by Anne Doughty
‘Mmmm … interesting question. I must give it my proper consideration. Meantime, would you mind if we sat down in the shade. I cannot possibly go back to Petersberg with a peeling nose.’
He led the way to a small terrace where a wooden bench sat in the dense shade of a thickly thatched roof, supported by four sturdy tree trunks. They sat down together and watched Hannah and Teddy pause to inspect the intertwining clematis on a new pergola before moving on, quite unaware of their absence.
‘Phew, that’s better,’ he said, mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. ‘There’s no breeze yet. How do you manage to look so cool?’ he demanded, looking her up and down.
‘Would you like a short briefing on the properties of Irish linen?’ she asked wickedly.
‘If you do, I shall reply with the figures for the proportion of Russian flax now being imported into these isles,’ he came back at her.
They fell silent as they watched the fluttering movement of butterflies on the rich purple blooms of a nearby buddleia and the shimmer of dragonflies over a small pool bordering the path.
‘This reminds me of a seat in the garden at the Peterhof,’ he began, looking up at the rim of thatch. ‘The Czar has a youthful sense of humour. He likes practical jokes. Sitting here with you reminded me.’
‘But why is that?’
‘Well, you see the court is full of beautiful young women and courtiers, who are often as bored as I am. A certain amount of … shall we say … dalliance … goes on,’ he continued, his eyes sparkling. ‘So, imagine the scene. Our two lovers are seated, as we are, their escorts having disappeared, or, more likely, having been given the slip. Can you guess what happens next?’
Sarah shook her head, unwilling to spoil his story.
‘The roof of the shelter turns into a fountain. Water pours down from the edge of the thatch completely obscuring our lovers from view,’ he said, waving his arms up and down.
‘Good news for lovers, perhaps?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Sadly, not so,’ he replied. ‘Because if they attempt to leave they’ll get wet. And if they stay, they’ll be late for tea. Either ways, they’ll be discovered. I think it’s a rotten trick myself, but then it’s my job to try to understand how people’s minds work and the Czar’s little tricks tell me quite a lot about him.’
‘But how does the fountain work?’ she demanded. ‘Is the seat counterbalanced?’
‘No, nothing so advanced,’ he replied laughing. ‘A couple of ancient retainers hiding behind the bushes. The machinery is simple. Just pedals they move with their feet. So easy, they can keep it up for hours.’
Sarah shook her head.
‘It seems so strange to hear you talk about Petersberg as I might talk about Banbridge or Rathfriland. Is it very beautiful?’ she asked, a hint of longing in her voice.
‘I find it so,’ he said, without a trace of lightness. ‘There’s something unusual about the quality of light from the northern sky. Have you been to Versailles?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No, but I’ve seen Teddy’s photographs,’ she said, surprised at the quiet intensity of his voice.
‘The formal fountains and canals at the Summer Palace are copied from those at Versailles, but they look entirely different in Petersburg. They’re much more dramatic, an extravagance of gold statues and cascades and long prospects. Yet somehow, it’s the light you’re aware of, not the man-made things. With the Gulf of Bothnia beyond, there’s just so much water and sky. I find it strangely moving,’ he ended softly, turning to look at her.
‘That’s what my father said when he went to Kerry,’ she said smiling. ‘He’d never been far from Armagh and he just couldn’t get used to vast prospects of lake and sea. He could never understand how my mother could bear to leave it.’
‘And how did she bear it?’
‘My mother is a wise lady. She says life is about choices. You can’t have everything, but you must make sure to appreciate what you do have. She’d had Kerry and all the good things it brought her, but in Kerry she didn’t have my father, any of us children, her house, or her garden. I know she’s right. Life changes. You have to accept things you once loved move away.’
‘And other things come in their place, if you are willing to be open to them?’
She nodded slowly.
‘I always thought Ireland was my place and Ballydown my corner, but I’m not so sure about that now,’ she said, slowly, looking away down the long grass paths bordered by tall, flowering perennials. ‘I sometimes feel such a longing to travel and see the things I’ve only read about or heard other people describe. I sometimes wonder how I could have changed so much.’
‘Sometimes we surprise ourselves,’ he replied gently. ‘There was a time when I thought I would never trust a woman with any thought or any feeling I held dear. I decided that my best course was to teach myself to work in the world of men. In company, to play the jester when required.’
He looked at her directly and she met his gaze just as directly.
‘You do it very nicely. It’s such a pleasure to laugh again. But I’d still like to hear about what you do.’
‘Then you shall,’ he said firmly. ‘Providing only that you also laugh for me. I’ll need your laughter when I’m back in Petersberg.’
Simon was as good as his word. Whenever there was the least opportunity, on watch as the children boated on the lake, sitting together guarding the prize for the latest treasure hunt, during their walks after lunch and in the evening, Simon told her how he spent his time in the handsome building overlooking the Neva.
She listened, fascinated to hear of the strange and varied ways in which information was conveyed from one European country to another and how the very exchange itself could affect so intimately what might happen as a result.
