by Anne Doughty
‘And if it hadn’t been for keeping afloat in the Mediterranean, John Hamilton wouldn’t have been posted to Norfolk and met Mary and lived happily ever after,’ Clare said with a smile. ‘Thanks to your flat keeping them up here on the coast,’ she added. ‘That’s what they said to us yesterday.’
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Joan, looking pleased. ‘Perhaps you and Andrew should think hard about what they said. I do very much fear from what he told me about the discrimination against Catholics, that he’ll never be able to settle to the profession he’s been trained for. Entirely his uncle’s fault,’ she said sharply. ‘Adeline’s brother, you know. Terribly responsible and generous with it, but no imagination. Andrew is his mother’s son. Even as a little boy he watched every creature that moved,’ she said emphatically. ‘But when his parents were killed, all Christopher could think of was proper schooling and giving him a good start. Meant well, but he did get it wrong. Never asked the poor boy what he wanted. I’m afraid, my dear girl, you’re the only one can put it right,’ she ended abruptly. ‘Thank goodness he found you.’
‘I’m not sure this was such a good idea,’ Clare said, as she paused and leaned against the rough inner wall of the tower of St Nicholas, Blakeney.
‘Not far now, love. Joan assures me it’s worth it, though perhaps a cooler day might have helped.’
They saved their breath and kept going steadily up the steep stone steps and wooden ladders until they reached the small door leading out into the open air.
‘She was right, wasn’t she?’ Andrew said, when he got his breath back enough to contemplate the wide vista laid out below them.
‘She usually is,’ replied Clare, still gasping, as she came to his side, grateful for a small breeze after the warm, dusty air filling the tower.
‘Bit higher than our Scrabo Tower,’ he said grinning, as they moved to the seaward side.
They stood silent, looking out over the marshes to the long shingle bank defending them from the sea beyond. Light glanced off the ridge they’d tramped along days before, pausing to examine the strange shapes of horned poppy and to watch the bees burrowing into the prolific blooms on the patches of sea-campion.
The light was strong and clear; only the horizon was smudged and shimmering as they scanned the whole length of coast and looked down at the villages, red roofed and compact, built above the flood line.
Clare felt Andrew move by her side and saw him raise his binoculars. She followed his gaze over the marshes, but there was no hen harrier, or cruising fulmar, no bird at all that she could see in the dazzle of light. Then she realized he was looking down on a herd of black and white Frisians, grazing peacefully on the short, rich turf of the reclaimed marsh that ran alongside the coast road.
‘Could you live here, do you think?’ he asked, his studied casualness giving him away completely.
Quite unexpectedly, another time and another place flooded into Clare’s mind. The tower of a chateau in Southern France, beside her a man she’d thought she loved. Christian Moreau. He’d brought her there, high above the spread of the family’s extensive vineyards, to show her his favourite view. The weekend visit to his parents had gone well and she knew he was about to ask her to marry him. Indeed, Robert had warned her he would propose to her. That was why he’d invited her. Christian was a very proper young man, of very good family, and would not speak without approval from his parents.
She had stood looking out over the rugged, dissected countryside, harsh, yet with its own kind of beauty. You would be happy here, he had said, taking her hand. That was the way Christian had always proceeded. He told her what she would think, what she would feel and even how happy she would be. Never once did he ask her. She had told him as tactfully as she could that it was indeed wonderful countryside but she could never be happy here, for she would always long for the little green hills of her home in Ireland.
Suddenly, she became aware that Andrew was looking down at her, waiting. She collected her thoughts, but she knew her answer, just as surely as the last time. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could live here,’ she said quietly, ‘but only if it was with you, my love.’
Clare was rather anxious that she might cry when they said ‘Goodbye’ to Joan. She had taken such a liking to the older woman, had appreciated her directness, her concern for Andrew, and her warmth towards herself. As she finished their packing very early on the Saturday of their departure, she realized that, though she had many good friends back in Ulster, there was no woman in her life with the long experience and wisdom of a Joan.
To her surprise, it was Joan who shed tears. Standing by her garden gate in the freshness of the early morning, she hugged them both after Andrew had closed the boot on their suitcases and rucksacks and the plastic bags in which Clare had packed the plants and cuttings Joan had given her.
‘Come back soon,’ she said, as she blew her nose. ‘And ring me tomorrow as soon as you arrive home. I’ll be expecting you,’ she added, as she turned away abruptly and left them to drive off down the twisty lane to the main road.
Despite the awkward cross-country stretch in the absence of any link between the M1 and M6 far enough north to be of any use to them, they made good time.
