to close on the day. In city, town and village, locations were set up where men could sign the covenant and their women folk add their support by adding their names to the accompanying declaration. All over the province, there were queues outside Orange halls and Temperance halls, church halls and school halls. Beyond Ulster, covenant sheets had been distributed abroad as far away as China so that no mark, or signature would be lost in the effort to register the unity and magnitude of Ulster’s hostility.
Neither Sarah, nor Rose, nor John, signed the relevant document, but they did go to the church service in Holy Trinity. While they could not be forced to sign the documents, their neighbours would have found it very strange indeed if they had not appeared at a church service which purported to ask for God’s blessing on Ulster. In the event, not unexpectedly, they were dismayed by the tone of the minister’s address, his references to the idolatry of the Church of Rome, or his harping upon the threats to religious freedom should an Irish parliament ever sit in Dublin.
Sar
ah found the whole business utterly depressing. The newspapers fulminated about the wicked English government, who could even consider allowing a situation to come about in which Catholic farmers would have the power to dictate to the loyal Protestant industrialists of the North, who by their wisdom and hard work had made the province so prosperous. She had heard it all before and wished she might never hear it again.
A few days after the great signing itself, she arrived at Millbrook to be greeted once again by silence. She felt such a reluctance to cope with yet one more problem that she had the greatest desire to turn the motor in front of the main doors, accelerate up the slope and never come back. But she knew her father was working at Ballievy. Even if Tom had telephoned to ask him to come, he probably couldn’t just leave what he and Alex were dismantling or repairing. She pushed aside the thought, took a deep breath, parked the motor alongside Tom’s and made her way into the office.
Tom looked up from a document he’d been trying to read, his face moving from anxiety to relief.
‘What is it this time, Tom?’
He shook his head and let out a great sigh.
‘Some Catholic women were saying that the blood for signing the covenant wasn’t the only blood there’d be after Home Rule.’
Sarah looked puzzled.
‘A lot o’ the men that signed, in Belfast particularly, cut their fingers and signed in their own blood,’ he explained flatly. ‘There’s no use at all me goin’ to talk to Catholic women, for they’ll just say I’m a Protestant and as bad as the rest of them,’ he said, shaking his head angrily. ‘I sent yer man the trade unionist. He’s always goin’ on about the bosses usin’ sectarianism to divide the workforce. We’ll just have to see what he can do to get them together.’
Sarah dropped down in the nearest chair.
‘In this country even the atheists are Catholic or Protestant,’ she said bitterly. ‘How long’s he been gone?’
‘About half an hour. I told him to come back here as soon as he had any word.’
Before he had finished speaking there was a perfunctory knock on the door and the man Sarah had last seen recommending strike action on the platform of the recreation hall stood in front of them.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah, standing up. ‘You know my name but I don’t know yours.’
‘I’m John Joseph Shiels, Missus Sinton, and I don’t approve of this stoppage whatever you might think,’ he said irritably.
‘I don’t think anything, John Joseph, till I know what’s going on. I hope you’re going to tell me what’s the issue,’ she said calmly.
‘Flags and party tokens,’ he said sharply. ‘There’s portraits of Carson and Orange symbols on some of the looms and Emmett and Tone, and O’Donovan Rossa on the others.’
‘Is there any reason why we shouldn’t remove them?’ Sarah asked, looking him straight in the eye.
‘It would cause bad feeling,’ he said cautiously.
‘Haven’t we got bad feeling already? Would it make it any worse?’
‘I don’t know, Missus Sinton. I wouldn’t want to be the one to do it.’
‘All right then, I’ll do it,’ she said wearily. ‘But you can both come and help me,’ she went on, swinging round to include Tom. ‘We remove everything, put all the bits in a basket and leave them to be collected with the wages on Friday. All right? I’ll speak to the other directors tomorrow. I think what we need is an agreement that we employ neither Catholics nor Protestants in this firm, only men and women,’ she said severely. ‘I hope you think that’s acceptable, John Joseph.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, more enthusiastically than she’d expected. ‘But I shou’d warn you Missus Sinton, there’s those few on both sides that won’t lissen to a word I say. I can only promise you I’ll do m’ best. You’re tryin’ to be fair, but there’s some that won’t have it no matter what ye’d say.’
‘Thank you, Michael, I appreciate that,’ she replied with a bleak smile. ‘Let’s go and get it over with. Is the power off, or is it only the individual frames?’ she asked, as Tom opened the door and she walked ahead of them out into the silent mill.
There were no signs of life at Ballydown as Sarah drove home. The front door was shut, which meant her mother had gone into Banbridge. When she closed the door of the motor house and came into the kitchen, Rathdrum was silent too. No sign of Mrs Beatty and no sound from the workshop. Her father and Alex must still be down at Ballievy.
