by Anne Doughty
Sam looked at his nephew and saw that his hand was moving back and forwards across the surface of the wide doorstone on which they both sat. Worn by the passage of feet and the fall of rain for over a hundred years or more, and untouched by either for the last half century, it was now exposed to the hot sun, the soft mould of its covering drying to dust which Brendan was gently sweeping away.
‘How many?’ Brendan asked sharply.
‘According to the Londonderry Standard, 47 families, some 244 men, women and children,’ Sam replied. ‘Only 42 of the houses were destroyed. I think he saved the others for the shepherds he brought in from Scotland,’ Sam continued. ‘I went and looked up the newspaper reports last year. There was a great deal of anger about what he was planning to do and questions were asked in Parliament, but no one lifted a hand to stop him. There were even 200 police standing by to make sure there was no disturbance of the peace.’
‘Why d’ye think Ma diden tell me when I asked her?’ Brendan demanded, his eyes wide with amazement.
‘Well, it might have been because of her Aunt Mary,’ said Sam thoughtfully. ‘I think Aunt Mary was actually your grandfather’s aunt, but she was certainly an old lady. Lived further up the valley. I’ve forgotten the name of the townland just for the moment. She had bad legs and could barely walk. Your mother used to go over every day and do the jobs, fetch the water and turf and boil the spuds for her meal. The morning of the eviction your grandmother sent your mother over with a can of milk, but she told her she was to hurry back. I think your mother was fond of the old woman,’ said Sam quietly. ‘Rose said she was worried about what would happen to her and she cried her eyes out when she heard she was dead.’
‘What happened her?’
‘It seems she wouldn’t go to the workhouse, but in the confusion no one actually saw where she went. About a week later, your grandfather and one of my brothers found her curled up behind a stone on the mountainside with her Rosary in her hand. Goodness knows how she’d got there. She’d been dead for some time. It was very cold and there was frost and sleet that first night.’
‘The bloody English,’ said Brendan bitterly. ‘They’d wipe us out like vermin if they cou’d.’
‘No, Brendan. Let’s be accurate,’ said Sam sharply. ‘Adair was English, I grant you, but the men who pulled the houses down were Irish and so were the police that stood by and watched. And as my mother often said, “We weren’t the first, nor will we be the last.” This isn’t about nationality, Brendan, this is about power and privilege. It was the Sutherlands that evicted my mother’s people in Scotland a century earlier. Read your history and don’t go thinking that Irish people are the only ones to have suffered, or the English the only ones to have made them suffer. Name me the country and name me the century and I’ll tell you a story as bitter and as sad,’ he said, with a steadiness in his voice that surprised even himself.
Brendan looked sheepishly down at the doorstone, now swept clean.
‘Where did youse go that night?’ he asked, without meeting Sam’s eyes.
‘I’ll show you,’ Sam replied, standing up. ‘Like them, we have a bite of food from home,’ he said, as he strode out into the rough grass and retraced his steps on the path he’d made. ‘But unlike them it might not be the last bite we’ll get.’
Brendan sat silent as Sam took the reins and urged the pony along the track, the heat of noonday now fierce where there were no bushes or trees to give shelter.
‘There,’ said Sam, pointing to a track running off to the right. ‘That’s where Casheltown would have been. They spent the night at the house of an old man called Daniel McGee. He was in his eighties and blind, but he was a great storyteller. He told his last story there. A week later, he died in the workhouse,’ he added, as he jumped down and tied the reins to a stone post that no longer supported a gate.
‘We’ll go over that way,’ he went on, nodding to the other side of the track, as he picked up the shopping bag Mary had filled for them. ‘The cashel should give us a good view over the lough. After all, that’s why it was built there in days long gone.’
They made their way through the tall, damp grass, skirting the brambles and the wet patches till they reached the great circle of rough unmortared stone. They climbed up cautiously and perched on the highest point, Mary’s shopping bag between them.
