by Anne Doughty
‘Are you going to tell your father about your book?’ Hannah could hardly believe she’d spoken the words that had shaped in her mind.
‘I was going to ask you that,’ John replied promptly. ‘What do you think I should do?’
Hannah pressed her lips together as if regretting her question. John had asked so, of course, she must do her best to reply. But there was no simple answer.
‘John dear, have you any idea why your father didn’t ask you what you wanted when it came to the time for further schooling? I got the feeling that he just acted.’
‘Yes, that was the trouble. I didn’t know what I wanted to be, like some people do, but I probably knew what I didn’t want to do. But when I tried to say anything, he just thought I was being awkward and he got angry.’
‘Did your father always want to be a coastguard himself?’
‘I don’t know, Hannah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He never talked about his family. I know from my mother that his father was a coastguard, but he was drowned long before I was born, and then my grandmother died too.’
‘And did they have other children?’
‘Yes, I think there were seven of them, but they all went away. Some to America, some to New Zealand.’
‘So, when you visit your grandparents, those are your mother’s family?’ she said sadly. ‘And you have five sisters?’
‘Oh yes. And they never stop talking,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I miss them terribly.’ The small smile that had appeared momentarily disappeared completely.
‘It is sad, John. I wish I knew more. I think your father meant well, but we can’t know what anxiety he might have had. Probably he wanted to be sure he did his best for you, like Dermot wanted to do what he could for Johnny. Do you think that might be possible?’
‘When I stopped being angry, I sometimes thought that, but then I’d think about home and my mother and my sisters and it would all start up again,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘When I got no reply from the publishers, I even tried to blame him. And I know that wasn’t fair.’
‘But John, when we are hurt we are often not fair. We strike out, or look for someone to blame …’
‘You’d never do that, Hannah,’ he said sharply.
‘Only because I was so fortunate with my family. Many people thought my father a hard man, but he was fond of me and never hurt me. Just think how he must have felt when I told him I wanted to marry Patrick, a Roman Catholic, when he was a strict Covenanter and only a poor labourer, when there were … well, others more suitable …’ she finished up awkwardly.
‘But not suitable to you,’ he replied with a great, beaming smile.
They both laughed and Hannah ‘squeezed the pot’ to give them each a last half mug of tea.
‘I can’t know why he acted as he did. I’m sure he did it for the best,’ John said slowly. ‘Perhaps, thinking about Dermot, I ought to give my father the benefit of the doubt. What do you think?’
‘I think there’s nothing to lose if you do. But you must promise to tell me if it seems to go wrong.’
John nodded slowly, then began to speak rather hesitantly.
‘I remember you telling me when I first came here and was going on about the English, that your father once told you never to be bitter, always to take comfort from God and your friends. Bitterness, you said, was damaging. You were right, of course. I’ve been bitter time and time again in all these months of waiting. I’ve learnt that much at least. Your father was right and I must make contact with mine. Will you read my letter for me, Hannah, when I manage to get it down? Please,’ he added softly.
He drained his tea and stood up.
‘Hannah, I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I hope I haven’t tired you out.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ she said, standing up and hugging him. ‘I shall be celebrating your good news for a very long time. I’ll think about it every time we have bad news or another problem. Congratulations, John McCreedy. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Chapter 20
It was Daniel who explained to Hannah when she’d first moved to Ardtur why schools in Ireland always closed for the summer holiday on the last day of June and why they then had an additional holiday at Halloween.
‘Well, you see Hannah, by July, all the older children will be needed on the land. First, there’ll be the harvesting of the main potato crop and then there’ll be preparing the ground for the next one. That late planting is harvested around Halloween, hence the extra holiday. In some places it’s called “the potato picking” because those potatoes have to be checked out and stored in clamps. It’s a big job getting it all protected and under cover, as you can imagine. It’s all hands on deck, as some might say.’
No big job this year, Hannah reflected, as she walked slowly home on a damp, grey June day after a Friday morning in school. There would be no crop to harvest at the end of June. The stalks, where they still stood above ground, were dark and bent, the potatoes in the ground all rotten. Not only were there none fit to eat, but there would be none available to plant for that late crop Daniel had mentioned.
This July, there would be no need for Rose and Sam to help her cut up ‘seed’ potatoes at the kitchen table for their near neighbour, Michael Friel, who always came to help plant the late crop every year, knowing that Patrick was away in Scotland. Because this year, neither Michael, nor anyone else the length of the valley had any potatoes to plant.
According to Sophie and the Illustrated London News, various experts had suggested ways of cleansing the soil so that a new crop could be grown. Of course, all their suggestions cost money, and with no crop to sell, there wasn’t any money, neither for the rent, nor for meal and flour, never mind money for lime, or indeed for the purchase of imported potatoes uncontaminated by the airborne spores that various experts had blamed for devastated the crops throughout the whole country.
Without the usual summer pattern of work, Hannah, Daniel and John were well aware that the holiday might not be of much benefit to their pupils this year. To begin with, the loss of lunchtime pieces, breakfasts if needed, and meal and flour for those families who were short of an evening meal, would be sadly missed when school closed. Apart from some children who could help with turf cutting, most of their pupils would have little activity for the six-week break.