She looked disconsolately out of the kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil. She wasn’t sure about this Alex, as everyone now called him. He was courteous enough and clearly a good worker. Both her parents seemed delighted by his advent and there was no doubt, whatever, her father was a different person now he had someone to help with the repairs and to assess the new technology that kept appearing.
‘If they’re happy, shouldn’t I be happy for them?’ she asked herself.
She wondered if perhaps she was envious. Her father had found a friend to help him and Rose clearly enjoyed the young man’s company and the stories he told her about working on farms in New Brunswick and Pennsylvania. Her mother had suggested to John that they have Alex to stay at Ballydown as they had three empty rooms. Her father had said no, but only because he thought a young man should get away from his work. He needed to get out and meet other young people, not spend his time with them. Everyone seemed delighted when Mrs Jackson at the foot of the hill offered to have him as a lodger, now all their sons were gone and only their young niece, who had lost both her parents, now lived with them.
The kettle was rattling its lid before Sarah turned from the window and her thoughts. She made a pot of tea and looked out again over the broad cobbled space in front of the workshop while she waited for it to draw.
Often, in the morning, while she was still tidying the bedroom, she’d see the two of them arrive for work, walking companionably side by side across the yard. Suddenly, Sarah found tears trickling down her face. Side by side. That was it. Alex walking with John. Keeping John company. No wonder her father looked better. No wonder the pains in his chest had vanished. Something, someone, had come to fill the aching space of Hugh’s loss, but nothing had come to help her, only the hurt and vexations of the work she tried to keep up for his sake.
‘Stop it, Sarah. There’s no way forward through self pity,’ she reminded herself angrily, but the tears would not stop. She went upstairs and lay on the bed and cried till they were spent.
When Mrs Beatty arrived back from Jackson’s with the week’s supply of eggs and butter, she wondered why there was a full pot of tea, still slightly warm, but untouched, on the draining board. She drained the tealeaves, rinsed the pot and put it away. Kind woman that she was, she had long since learnt when not to notice things that seemed awry.
It was some weeks later, a day or two before her brother Sam’s birthday that Sarah decided she must make up her mind about Alex Hamilton. She knew she’d been rather cool with him. Not unfriendly, but certainly not as welcoming as her parents and the Jacksons and all their neighbours.
As she looked down from her bedroom window that morning, she saw him once again striding along beside her father, the two of them deep in conversation, but while Alex wore his new dungarees, still almost unmarked by oil or grease, her father wore a suit. She smiled to herself. Poor Da. He’d have to leave shortly to see the bank manager or the accountant. He was no longer anxious about such matters, but she knew where he’d prefer to be.
‘Cup of tea, ma’am?’
When Mrs Beatty put her head round the dining room door at half past ten, Sarah nodded.
‘Could you put Alex’s mug on the tray, Mrs Beatty, and tell him I’m in the conservatory. We don’t seem to have exchanged two words all week, we’ve both been so busy.’
She looked out on the October morning. It was soft and grey, the sky overcast, but not sombre. The first drifts of leaves had accumulated against the garden wall, pale gold from the limes in the avenue
mixed with a scattering of bronze and copper from the large beech tree in the garden itself.
As she awaited his coming, she realised she had no idea at all what she was going to say to the young man whose arrival seemed to have brightened life for everyone but herself.
‘Good mornin’ ma’am,’ he said, shutting the glass door carefully behind him. ‘This is a pretty place,’ he added, his eyes moving round the broad windowsills where geraniums still bloomed prolifically.
‘I’m not much of a gardener really,’ Sarah said easily, ‘but my sister-in-law always had it so nice, I’ve tried not to let her down. My mother’s the gardener in the family, as you know. She keeps me right,’ she went on, as she filled his mug and handed him a plate of Mrs Beatty’s biscuits. ‘Most of these are cuttings from her. Do you like flowers?’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking round him again. ‘I worked for a couple once where the wife had a little summerhouse. The man was a hard man and a lot older and she was young and loved pretty things. Sometimes I’d bring her wildflowers from the field where we were working, but I had to creep in so your man didn’t see me. He’d have beaten me black and blue if he’d caught me,’ he said matter-of-factly, as he crunched a biscuit between his teeth.
‘What age were you then?’
‘Nine,’ he said, without any hesitation. ‘It was my first job. That’s when I learnt to speak English.’
‘To speak English?’ Sarah repeated in amazement. ‘So what had you spoken before?’
‘French. It’s all French on the farms in Quebec.’
‘And was your mother French?’
‘No … she was English … or rather she spoke English,’ he went on, flustered. ‘But after she died, I had to speak French. I forgot my English. I was only four or five,’ he added hastily, a slight flush appearing on his cheekbones.
Sarah turned this over as she offered him more tea. She was quite sure her mother had told her he was seven when his mother died.
‘What I like best is trees,’ he said suddenly, looking out towards the garden. ‘Up in the Laurel Highlands, the colour is wonderful in the fall. Here the colours aren’t as bright, but the fields are greener. It sets the trees off better. It’s just as beautiful, but different.’