by Anne Doughty
Rose smiled and refilled their mugs.
‘Alex is fond of Sarah, you’re quite right. And she’s fond of him too, I know. But it’s no more than that,’ she said gently. ‘If there is a man in question, I think it would be that friend of Teddy’s that carried her camera at their wedding. The one she couldn’t even remember. Simon Hadleigh. I told you he was there at Ashleigh in the summer and Hannah and Anne have said how well they got on together.’
‘Would that be it, then?’ John came back at her. ‘Is she not settled in her mind what she should do? Sure Hugh would only want to see her happy, if this man was right for her. What do Hannah and Lady Anne think of him?’
‘It’s hardly as simply as that, love. I think they’d be very happy to see Sarah and Simon together, but Sarah’s maybe thinking of the children. And maybe, indeed, of us. Simon Hadleigh is a diplomat. Anne says he’s a very able man and will go far, but he’s in Russia at the moment. He told her he was due to come back to London soon, but with the way things are going in Europe he may not get back.’
‘What d’ye mean?’ asked John, alarmed.
‘Well, with all this talk of war, he might be needed where he is. I don’t think you can choose where you go unless you’re very senior,’ she said soberly. ‘Or perhaps very junior,’ she added as an after thought.
‘Aye, well,’ he said finishing his tea and stretching out his legs in front of the roaring fire, ‘it’s hard to know what to do for the best. I’d be a happy man if she found someone even half as good as Hugh, God rest him,’ he said with a great sigh.
‘Even if she went to live in England like Hannah, or had to live somewhere far off in Europe?’ she asked, a note of caution in her voice.
‘Even so,’ he said, nodding firmly. ‘She’s a grown woman, Rose, an’ you and I are gettin’ on now. You’re sixty and I’m sixty-two. I hope we’ve a few more years yet, but we’ll not always be here. I’d like to see Sarah look powerful different to the way she looked today.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As in the rhyme Granny Sarah had taught all her grandchildren, the March of 1914 came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. After the cold of February and the rattle and bang of the wind, day after day, all through the early weeks of March, the change came with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise. A morning dawned in perfect stillness, the sun poured down from a clear sky and both plants and creatures responded to the real warmth in its rays.
Late in the morning, Rose finished the letters she’d had in mind for a week or more and came to the door to stand bathed in the sunlight. She cast her eyes along the garden path and smiled to herself. The daffodils, that only yesterday had pointed thickened spikes up at the stormy sky, now bent their heads and were beginning to unfurl even as she watched. All around her, the birds were active. Sweet songs poured down from the trees and bushes, swooping flights descended upon the last of the crumbs put out at breakfast time, while others scuffled in the dried grass against the far wall of the garden, as they struggled to pull out building material for their nests.
‘Between one day and the next,’ she said to herself.
She was amazed how easy it was to forget that change isn’t always slow. Today, everything was different, but then, she reflected, some changes are long-prepared. However wild and stormy the last weeks, they had not been particularly cold. The daffodils had continued to grow quietly and unobtrusively but it needed the warmth for them to bloom.
She tramped down the path to inspect the fat pink buds of her camellia. No sign at all of frost damage. She was so absorbed in her search for new growth she didn’t hear the light step on the hill. Only when the garden gate clicked behind her did she turn to find her brother grinning at her, the sunlight glinting from his hair, thinning now, but still perceptibly red.
‘Sam,’ she cried, in delight, ‘I wasn’t expecting you for two days.’
‘Hallo, sissy,’ he said hugging her. ‘I got my dates wrong. I said I’d be in Dublin for Lily’s birthday. Then I thought you might not be pleased if I only stayed two nights.’
‘You are quite right,’ she said, trying to look severe. ‘Where’s your suitcase?’
‘Left it at the station,’ he said easily. ‘Thought I’d ask Sarah to run me down later to collect it. I want to warn her about the vagaries of Dawson Street, among other things.’
