by Anne Doughty
She’d only ever known one person to wear a proper hat in this valley, so she waved back, left the door open for him and went back inside to make up the fire.
‘Jonathan Hancock, what a surprise,’ she said to herself, as she put the kettle down. ‘I wonder what brings you here, just when I have news for you.’
*
‘Good morning, Jonathan Hancock,’ she said formally, offering him her hand and smiling broadly.
‘Hannah, my dear. It seems you have got news for me,’ he said, holding her hand between both of his and looking her up and down.
‘I have rather a lot of news for you, Jonathan, one way and another’, she began, ‘but I think you’d better sit down and enjoy your tea first. How did you manage to get rid of the snow for us?’ she asked, laughing, as he parked his hat on the dresser and came to the table where the cake tin sat waiting.
‘You’re in luck,’ she said, struggling with the tight-fitting lid. ‘We had a birthday in school yesterday, so Bridget made prize-giving biscuits and John and I both got some to take home,’ she explained, as the lid gave way and she held the open tin out for him.
‘They do smell good,’ he said, as she poured his tea. ‘Ladies’ news first,’ he said, some minutes later, as he took a long drink of his tea, clearly thirsty after his vigorous walk.
Hannah smiled to herself. Now that the moment had come to tell him about the money, she really didn’t know how to put it. Where did she start? Had she actually told him sometime last autumn about the holiday school mailing to East Boston last July? She certainly hadn’t told him about the subsequent Christmas mailing.
‘When is it due?’ he asked promptly.
Hannah had to laugh. Here she was with this news of an enormous donation and he was waiting, beaming, for news of her expected child.
‘Probably July, or early August. All being well.’
‘That is wonderful news, Hannah,’ he said, once again breaking into smiles. ‘Sarah will be so delighted when I tell her, unless, of course, you’ve told her yourself. She said in one of her letters that she’d heard from you. She was really pleased about that.’
‘Yes, I wrote to thank her for copying out that four-page letter from the enquirers. That was such good news for Dermot. You’ll be glad to hear he is now back at sea and has three Donegal lads in training. The two “borrowed” ones who came over with him in January were able to go back to Scotland last week and we get fish for supper every time he has a day off.’
‘What splendid news!’ he said enthusiastically.
She waited for him to go on, as he seemed about to say something. But he didn’t.
She finally made up her mind to tell him about the American letter right away. She went to the dresser and took the little printed card bearing the note of the collection in East Boston from her school drawer. She set it down in front of him.
‘We’ve had a rather large donation from some people to whom we sent “wee pictures” last summer and New Year wishes this Christmas,’ she began steadily. ‘I need to ask your advice about where to send it,’ she said, not able to read the expression on his face, as he turned the printed card over and over in his long fingers.
‘Have you worked out how much this is in sterling,’ he asked, staring at the printed card.
‘John thought it was about £20,000,’ she said, amazed that he seemed so unperturbed by the largeness of the sum.
‘Probably rather more,’ he said, smiling at last. ‘Exchange rates have been somewhat volatile. We must make sure we get the best rate and the best bank. What wonderful news,’ he said, a flatness in his tone she could not account for.
It was then it came to her. His good spirits when he arrived, the speed at which he was walking, the effort he had made to be enthusiastic over the money. Clearly, he had something he needed to tell her.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘But I’m still waiting patiently to hear your own good news, Jonathan.’
He looked at her in amazement, smiled sheepishly, and then said: ‘How could you possibly know I’ve had good news? I only found out a few days ago. I’m getting married in June.’
*
There was no doubt about it, Jonathan’s news meant a great deal more to him than the huge donation from East Boston, though he later gave much energy to discussing what could be done to maximise it and get it in place as quickly as possible.
‘Anyone I know?’ asked Hannah innocently.
‘A certain lady called Sarah Hamilton, who values your friendship and wants to come and meet you,’ he began, now anxious to share her part in his happiness. ‘Do you remember when I told you I thought I was being silly? And you gave me good advice. You said in particular that if I told her, she could then value the love of a good man. And I asked you what I’d do if she didn’t share my feelings. You indicated that that would solve the problem, but in a different way.’
Hannah had the greatest difficulty remembering anything she had said to him, but she knew he would always recall accurately.
‘I’m so delighted for you Jonathan,’ she said happily. ‘May I ask how this all came about?’
‘Yes, of course. You, of all people are entitled to hear the story.’
Hannah was touched as he told her in detail what had happened. He explained how he had indeed come to Donegal as planned after a most terrible crossing of the Irish Sea, snow-storms in Donegal itself and an even slower journey back to Armagh.
‘Sarah and I had lunch together just after Christmas. It was so lovely to see her,’ he began, his face lighting up, as he told her about their ending up in one of the hotel’s private rooms because they neither of them could bear the loud voices of some robust gentlemen at the next table.
‘We had a plan to meet again the following day before I went back to England, but that had to be cancelled,’ he went on hurriedly. ‘I had visited my wife at The Retreat before coming to lunch with Sarah. She had had attacked me and I had a bruise on my forehead … You can still see it,’ he added, brushing his hair back and displaying a short, but deep scar.