A ‘holiday’ was one thing, they had all agreed, but this length of time in the present circumstances might well see their pupils become bored and frustrated. It might even set back the very good work the last year had set going so successfully.
‘Well, it’s no hardship to me to keep going another couple of weeks,’ said Daniel, ‘but it’s a different matter for you two.’ He turned to Hannah and John who sat with him in a welcome patch of pale sunshine, on a Saturday afternoon a week later when they’d agreed it was time to make a decision.
‘Well, I must admit, I think it would be good for Rose and Sam to have company, other than just the children here in Ardtur,’ said Hannah promptly. ‘And what’s good for them, might well be a help to other parents as well. But that’s hardly fair to John,’ she added.
Hannah was only too well aware that John’s thoughts were very much focused on Galway and his need to visit his parents. He had managed to write and tell them about his research into folklore and storytelling and his good news about his forthcoming publication, but he had not yet had a reply. She knew how anxiously he was waiting for a response.
Daniel promptly took up the point she’d made.
‘Maybe, John, you’ve planned your summer already,’ he began. ‘You’ll not want to stay here working at school when you’re fully entitled to your six weeks.’
‘No, Daniel, I’ve not plans made yet, though I shall probably go to Galway at some point. What I’d been thinking about, when we agreed we’d meet today, was what we had at my old school in Galway, before I was sent to Dublin, that is. Some of the teachers called it a holiday school. That was where we did things we
didn’t normally do, like making toys for our little brothers and sisters.’
He paused and shook his head. ‘They taught us how to cook on a campfire and I was no good at all at that. But then, after that, there was a man came and showed us how to carve wood and I got quite keen on that. The girls, I know, did needlework and I think they made clothes.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve just remembered one year we all helped to paint our own classroom. That was not a great success, I’m afraid, but we did enjoy ourselves doing it. Of course, most of us had fathers in the Coastguard Service, or who worked on the ferries, or fishing boats. I can see now there just wasn’t the need for help that other areas would have had with the harvest. We certainly did do some useful things, that we didn’t do at school,’ he said firmly. ‘And it was great company.’
‘I like that idea of holiday school,’ said Hannah thoughtfully. ‘Particularly the idea of doing things you wouldn’t normally do, like your wood carving, John. It could even be we might discover talents out there we haven’t the time to look for …’
Hannah broke off as she saw a figure come striding up the track towards them. For a moment, there being no familiar Neddy and cart, she wasn’t entirely sure at this distance that it was Dermot Donnelly. Then, as he came closer, he waved and smiled.
‘Am I interruptin’ you good people?’ he asked, as soon as he had greeted them. ‘This looks like a teachers’ meetin’, an’ I can well come back another time,’ he added, before they had time to reply.
‘Sit down, Dermot,’ said Daniel firmly. ‘Maybe what we need is a parent’s opinion on what we were talking about.’
‘Maybe we all need a mug of tea as well,’ said Hannah, as she stood up.
‘Why don’t I make the tea, Hannah?’ John asked, looking at her and then glancing towards Daniel.
Amazing as Daniel was, dealing with people whom he couldn’t see, John always noticed how very easy he was when Hannah was with him. He could see why. If ever Daniel couldn’t ‘see’ what was happening, he would turn slightly towards Hannah. Sometimes, he did ask her a question, but more often he just waited to see what she might say. And it seemed that whenever he looked towards her she always said something that shaped his next comment.
John was well used to making tea in Hannah’s kitchen, even when he had to mend the fire and coax it to burn up. Today, there was no delay with the fire, for Hannah had seen to it while John moved the fireside chairs outside to be ready for Daniel when he arrived.
A short time later, he carried out the mugs of tea. He’d put them on a tray, which he’d then placed on a stool. Placed beside Hannah’s chair it provided a small table.
‘It needs to cool a bit as we’re low on milk,’ he said, easily, noting that Dermot and Hannah had drawings and paintings on their knees and Daniel was looking pleased.
‘So what do you think, Hannah?’ Daniel asked steadily.
‘Well I’m delighted, Daniel,’ she began, leafing through the sheets of drawing paper on her knee a second time. ‘Johnny has done it again,’ she said firmly, turning round the watercolour she was looking at for John to see.
‘This geranium jumps off the page, Dermot, as if I had just picked it,’ she went on. She commented further for Daniel’s benefit as she went through the paintings for a second time. ‘A rich, deep red, Daniel, true to its actual colour, but he’s used a wash behind it to suggest the mint leaves rather than paint them in detail. It looks wonderful.’
Daniel beamed. ‘And what about the other one?’ he asked. ‘The one you said wasn’t by Johnny.’
‘The one John hasn’t seen yet,’ she said smiling, as she leafed through the remaining sheets.
Hannah found the one she wanted and held it up. It was clearly a child’s painting, but once again the colour was striking, and this time the mint leaves were delicately outlined in green.
‘What age did you say she was, Dermot?’ Hannah asked, for John’s benefit.