‘Different next weekend,’ said Andrew, as they swung west at last, heading for the East Lancs Highway and the Liverpool Ferry. ‘English schools haven’t broken up yet. Once you get families on the roads we’ve been using, it will be nose to tail. At least today, it kept moving.’
They made the ferry with time to spare and slept peacefully on one of the calmest crossings either of them had ever had. The early hour and the quiet of an overcast Sunday morning meant the streets of the city were deserted as they came up from the docks. It was cooler than on the other side of the Irish sea, the day without a breath of wind. As they drew away from the city Clare noted the leaves on the trees lining the motorway had darkened, the lightness and luxuriousness of early summer had now fully passed.
‘At least we missed The Twelfth,’ said Andrew easily, as they drove under the bunting and the massed flags in Portadown and turned off for Loughgall on their usual route home, past the old forge house, Robinsons’ farm, Charlie Running’s bungalow and so to Drumsollen.
‘Back or front?’ Andrew asked, as she closed the gates and got into the car again. ‘Which would be easier?’
‘Back,’ she said. ‘Most of the stuff in the boot is heading for the washing machine.’
As they rounded the final curve on their own driveway, Andrew braked sharply. For a moment, neither of them registered quite what had happened, but when they got out and walked towards the steps it became only too obvious. On the pale stonework either side of the front door, in the matching spaces between door itself and the adjacent window, someone with a well-loaded brush had painted matching slogans in huge letters.
‘Taigs out,’ it said, in red on one side. ‘Brits out,’ it said on the other in black.
They were still standing transfixed when they heard a car drive up behind them.
‘Ach, I’m sorry I didn’t get here afore you,’ said Charlie, as he jumped out and came towards them. ‘I didn’t think you’d be home this early, but I saw you go past. John Wylie told me last night what had happened. He’ll be here himself any minute now. I phoned him,’ he added awkwardly. ‘I only got it in last week. That’s the first time I’ve used it.’
‘When did it happen, Charlie?’ asked Clare.
‘We think it might have been the night of The Twelfth or maybe the night before. John came up to check around on the thirteenth and found the paint was dry. Otherwise he’d have started in on it then. He’s been trying to get industrial solvents, but of course, everywhere was still closed for the week. I don’t know whether he’s managed anything or not,’ he went on, pricking up his ear, as he caught the sound of an engine. ‘Sure here he is. We’ll soon find out.’
‘Ach, what a welcome home for the pair of you,’ John said, shaking their hands. ‘I’m heart sorry I didn
’t get here before it was dry. I’d have had it away before you saw it.’
‘That’s good of you, John, but maybe we need to know there’s somebody out there wants rid of us,’ said Andrew, his eyes moving back to where the red paint had dripped down from step to step like a rivulet of blood.
Clare looked at him quickly, saw he’d gone pale and realized that she herself was feeling shaky. How silly, she said to herself briskly. It’s only paint. We’ll get it off.
‘Did you have breakfast on the boat?’ Charlie asked suddenly, as he looked from one to the other.
‘No,’ replied Clare. ‘Just a cup of tea. We wanted to get home. But I think we could all do with some refreshments. Tea or coffee?’ she asked, knowing that if she didn’t get him moving, Andrew would go on staring at the gleaming paint as if someone had put a spell upon him.
They agreed nothing could be done today. Only a high powered solvent with steel wool was likely to make any impression now the paint had hardened. Even then it might take a light sanding to remove any residual staining.
John had already asked Robinsons’ for a day off to come and help. Charlie said he was sorry he couldn’t join them, but he was having a wee problem with his chest. Doctor’s orders. No dust, says he. No heavy work. And cut out the smoking. He hadn’t managed that but he’d been trying to cut down.
‘Is there any way we could cover it up temporarily?’ asked Clare, as they sat round the kitchen table.
‘Aye, I thought of that,’ said John, ‘but it’s two such awkward places. We can’t very well drill the stone to put in hooks for dust sheets. Are you expecting guests?’
‘No. There’s no booking till Thursday as far as I remember,’ Clare replied. ‘I was thinking more of Bronagh.’
‘Aye well, she’s a sensible wee girl. There’s many a worse thing she knows about I’m sure,’ Charlie declared. ‘She’ll not take it amiss.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll have to leave you now for I’ve visitors this afternoon and I don’t think there’s room for them to sit down,’ he explained, making them all laugh. ‘If you need me, just give me a ring,’ he added airily, presenting Clare with a small, printed card. ‘I’ll hope to see you Wednesday, Clare. If you can’t make it, just ring that number.’