‘Sarah tried to kiss it better when we met for lunch,’ he went on sheepishly, ‘but then, next morning, I had an urgent message to say my wife had fever. I was a risk to anyone I touched, or who touched me.’
He took a deep breath. ‘You can imagine how I felt, Hannah. If I had infected the woman I so loved …’
‘So what happened?’ asked Hannah urgently, well able to imagine the consequences of such an innocent gesture.
‘I had to send her a message telling her we couldn’t meet, that I had been told to wrap up heavily and keep away from people and go straight home. We weren’t even able to wish each other a Happy New Year.’
He dropped his eyes and looked at his hands.
‘You know how bad the weather was in January. It was nearly two weeks before I had a letter from Sarah telling me she was perfectly well. And in the same post I also had two official ones,’ he added quickly. ‘One was to tell me my wife had died some three days after my visit. The other was the bill for her funeral, which had to take place immediately.’
‘So you were able to ask Sarah to marry you?’
‘I was. I asked her to name the day and she’s now said it will take her till midsummer to find someone who can do her job for Sir George. So midsummer it is. We’re planning to visit my cousins here in Donegal. Sarah, like you, Hannah, has never travelled in Ireland. She wants to see all the places she hears me talk about. I’d so like to bring her here to meet you in person. Could you manage that? You’ll be near your time by then. But I’d be so delighted to see the two of you together.’
‘All being well, Jonathan,’ she said warmly, suddenly aware of how often these days she had need of this simple phrase. ‘Send her my best wishes when you write and tell her I’ll write soon myself … after I finish this thank you letter to our benefactors in East Boston. I could do with some help from you on that. If you have time.’
‘Of course, I have time.
After all you have done for me! Just tell me how I can help.’
Chapter 31
The snow came back again within days of Jonathan Hancock’s visit and with it the familiar biting cold, but as March moved onwards, the snow did retreat, though small patches lay for weeks in hollows and on the north side of cottages. It rotted rather than melted. But slowly, it disappeared, revealing, as always, that in sheltered corners and the bottoms of hedges, growth had begun, plants had moved slowly into life. At the first touch of sunshine, they responded immediately, sprang to life and unfurled, or even flowered.
With milder conditions it seemed that hope too was flourishing both in the valley and beyond. There were many people who said that the fierce cold of the winter would have killed off the blight, once and for all. There were many relief schemes all over Ireland only just getting into their stride. The long-promised public works were providing an income of sorts for 734,000 individuals. Relief Committees were encouraging further the Quaker initiative of distributing vegetable seeds to all those with space to plant.
Patrick planted the seed he’d helped to distribute and then bought some seed potatoes, none of his own from last year’s crop having survived. He and the children prepared ‘the eyes’ as usual, and planted them one sunny afternoon as soon as they got back from school.
Meantime, Hannah and John were working on a small project for their friends in the shipyard in East Boston. Jonathan Hancock had thought her long letter to them would bring great pleasure to those who read it. He said he had no doubt at all but that it would be posted in the space outside the chairman’s suite. He’d encouraged her to stay in touch with them, quite sure himself that there were many Irish emigrants who would be delighted to have her response, as well as the schools’ thank you for the donation they’d received.
Jonathan had asked Hannah if either she, or John, knew any recent emigrants whom they could consult as to what would speak to their memories and longings and Hannah immediately thought of Marie, Daniel’s niece, once a teacher at the school, now resident with her husband, Liam, in New York. What would it please Marie and Liam to receive from home?
But even before that particular letter was written, Hannah and John began to see further possibilities themselves. In one of their so-called staff meetings when they all drank tea together in Bridget’s kitchen after school, they agreed that a school newspaper would both create an opportunity for the most literate of the children to write up local news, in both Irish and English, and also give someone like James Doherty in Boston something he could make available to anyone who might be interested.
It was a beginning. News from the Valley, the name they hit upon one Thursday afternoon, struck them all as a good way to keep in touch with the Irish staff in East Boston.
What intrigued Hannah when she reflected on that meeting, as she sat sewing by the fire next morning, was the way in which any idea one of them had seemed to grow, and generate into something much bigger, like a bonfire being fed and encouraged by a number of people.
She thought it was Bridget who had subsequently said: ‘They might like stories.’ It certainly was Daniel who mentioned The Two Bottles and John, who then pointed out that the proofs of his book, now in preparation, were already printed and readable. He could probably ask for an extra copy of the proofs, if the publishers knew it was going to be sent to America.
Meantime, as the gentler days of April moved on, Patrick and Hannah were only too aware of their imminent parting. Hannah noticed how seldom John lingered after he’d eaten his supper, fully aware as he was of how few evenings might remain to them, before the letter came with the ticket money and the date.
But there was one more evening in April when John did stay longer to share some good news with them both. As usual, he had discovered it when reading to Sophie the previous evening.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘it seems that back in February when we were still snowed up, a band of Boston businessmen petitioned Congress to lend them a warship to deliver relief provisions to Ireland. You know that they’re at war with Mexico at the moment. Don’t you?’