‘Hannah and Teddy are right,’ he said, one afternoon when Mademoiselle had requested their presence in a remote corner of the garden. ‘I can’t tell you what’s going on at the moment, Sarah, but I can give you examples of previous situations that will let you see what has to happen if we are to maintain the peace. And I can say without giving any secrets away, that Europe is like a kettle on the boil. While the steam pours out it’s noisy and uncomfortable, but there’s still hope. But if someone, something, turns up the heat, the whole shoot will boil over. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, perfect sense. I think I can apply that image somewhat nearer home,’ she said, shaking her head sadly. ‘There’s no secret about the Ulster Volunteer’s arming and the Irish Volunteers doing the same. Three quarters of the population want home rule and one quarter are so opposed to it, they say they’ll fight if it goes on the statute book. And what does that achieve? Does waving flags around feed starving families? Does it stop the exploitation of workers?’
She stopped abruptly, aware of the sharpness in her voice and the intentness with which he was looking at her.
‘Sometimes one feels so helpless against the enormity of need,’ she said more quietly. ‘I get angry I can do so little. And I have to admit I get discouraged.’
‘But how do you know what you achieve, Sarah? Can any of us judge properly? We only see part of what we do. You can always see failure if your hopes are high but what’s the point of aiming low?’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ she admitted freely. ‘But don’t you ever get discouraged?’
‘Oh yes. That’s the hardest part of the job. Day after day nothing happens, then, when it does, it’s bad.’
‘So what do you do then?’
‘Clear up the mess as best one can. Then look for something to set over against it. I go to the ballet. I read Dickens and Chekov or practise my Russian on my housekeeper. And I write letters,’ he added, looking at her as if he might say more.
‘Here you are. Here you are. I’ve got them all.’
Two sharp, excited voices broke the stillness of the afternoon as Helen and John arrived breathless and put down at their feet the six flowers and six frag
ments of foliage, named and located on the maps they were both clutching.
‘Well done,’ said Simon, giving them his total attention. ‘Now, Helen first,’ he commanded, as he held out his hand for her crumpled piece of paper.
The items laid before them would have to be checked most carefully. Only if they were the right ones and only if they were all there, could either Helen or John lay claim to the treasure.
Sarah was not at all surprised to see Helen’s eyes close before she was halfway through the promised story. She glanced up at the top bunk where Hugh had settled himself and was amazed to find he was already fast asleep. To be on the safe side, she read on. It would not be the first time she’d stopped, only to meet a protest from one or other.
Tonight, there was no such protest. She stood up, slipped the book back in her travel bag and glanced through the porthole at the low evening sunlight, which still lay in bright patches on the adjoining deck. She was tired, but too restless to join the children in their bunks at this early hour. She opened the cabin door quietly and came face to face with the stewardess, an older woman she’d got to know on earlier journeys.
Without a single word spoken between them they agreed that Sarah would be on deck just a short walk away. If either child should wake, the stewardess would know exactly where to find her.
After the heat of the day, the slight breeze from the water was refreshing. She walked up and down the deck, grateful to be free of the confinement of the cabin and the airlessness ships always developed just before they sailed. As the last hawsers were cast off, she leant on the rail and looked down into the churning water.
So slow to begin, this departure business. Inches at first, then feet, opening between them and the dock wall. An infinity of time to accomplish such a tiny distance. She listened to the slow throb of the engines as the ship freed itself from the city where it had spent the day caged, tended by engineers and stewards, waiting for this moment. Now, only now, with the sun low on the far horizon did it come to life, surging out into the empty spaces of the Irish Sea. And once having freed itself from the confining concrete walls of the dock, there was no delay. The throb of the engines increased and the ripples ran back silently from the sharp bow as the ship turned towards the sunset, cleaving a path through the smooth, shining water.
‘I wonder when I’ll make this crossing again,’ she said to herself, looking round the almost empty deck.
Hannah hoped she might come for Christmas if the weather weren’t too hostile. Certainly she thought Sarah should come again next summer when Simon would have leave from Petersburg or might even have returned to London permanently to take up a place at the Foreign Office.
Sarah sighed. One didn’t have to be a mind reader to see what Hannah was thinking, but she’d said nothing directly about the affection that had flowered between her and Simon, wise sister that she was, and Sarah was grateful for that. It was too soon. Still too hard not to think of Hugh. Too easy to feel a kind of conflict between such a long, dear love, and the prospect of what might possibly be.
It had been such a pleasure to have a companion, someone at her side to whom she could talk and share her thoughts. Equally, it had been a relief to reach outwards and share Simon’s concerns and in doing so, reach beyond the small and troubled island to which she was returning.
Simon had said nothing either. He didn’t need to. All he’d come to feel was there in his eyes. In the way he walked beside her.
‘Would you like me to come with you to Liverpool, Sarah?’ he asked, as they stepped out after dinner into the gathering dusk. ‘I could make myself useful with porters and entertaining the children.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she began.
‘No, it’s not,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s an entirely selfish ploy to avoid parting with you tomorrow morning.’
‘It is still a kind offer, Simon,’ she said gently. ‘But I would find it even harder to say goodbye in Liverpool.’
‘Ships and seas always seem to separate more than marshes and steppe, don’t you think?’ he responded quietly.