The whole of Lough Gartan lay spread out before them, the calm water sparkling in the sunshine, the new green foliage at its freshest, small clouds of gnats rising and falling in the warm air.
Gratefully, they bit into Mary’s bacon sandwiches and shared the bottle of tea between them.
‘I did hear some of them went to Australia,’ Brendan offered, as he finished off the last of the sandwiches.
‘Yes. Some say 200. The figures disagree,’ Sam responded, still munching. ‘But they were fortunate. Only a few died on the voyage and there were three babies born. Not many emigrant ships do that well, but the Abysinnia was properly run. They were luckier than most.’
‘Did any of them come back?’
‘Not that I’ve heard off and I’ve asked around,’ Sam replied, ‘It’s not only your mother that doesn’t want to talk about it. I’ve been trying to put the bits together as best I could, but without Rose and my mother I wouldn’t have got beyond thinking I was born in Kerry. I might not even have known that my father was Irish and my mother the daughter of a Scottish Covenanter.’
‘What?’
Sam paused as he unwrapped a packet of fruitcake and looked at his nephew’s face. He had seldom seen such a look of outrage and incomprehension.
‘So, what difference does it make who our ancestors were?’ he asked quietly. ‘We’re here now, in this place, with these problems. I do what I can or fail in the attempt. What more can a man do?’
‘He can be ready to lay down his life,’ replied Brendan firmly.
‘He can. But he’d be well advised to consider whether it would achieve anything or not,’ said Sam crisply.
To Sam’s sober correction, Brendan did not reply. He simply looked away down the track towards the field with the freshly swept doorstone and blinked his eyes against the dazzling light.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Are we nearly there, Mama?’
Sarah opened her eyes. One glance around the railway carriage and then through the dusty window told her she was moving through unfamiliar countryside and that the pleasant dreams she’d been having bore no resemblance whatever to reality.
‘Oh, Helen, I am sorry,’ she said, collecting herself. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Yes, we must be nearly there,’ she said glancing at her watch.
She scanned the sunlit landscape that streamed past the open window, but she could recognise no familiar feature in the rich Gloucestershire countryside. Not surprising, as it was some four years since she and Hugh had last made this journey.
‘Were you bored?’ she asked, smiling, as Helen left her window seat and came to sit close beside her.
Helen nodded towards the opposite corner of the empty carriage. Her brother was totally absorbed in a book about the development of flying machines. She sighed wearily and shrugged her shoulders.
‘Poor Helen,’ Sarah said, as they exchanged knowing glances.
Hugh was miles away, just as indifferent to the unfamiliar countryside slipping past as he would have been to the green fields and little hills on the familiar journey between Lisburn and Banbridge.
‘Do you think Uncle Teddy will come to meet us?’ Helen asked, a hint of anxiety in her voice.
‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Sarah honestly as she tucked an arm round her and drew her close. ‘It depends on whether he has to be up in London, but Auntie Hannah will be there and your cousins. Perhaps not Frances and John,’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘I’m not sure when their term ends. English schools go on later than ours.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t think I know why,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘We’ll have t
o ask Auntie Hannah when we get there.’
Sarah became suddenly aware of the warmth of the small body leaning against her. At almost eight, Helen was an intelligent and imaginative child, her head full of the stories she was either reading or planning to write, but Helen was often anxious. Sarah had long since learnt to watch for the danger signs, which began with fatigue, moved through questions and irritability and could quickly result in tears and exhaustion.
Her father had always insisted it was the price she paid for being sensitive to the world around her. He felt it was not something they should try to cure, for the sensitivity was, in itself, a gift, but it was important she learn how to cope with her feelings and not to allow them to overwhelm her.
After Helen had to be put to bed on a lovely summer afternoon, Hugh once asked if she remembered an evening in her own childhood when she herself had to be carried off to bed, because she’d got so upset when he’d spoken of young children working in the mills.
‘It was unthinking of me,’ he explained, ‘but you’d been sitting so quietly all evening, I’d forgotten you always listened to everything, even if you looked totally absorbed in your own concerns.’