Hannah wasn’t entirely sure she’d known this, but she nodded anyway, wanting to hear what happened next.
‘For the first time in American history, the President, James K. Polk, placed a naval vessel under the command of a civilian on a private mission. Apparently, they started loading supplies on St Patrick’s Day. It took them eleven days to load more than 8,000 barrels of food. Then a forty-nine-man volunteer crew sailed away under the Stars and Stripes and a white flag sporting a green shamrock.’
John paused and blinked a couple of times.
‘Fifteen days later it was unloading in Cork harbour … and Sophie had a newspaper from Liverpool which said, “The relief thus nobly sent may be regarded as one of the proudest events in American history.”’
John looked from one to the other.
‘Sadly, however, the captain walked around the Cork alleyways. What he said was a lot less heroic: “I saw enough in five minutes to horrify me.” Hardly a happy ending’, said John, holding up his hands. ‘But we must give thanks for the good-heartedness of all those people who did contribute – 8,000 barrels of food. And they hadn’t even heard of what we’ve had from East Boston,’ he said, smiling. ‘We don’t ever hear the whole story, do we? We have to try to put the bits together and make up our own minds.’ He rose to go.
‘I thought I’d just stay a little longer tonight and tell you, in case you’re busy packing tomorrow, or next day,’ he said as he headed for the door.
‘Sure, you’re always welcome here, John,’ said Patrick vigorously. ‘An’ I’m heart glad you’ll be here over the summer, when Hannah will maybe need watchn’. Aye, an’ there’s that woman, Bridget, up at school, as well. The one I met when you ran out of meal, an’ I had to bring you up a bag to keep you goin’. Hannah’ll not go far astray with the pair of you to keep an eye on her,’ he added, as if he’d just made up his mind and was now duly relieved.
*
It was only three days later that the letter from Duncan Mackay in Galloway came, and as always, there were preparations to be made. With Dermot back at sea, Patrick had been on the lookout for someone to take over the delivery of meal and flour. Happily, he had found a young man with whom he had once worked on a roof in Tullygobegley. He had already shown him round and introduced him to the people on what would be his regular round. Now, he brought him home and introduced him to Hannah, to Neddy himself and to his grooms, Rose and Sam.
A lively young man, with surprisingly blonde hair and blue eyes, he was another McGinley, one of the commonest names in the valley. Fortunately, his first name was Martin, and not Patrick, and from their very first meeting he got on well with both Neddy and his grooms.
But making him welcome seemed to take up a lot of time, or perhaps, as Hannah sometimes thought, time itself moved more quickly when parting was near. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry this time. But she did. Only, however, in the privacy of their bedroom.
When Patrick kissed all three of them goodbye at the cottage door, early one bright morning, she smiled and reminded him he’d need extra kisses when he came back. He’d need some more for a new baby, all being well. She was pleased to see him stride off looking easy, if not actually smiling.
*
There was real warmth in May. The May blossom, the hawthorn, which often didn’t bloom till almost the end of the month in this part of Donegal, began to show white buds by mid-month. It looked as if it was going to be a good year for blossom and indeed, days later, the opening hawthorn flowers lay like snow on the fresh green of the bushes. Their perfume scented the evening air, especially if the day had been warm. The evenings grew longer and lighter.
Now, Hannah did shed tears in her empty bed, but as the days passed and the first letter came with remarkable speed, she began to feel her spirits lighten. It was too soon to hope that the blight might indeed have gone, but no one in the valley was as
utterly dependant on the potatoes as once they had been. No one was going to starve in the valley with the resources they had and were using so carefully.
She and Patrick had decided that if they had a girl they would call her Mary, after Patrick’s aunt. If it was a boy, then Duncan, after her father. As the child began to move more vigorously, Hannah sat down oftener, taking her sewing out into the sunshine. She had to smile to herself sometimes when she discovered she’d nodded off and had done little for a whole morning.
Perhaps it was being with child, or perhaps it was the sunshine, or perhaps it was even the sense of having a dear husband, and friends, and work, and plans for the future, but Hannah began to feel more at peace than she’d felt for many a long day.
One of the continuing delights of the better weather was the speed at which letters came back and forth, not only between Donegal and Galloway, but between East Boston and Ardtur and between Ardtur and Castledillon in County Armagh, where Sarah Hamilton was preparing for her marriage.
Patrick was well and so was her father, the team of haymakers very much at ease, being mostly old colleagues. Across the Atlantic, James Doherty, the secretary in East Boston Shipping had responded vigorously to her initial letter of thanks and then to the first edition of the Valley News.
He told her that her colleague John McCreedy’s suggestion of sending traditional stories had been greeted with great enthusiasm, that as a result, a number of friendship groups had been formed in the works. These groups planned to have regular meetings and hoped to share their own stories in return.
Daniel was concerned that Hannah might be over-exerting herself now that she was coming near her time, but Bridget reassured him that Hannah was carrying well. He had no idea what she meant by this, but he trusted her judgement and insisted only that Hannah did not carry books, or anything else, and that she sat down to do her teaching though she would always prefer to stand up.