He had looked at her directly then, his simple words seemed to imply so much more than they said.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly. ‘I’ve lived my life in such a small compass. I cannot imagine the journey from Harwich to Berlin, or from Berlin to Moscow, or Moscow to Petersburg. It is such a very long way compared to my brief night journey.’
He fell silent as they walked on through the rose garden to sit where he had once told her about the trick fountains in the Peterhof gardens.
‘I shall adopt this fountain as my sitting place when I arrive back,’ he said unexpectedly.
‘And risk a wetting?’ she said, laughing.
‘There is no danger at all to a solitary male,’ he said soberly, ‘only to those who are accompanied.’
Suddenly she heard a tone in his voice she’d never heard before. It seemed as if a cloak of loneliness had wrapped itself around him. He sounded so sad, she wondered if there was anything whatever she could say to comfort him.
‘I shall think of you going to the ballet and reading Dickens and Chekov, and practising Russian on your housekeeper, and writing letters,’ she said gently.
‘Will you really?’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘And if I were to write and tell you of my unexciting life …’
He broke off, uneasy.
‘Then I could tell you of my infinitely more unexciting life,’ she replied immediately, smiling up at him.
The look of relief and joy that passed over his face erased completely the sadness that had grown upon him. It was only later, sitting by her open window, thinking over the events of the day, she realised how sad she herself would have been if no link had been made between them to span the time and distance which would separate them from any further meeting.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bathed in chill sunlight, the little grey, Molyneux church was full to overflowing for the funeral of Thomas Scott. He had been poorly since late summer, struggled through the autumn, but still tramped down to the forge on the brightest of the winter mornings. Even if he could no longer hammer a piece of metal, there were small tasks he could still do, the fire to light, old friends to greet, while his son Robert, carried on the work.
On a short February day, overcast but not cold, they stopped work with the failing light, raked out the fire on the hearth and pulled closed the door behind them. As he sat smoking by the fire, an hour later, Thomas’s pipe slid from his fingers. With Selina there to support him before he fell from his chair, his youngest daughter, Isobel, ran to fetch Robert. It was as peaceful a departure as one might hope for. But it left a family and a community bereft.
Rose and Sarah sat close beside each other in the pew behind Selina. Her daughters, Annie and Isobel, sat on each side of her, then came her daughter-in-law, Ellen, sitting beside Selina’s youngest son, Ned. The eldest of Thomas’s grandchildren filled the remainder of the long pew. Beside Rose and Sarah, Sam and Alex sat shoulder to shoulder, their pale, immobile faces as unfamiliar as their seldom-worn dark suits.
As they all watched, the coffin was lifted from the trestles in front of the altar and placed on the shoulders of the bearers. At the leading edge, John Hamilton, once Thomas’s apprentice, and Robert, his remaining son from his first marriage, clasped each other’s shoulders under the heavy oak casket. Behind them, James George, Annie’s husband, and William Robinson, the eldest son of George Robinson, Thomas’s neighbour for more than fifty years, steadied themselves and then moved slowly over the uneven stone floor leading to the west door.
Sarah glanced at her mother cautiously. She’d sat with her that whole afternoon after the news came, seen her weep inconsolably at first, then listened as she’d spoken of Thomas, moving backwards and forwards over her life in Salter’s Grange, telling stories Sarah had heard many times before, laughing and weeping by turns. But now, Rose seemed quite steady as Selina stepped
out into the aisle to follow the coffin, concerned to do what was needed at this solemn time and unwilling to allow her own feelings to break through.
Together they walked behind Selina’s immediate family, those they knew from the front pew, and two older men who might be brothers, and a woman, most certainly her sister, who’d been seated across the narrow aisle. They passed between the packed rows of the congregation, standing unnaturally still, their dark suits and best dresses brought from the wardrobe on an ordinary working day.
The children from the slate-roofed schoolroom in the corner of the churchyard were lined up with their teacher in the pews at the very back, wide-eyed and silent. There was not one child among them who hadn’t stood in the doorway of the forge and looked into the dark, absorbed and fascinated by the two men who laboured there. They’d watched the sparks fly, the water seeth and steam when hot metal was plunged into its oily surface and the horses that twitched and trembled till they felt the comfort of a familiar soot-streaked hand, a known body smell of sweat and smoke. Through every day of their short lives, the ring of hammer on anvil had been as much a part of their life as the song of birds, or the movement of sunshine and cloud, or the walk up and down the hill between the schoolroom and their home.
The low sunlight dazzled everyone as they emerged from the dimness and followed the coffin to the Scott burial plot, the newly-dug grave like a narrow trench in the frosted, tangled grass. They waited till all those who wished to see Thomas laid in his last resting place had found somewhere to stand. Some of the younger mourners made their way perilously through the uneven ground between neighbouring graves. Others congregated on the path that ran beside the vault where the Molyneux’s themselves rested in the shelter of the church they’d built on the highest point in the townland, some four generations earlier.
‘This,’ thought Sarah to herself, as she looked about her, ‘is why I cannot turn my back on this island. It is these people, their kindness and generosity, their willingness to help a neighbour.’