‘I don’t ever remember anything like that, Hugh,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I had been talking to Elizabeth and your father and mother about the upsurge in orders caused by the American Civil War and the shortage of cotton and I’m sure I said there was so much work in the linen mills that children as young as nine and ten were being taken on, because there were families so poor they’d let them go. And you, my love,’ he added, ‘immediately looked up at Sam and Hannah and demanded to know if your family was poor.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, and you were just as upset as Helen. Your dear mother had quite a job of reassuring you. I went down next morning to apologise,’ he ended ruefully.
Dear Hugh. Would ever a day pass without her thinking about him? Missing him. Thinking of things to tell him if only he were there.
It was four years now since they’d made the journey to Cleeve Court, judging that young Hugh and Helen, would be old enough, at six and four, to cope with travelling and enjoy meeting their cousins. Hugh was able to stay only two weeks, but she and the children had a whole month with Hannah and her little ones. It had been such a happy time for all of them.
The following year, Anne had been born and Hannah’s visit to Ballydown had been postponed, but she herself had gone over to celebrate Anne’s first birthday. Before she set out for home, she and Hannah had made plans for the following year. A month later Hugh died.
Sarah hugged Helen and held her close, despite the warmth of the July afternoon.
‘Do you remember the photographs of Elizabeth and Anne with their little pony that Uncle Teddy sent us at Christmas?’ she said, making an effort to be lively.
Helen looked up at her and beamed.
‘Do you think they’d let me ride the pony?’ she asked quickly.
‘I’m sure they would. You might even find there was another pony there for the holidays. Auntie Hannah knows you like to ride.’
‘What will you do Mama, while I’m riding?’ Helen began, her good spirits fading again. ‘You won’t have to go to the mills and you won’t have all those papers in the dining room.’
‘But I shall have Auntie Hannah to talk to when you and your cousins are having all sorts of games and expeditions with Mademoiselle Challon,’ said Sarah reassuringly, picking up the thin edge in Helen’s tone. ‘And we’ll be going to see Grandma Anne and Grandpa Harrington over at Ashleigh Court. Just wait until you see the flowers in Grandma’s gardens. You’ll love them. And you’ll have all the watercolours you need if you want to paint, because Auntie Hannah will lend you hers.’
‘Do you think Mademoiselle Challon will make us speak French all the time?’ Helen asked, her brow wrinkling ominously.
‘No, of course not,’ replied Sarah laughing. ‘It’s the holidays. She’ll be finding you games to play and taking you out for drives in the governess cart or one of the traps. She’s a holiday governess, not a schoolroom governess. I’m sure she’ll be very nice.’
It was clear from the look on Helen’s face that she had no such confidence.
‘Nearly there,’ said Hugh firmly.
Surprised at the sudden sound of his voice, they both turned to look at him. They saw him put his father’s watch carefully back in his pocket, shut his book and stand up. Sarah was about to enquire how he could possibly know they were nearly there, as he hadn’t been to Cleeve Hall since he was six, when the train slowed visibly and Helen hopped up to look out of the window.
‘We’re here. We’re here,’ she cried excitedly. ‘And I can see Auntie Hannah and Uncle Teddy and Elizabeth and Anne, but not Frances and John, just like you said,’ she added, with a note of relief.
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, Sarah felt sure that after all that had happened since they’d said ‘goodbye’ two years ago, the very sight of her dear sister was going to be too much for her. What on earth would she do if she greeted Hannah with a sudden outburst of tears?
Cleeve Court,
Gloucestershire
July 1913
Dearest Ma,
You were right, of course. And you may say ‘I told you so’ if you wish, because you never say it unkindly.
Yes, I do feel better, so much better I can hardly believe how dreadful I was feeling at the end of June. It is just so lovely to be here with Hannah and Teddy. I’d almost forgotten what a charming house Cleeve is and Hannah has made us so welcome. She and I have had some lovely walks together and Teddy has taken us to visit some of the nearby villages where he has been photographing the splendid parish churches.