‘Tell me more about this visit,’ she said, as they went indoors and settled themselves comfortably. ‘I was surprised when Lily invited her and the children for Easter, but Sarah seems very pleased and Helen and Hugh are full of it. Apparently Lily mentioned the zoo and the seaside and Fairyhouse Races in her letter. D’you think she really means it?’
Sam laughed and shook his head as Rose offered to draw the kettle forward and make him tea.
‘Oh yes, she means it all right,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘She doesn’t have the best of health, but when she’s well there’s no stopping her,’ he began, smiling. ‘She loves being out and about. Just put a sketchbook and a sandwich in a bag and she’s happy. I’ve never met such an extraordinary woman. Can talk to anyone. Not just people of her own class.’
‘I’m still wondering why she never married, Sam,’ said Rose thoughtfully, her mind moving back to the days at Currane Lodge when the lovely young Lady Lily had been surrounded by admirers. ‘Do you think she was secretly in love with you all along?’ she asked, teasing him.
‘No, I’m afraid it was something much sadder,’ he replied, his smile disappearing. ‘Almost the first time we met in Dublin she told me quite openly that her mother was the reason she’d never married. From the time Lily could wear a dress, her mother talked to her about one thing only. Marriage and children. Always marriage and children. Who she should marry, where she should live, how many children she’d have. Poor Lily couldn’t bear it. By the time she was fourteen she’d vowed she’d never marry at all. Isn’t that a dreadful thing to happen to any girl?’
‘Yes, it is,’ she agreed promptly. ‘It’s a hard thing if a woman chooses badly, but even that might’ve been better than all those years looking after her father. She must have been lonely then,’ Rose went on, suddenly thinking of the large, silent rooms and the echoing corridors she’d known at Currane when all the family were away.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, nodding matter-of-factly.
‘But not now?’
‘No. Lily being lonely was resolved long before I turned up. When I first asked her to dine at the Shelbourne, I’m afraid it was only from sheer selfish curiosity,’ he said, smiling wryly. ‘But she didn’t seem to notice. She was so pleased to see me and wanted to know all about what I was doing. Unlike me, she has the gift of accepting people just as they are,’ he said, looking his sister full in the face.
As the morning sun moved across the sky Sam went on to tell Rose how Lily’s life had been transformed when she came to Dublin, how she’d kept open house and made many friends, in particular young men who were struggling as artists, or poets, or actors.
Rose listened fascinated. Sam had never before spoken so freely or with such affection for this woman she herself had met only twice since she’d left Currane Lodge herself.
‘Did you know that Lily went to the Slade?’ he asked, unexpectedly.
‘Goodness no, I didn’t,’ Rose replied hastily.
She’d been listening to all he said, but a part of her mind kept moving away, back to the young Lady Anne. She thought of the violent tantrums and rages and the way she’d say, ‘We don’t need men, do we Rose? We’ll go off to London and the continent and let my sisters have the babies.’ She heard again the edge of anxiety in the words and saw the look of determination on her face.
So it was Lady Caroline, the delicate invalid, who had pushed Anne, as well as Lily, to the edge of despair. She could hardly bear to think what might have happened to her dear friend, if she’d had no one to help her correct her violent reaction to her mother’s continual pressure.
‘When would tha
t have been, Sam?’ she asked, making an effort to reconnect with what he was telling her.
‘Some time after I joined the Land League and you’d moved north. I’d no contact with Currane for years then. Not till Ma died and Sir Capel sent for me. She says when she went with her portfolio, they didn’t think much of it and advised her against coming, but she’d had a legacy from her god-mother, so she could pay the fees. Now, of course, she’s rather good,’ he said, with a satisfied tone that suggested justice had been done.
‘I’ve tried to persuade her to sell some of her pictures,’ he went on, ‘but she won’t hear of it. She still gives them away.’
‘Yes, I know,’ replied Rose quickly. ‘And I’m the richer for that. Is she short of money, Sam? Was that why she moved to Dawson Street when Sir Capel died?’
He nodded briefly.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Rose said sadly. ‘It must be even harder if you’ve come from a family that once had plenty. Not like us, Sam,’ she said smiling ruefully.