‘She’s only six,’ Dermot said, ‘but nothing would do her but that Johnny would lend her a brush. She said flowers don’t like crayons!’
They all laughed as Hannah handed round the tea.
‘It looks,’ said Daniel, smiling broadly, ‘as if you’re the bringer of good news, Dermot. Maybe there’s another artist in the family.’ He nodded to himself.
He was silent for a few minutes as he drank his tea.
‘Hannah,’ he said, ‘could we afford paint, brushes and paper, if we operated a holiday school for a couple of weeks for our own pupils and all the young brothers and sisters within reach?’
Hannah saw John nodding and looking pleased, and thought of the men who had gone out and got drunk in Galloway and that incredible wager they’d won. She still asked herself how they could possibly have won so much money. It must have involved betting on a fight. How else could the stakes have been so high? It then struck her that if they did what Daniel was suggesting it could even be that some of those men’s own children would benefit.
‘Yes, I think we could manage,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘And if we do, then I think it would help the families if we provide pieces as well. I’ll check and make sure we’ve enough,’ she added soberly, though she felt suddenly so elated, what she wanted to do was laugh.
*
The last days of June seemed to disappear even more quickly than usual and Hannah was grateful for the long evenings to catch up on her assignment of napkins. There was no doubt that daylight, even this misty daylight, was much easier on the eyes than lamplight, though she’d learnt long ago from her friend, Catriona, to use a glass globe full of water to enhance the lamplight on winter evenings.
She knew she had no real cause to be anxious about money, for Patrick was meticulous about sending a weekly postal order, but seeing so much need all around her made her want to put back ‘under the bed’ the few sovereigns she had used earlier in the year when things were so bad at school.
Although she now received a proper monthly salary for teaching three mornings a week, she still didn’t want to lose her sewing money. Only if she could rely on putting that away, could she reassure Patrick if there was no work to be found for him in the coming winter. Even if there were the funds to go on delivering meal and flour, he would certainly want to share the job with Dermot Donnelly, unless Dermot had good news of the fishing boat being built in Port William.
Meantime, she was expecting Peter Gallagher, the draper from Creeslough, on one of the mornings when he knew she would be at home.
On the last Monday in June, however, it was not Peter who was standing waiting at her open door when she came back into the kitchen with rainwater for washing clothes from the barrel just outside the back door.
‘Jonathan,’ she said, delighted to see him. ‘I wasn’t sure when you’d manage a visit,’ she went on, putting the buckets down. ‘You seem to be very busy at the moment. You’ve been in Armagh and Dublin as well, haven’t you?’ She waved him to the armchairs.
He smiled wearily and admitted he’d had rather a lot of travelling to do, but then, once he sat down, he went on in his normal way to enquire about school and equipment and the distribution of meal and flour. He seemed particularly pleased at the success of Catriona’s women’s group who were making and distributing the clothes they’d produced from the flawed fabric he’d provided.
He laughed aloud when she told him the details of the drunken night out, a story that she’d felt she couldn’t actually write about, even though she was sure he would understand.
It was as she was making tea, she looked back at him from the dresser and saw he was sitting motionless, looking into the fire. She realised with surprise that, for once, she had done most of the talking, telling him all the news, anticipating what he would want to know about, sharing good news they’d had in the valley with small amounts of dollars arriving from local people now in Boston, or Peterborough, Ontario, or New York.
There was still cake in the tin and Aunt Mary had sent down milk with
a neighbour, so her task of making tea was easy, but the more she thought about it, and the oftener she glanced at him, the more sure she was that something was wrong.
‘I hope things are going well with your own work in Yorkshire, Jonathan,’ she began, as she passed him his tea and a small plate with plain cake. ‘I know from my spies, as you call them, that there are problems in the textile industry with competition from India,’ she went on, as lightly as she could. ‘One of Sophie’s papers said there were many weavers out of work in Belfast and other parts of East Ulster, and most of them didn’t even have potato gardens in the first place.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘there’s a lot of unemployment there, I’m afraid. We’re more fortunate in Yorkshire. There’s more variety in our processing, so we’re not facing quite the same amount of competition.’
The tone was unambiguously flat and now that he wasn’t listening to her reports on progress, he seemed distracted. She was sure now that something was wrong, but she had no idea what it might be and how, if at all, she could do anything to help.
They sat in silence as they drank tea. Try as she might, she could get no clue. When he spoke first, she was almost startled, but very grateful.
‘I’m afraid I’m poor company at the moment, Hannah. I’ve something on my mind that seems to keep tugging at me and won’t leave me alone. I’m afraid I’m being rather silly.’
‘I can’t imagine that, Jonathan,’ she said gently, ‘but I wonder if you’d be the best judge of that.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, ‘but who else is there?’
‘Well, there’s me for a start,’ she replied. ‘If I thought you were being silly I’d tell you so.’
‘Would you? Would you really?’ he asked, sounding surprised.
‘Yes, of course I would. What’s the point of not being honest? If I thought a friend was getting it wrong I’d tell them, unless, of course, they clearly didn’t want to know. That’s a different matter.’