The children are having a marvellous time. Mademoiselle Challon is the most remarkable young woman I have ever met. She is full of such a boundless energy that just watching her makes me feel tired, but the children adore her. She speaks French to them nearly all the time as if she’d just forgotten they don’t speak it themselves. The other day when Elizabeth tripped and fell, little Anne promptly helped her up and said: ‘Ah, ma pauvre petite.’ I think Elizabeth’s governess is going to get quite a surprise when Anne joins her for lessons in September.
Grandma Anne has been over twice to see us and she asked about you most carefully. I know she’s sad you couldn’t come this year, but she does understand that we cannot both leave Da when things are so difficult at the mills. I can hardly bear to think of them at the moment, but perhaps I will come back full of enthusiasm and new ideas.
I have to confess that when Anne spoke of Hugh’s death I did cry, though I had managed not to with Hannah. I think I’ve decided that it is not grief for Hugh that makes me cry, for I have become accustomed to that, but the tenderness of people like Anne. Hannah is my dear sister, but she has always had a cool steadiness that Anne certainly does not have. I think it was Anne who cried first and couldn’t find her handkerchief, but then we hugged each other and talked about you and the children and some of the very happy times we’ve all had at Ashleigh.
We are all going over there for the last week of our holiday. Sadly, Teddy may have to go back up to London later in the week, even if Parliament is not recalled. We talk sometimes over dinner about the political situation, here and in Ireland. Hannah says it helps Teddy to have another perspective and another listener as he gets very depressed about what is going on in Europe and our own government’s failure to see the seriousness of what is happening.
Do you remember a young man called Simon Hadleigh at Hannah and Teddy’s wedding? It seems he is to join us for our week at Ashleigh. To my chagrin, I cannot remember him at all. He was one of Teddy’s two close friends from Cambridge and according to Hannah, he carried around the tripod and lenses for that huge camera Teddy lent me to take the wedding pictures. He’s an ambassador of some sort and I’ve been warned I’m not to ask him about his work. It all seems so strange.
Do you think I might become a spy?
I’m being frivolous, which Hannah says is a good thing. We agreed the other evening that, however bad situations are in the big world out there, we have to cherish our homes and families and laugh as often as we can, if only at our own solemnities.
It is almost lunch time and I haven’t laid eyes on the children all morning. What an idle mother I am. I promise you they are well and send their love to you and Da and Alex, as do we all at Cleeve and Ashleigh.
Your loving daughter,
Sarah
The day planned for the journey to Ashleigh was the only really wet day in what had been a fine and settled summer. Sarah drew back her heavy bedroom curtains and looked in amazement at the rain which poured down steadily and silently, creating shallow lakes on the gravelled area in front of the house.
‘Just like Hannah’s wedding day,’ she said smiling to herself, as she began to wash and dress. She wondered why it was some memories returned so frequently while others disappeared so completely. She always thought of Hannah’s wedding day when the rain poured down like this. Her mind moved back beyond that day itself to the previous summer, the summer when Lady Anne had invited Rose to stay after her dreadful illness earlier in the year.
‘How long ago was that?’
She counted on her fingers. Hannah was married in ’97, the year after she’d met Teddy, so the visit to Ashleigh was ’96. Seventeen years ago, more than half her lifetime. Then, she’d been a girl of thirteen, now, she was a woman of thirty, a mother herself, and a widow.
Weather, objects, places, colours. Since Hugh died she’d become so aware of the strange and varied things that had the power to release a stream of memories. Trivial things, like a pile of disordered papers, the sound of a motor on the hill, or swans flying in to land on the lake at Millbrook. After he died, she hadn’t known whether to let the memories come or to try to protect herself from them. She thought about putting away his pens and paperweights so she wouldn’t think of him every time she began work, but in the end she decided to leave them exactly where they were. Hugh was not to be hidden away. He’d been part of her life since she was six years old. She could never imagine a time when he would not be there in her mind.