‘Don’t worry about Lily,’ he said awkwardly. ‘She doesn’t let it bother her. To tell you the truth, Patrick’s sold another couple of old houses for me and I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how much that land is now worth,’ he added, glancing away. ‘I’m trying to find some way of helping her that she won’t notice. I’ve tipped one of her girls to keep the bills for me,’ he said, with a grin. ‘Would you believe, she just puts them in a drawer, then she wonders why the coalman doesn’t come!’
Rose smiled too. She was so happy that Sam should have such pleasure from this unexpected friendship, but what really delighted her was the thought that Lily’s well-being was now being cared for by a rich man who’d once been her father’s stable boy.
‘Speaking of your Patrick, tell me about the rest of my nephews and nieces,’ she said glancing up at the clock. ‘Yours first and then Mary’s. Any news about any of them since you last wrote to me?’
Having started on the news from two large families, they were still talking when Rose heard John’s step on the path.
‘Oh my goodness, is that the time,’ she said laughing as she jumped to her feet. ‘John dear, you’ve caught us gossiping and not a bite of lunch for you,’ she went on, as he paused in the doorway and beamed at them.
‘How are ye Sam? How’s that shoulder of yours?’ he asked, as he strode across to greet his brother-in-law.
‘Just grand, John. Not a bit of trouble with it provided I do nothing. Neither spade, nor slane, nor pen,’ he retorted, laughing.
‘Aye, well,’ John said, as he hung his cap by the door. ‘We’re gettin’ on, aren’t we?’
Rose glanced at him over her shoulder as she pulled out a drawer in the dresser. Beyond his pleasure and warm greeting, she could see he was weary, tired from some effort he’d had to make during the morning but he’d not be pleased if she mentioned it in front of Sam.
‘Sam was just telling me about Brendan,’ she said, as she spread a clean cloth and began to lay the table for lunch.
‘How’s he doin’ in Dublin now? Did he get another job after his friend’s shop had to shut?’ John asked, sitting down gratefully by the fire.
‘Nothing great so far,’ said Sam honestly, ‘but I hear he’s something of a celebrity at Liberty Hall on a Sunday night.’
‘Doing what?’ asked Rose, as she brought the morning’s baking in from the dairy and put it on the bread board.
‘It seems Michael Mallin plays the flute. He’s got up an orchestra if you please. Four of them. And Brendan sings.’
‘He does have a lovely voice, Sam,’ said Rose quickly, pausing on her way back to the larder for cheese and cold meat. ‘D’you think he might take up singing for a living?’
‘Never thought of that, Rose, but there’s enough pubs might be glad to employ him if they thought it was good for business.’
‘How are ye managin’ without him?’ John asked abruptly, as Rose waved them over to the table and started cutting thick slices of new bread.
‘I miss him, John, but I couldn’t stand in his way. He worked hard for me, indeed he did, but he’s no real interest in the land,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s partly my own fault I’ve lost him. I’ve probably talked so much about the state of the workers in the cities, he thinks he should be doing something about it. I can hardly complain, can I? I was just the same at his age,’ he added with a wry smile.
‘Aye. It was a bad business that lock-out. All those poor people starvin’ for months till the relief ships came from the unions in Britain. Sure it was just as bad as a famine, though it were in the city. D’ye think anythin’ good will come out of it?’ he asked, his face sombre, as he buttered a slice of wheaten bread.
‘Well, it might,’ Sam replied. ‘Your good Belfast man, James Connolly, has moved to Dublin and he’ll get things organised at Liberty Hall if anyone can. It seems his boss, Larkin, has gone to America. I don’t know what to make of that. He might have given up trying, like I did, or he might be raising money. I sometimes think we don’t know the half of what’s going on, however much we read the newspapers and the manifestos. There’s a lot of rumour printed as if it were God’s truth.’
‘You’re right there, Sam,’ John replied, nodding vigorously. ‘I sometimes don’t know what to think the way the world’s goin’ these days. All this talk of war and men drillin’. Hugh useta keep me right. Whatever I would put to him, he’d have another view to set alongside it. He was always that sensible. For all he might be annoyed, he’d never let himself get worked up,’ he said, his tone full of admiration and longing.
In the silence that followed, Sam and Rose glanced at each other. Despite John’s effort at conversation they knew John was not himself.
‘How’s young Alex making out?’ Sam asked, as the silence grew longer. With an eye to the clock, Rose got up to make a pot of tea.
‘The best at all,’ John replied, a touch more life in his voice. ‘He’s kinda quiet at times an’ I wonder what’s goin’ on at all in his head. An’ then he’ll give a big smile an’ he looks a differen’ man. An’ he’s sharp all right. Tell him a thing wonst an’ ye’ll not have to tell him again,’ he added, as he waved Sam to his own armchair and pulled a kitchen chair over to the fire to sit beside him.
‘Where are you for this afternoon, love? Back to Seapatrick?’ Rose asked, as John drained his mug and cast his eyes towards the clock.
‘Aye, but I hafta go to the hospital first.’
He paused as if there was no need to say anything else, but one look at Rose’s face and he knew he’d have to confess what was troubling him.
‘Ach there was a wee lassie at Lenaderg fainted this mornin’,’ he began, looking at the floor. ‘One of the weeman said it was that time o’ the month. She fell forward an’ the guard had been left off the loom by the maintenance men. She’ll likely lose the arm,’ he ended abruptly as he stood up. ‘I’m away over to see her an’ sign the forms for the report.’
An hour later, as the sun began to filter into the shadowy dining room, Sarah put down her pen, picked up Simon’s long letter and read the final paragraphs yet again:
I am delighted to hear that you are going to Dublin for Easter. I shall think of you on the banks of the Liffey as I stroll by the Neva. I hope by then the ice will have melted and the river will no longer provide a short-cut from one bank to another. Spring is so slow this year that I think longingly of the gardens at Ashleigh and try to imagine walking there with you. It is not only the warmth of the sun that I long for, but your laughter.
My dear Sarah, I do so hope that the alarms of this turbulent year will not prevent our meeting in August as it did in December. Meantime, I comfort myself with music and books, imagining the conversations we might have, though in truth I would agree to a pledge of silence if I could just be with you again.
From somewhere outside she heard the sound of footsteps. She sighed, pushed the sheets quickly back into their envelope and dropped it into her drawer. A messen
ger, a request from a mill, she thought wearily. Mrs Beatty would open the door, but whoever it was would have to be seen.
She picked up her pen again, tried to collect her straying thoughts and failed. When there was a tap at the door and Mrs Beatty appeared, she admitted to herself she was grateful for the interruption. There was something in Simon’s letter that was unsettling. Not unwelcome, indeed, but most certainly unsettling.
‘It’s yer uncle, ma’am, but he says he doesn’t want to disturb you,’ the housekeeper began. ‘He says he could come up later, or tomorrow.’
‘No, Mrs Beatty,’ she said smiling, pleased that it was not another problem to be dealt with. ‘Tell him I’ll be out in a moment.’
She tidied up her papers, put some of them away, anchored others with a variety of paperweights. Then she locked the drawer in which Simon’s letters lay in neat piles and dropped the key into a small, floral vase on the mantelpiece.
‘Sarah, how are you?’ Sam greeted her, as she came into the sun-filled sitting room.
‘Happy to be interrupted,’ she said, as he kissed her. ‘It’s the fault of the sunshine. That’s when I get really tired of papers.’
‘Good. Then you won’t mind if I ask you to drive me into Banbridge for my suitcase.’
‘Glad of the excuse,’ she said honestly. ‘Actually, I’ve documents ready for Millbrook. Would you mind if we dropped those off first?’
‘Not a bit. I love being driven round in your comfortable motor. It doesn’t make me feel sick like some of these Donegal side-cars, though I can’t blame the vehicles. It’s the awful roads round Swillybrinnan and Creeslough are the problem. They’re much better here in the affluent east,’ he said, teasing her.
‘They have to be, Uncle dear. No use having the means of production if you can’t get the goods to market,’ she said dryly.