‘He’s terrible pleased about his phone,’ said John a little later, as he too got up to go. ‘I’m all for it, but June’s still worried that the girls will run up the bill ringing their friends. But we’ll see. We’ll see,’ he repeated, as Clare walked out to the car with him, averting her eyes as best she could from the messages left to welcome them home.
Andrew was sitting just where she’d left him, his half-eaten bowl of cornflakes pushed to one side, his head in his hands.
‘Clare, why don’t we just get back in the car and go? Go anywhere out of this benighted country. I’ll get a job, any job, and we’ll not have to watch what we do, or watch what we say and give offence by merely existing. What about it?’ he said fiercely.
‘Fine. Good idea in principle. Just one or two small problems,’ she said, hurriedly collecting herself. ‘There’s June and Bronagh and Thelma for a start. Left without an income. And John too, though it’s a lesser matter. And we do have the odd friend who might be just a bit upset. Jessie and Harry for starters, and Charlie for another. Apart from that, what’s to stop us?’ she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘What are we going to do, Clare? This is the last straw for me. It’s bad enough we can’t employ Bronagh without raising up that old nastiness, but I’m not exactly immune to being called “a Brit”, as if the Richardsons hadn’t been in Ireland for centuries. Wouldn’t you be upset? Aren’t you upset?’
‘Yes, I am. But I’m afraid I may be partly responsible for this.’
‘What? But how could you be?’
‘Well, you remember my dear brother came looking for a job,’ she began steadily. ‘What he wanted was cars to play with. I told him we only had one car and we did our own fetching and carrying. No, let me finish, I’m not imagining things,’ she said firmly, as he started to protest.
‘I’ve been doing the sandwich run with Bronagh. I drive, she drops. But then I asked her if she’d like to learn to drive and she said, Yes, I would. I told you I didn’t think we’d ever need Jessie’s car, my car if you like, at the weekends because one of us always had to be here. When you agreed with me, I started lending it to Bronagh. Brendan came on the bus on Friday night, took Bronagh and car home and returned Bronagh and car on Monday morning. Before we went away she told me he’s a great teacher and she’ll soon be able to go solo. She’s been practising in Armagh with him so she can do the sandwich run in case I’m ever ill or not be available,’ she went on, taking a deep breath.
‘So what you are saying,’ Andrew interrupted, ‘is that your brother, who hangs about Armagh and Richhill, may have seen two cars at Drumsollen. Then he sees you driving round with a Taig, as he no doubt calls them, and two more Taigs, driving in and out of Drumsollen in the second car without you.’
‘I think that’s just what has happened,’ she admitted. ‘He’s always been vindictive when he can’t get his own way. I don’t think he’s got a job. Uncle Jack said he isn’t living with them and no one knows anything about him.’
‘Don’t you think we should tell the police?’ he suggested, sounding more like himself.
‘I don’t think there’s much point,’ she replied honestly. ‘We’ve no evidence it was him and the police have more urgent matters on their hands. Besides, the fewer people who know what’s happened, the better. It would be the worst kind of publicity.’
‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I just wasn’t thinking.’
‘You were very upset,’ she said gently. ‘And it was more of a shock for you. It only took me seconds to work out what had happened.’
‘Clare, I think I have a confession to make,’ he said bleakly.
‘They do say it’s good for the soul.’
‘I can’t quite believe it, but suddenly I know I could walk away from Drumsollen. All my life, I’ve longed to be here, to live here, to make a home and a family here, but now I just want to go.’ He paused and looked even more desolate. ‘Clare, how am I going to manage to keep going now I know how I feel?’
She sighed and thought of the North Sea and the light over the Norfolk coast. And Joan. And Mary and John.
‘Perhaps, my love, the only way for both of us is to make a private pact, here and now, that yes, we will go, and then get back to work so that we face up to the problems one by one and don’t do anything we might regret. What do you think about that?’
‘It’s a deal, pardner,’ he said, smiling sheepishly for the first time since they had arrived home.
Sixteen
Andrew went to the office as usual on Monday morning, enquired if Thelma had had a good holiday, went through the mail and dictated a few letters. Then he came home, got into his dungarees and joined John, who was already addressing the slogans. By the end of the day they were both exhausted, but the paint had gone, though a shadow remained on the stone that only an industrial sander could ever remove.
‘Sure a man on a gallopin’ horse will never notice it,’ said John philosophically, as he and Andrew sat drinking tea in the kitchen, their sweat-marked faces speckled with dust, their dungarees streaked with both paint and solvent.
‘And we don’t get many of them around these days,’ said June sharply, her Monday routine upset by the comings and goings. ‘Ye can hardly believe the badness of people.’
To Clare’s great surprise, Andrew got up, put his arm round her and kissed her cheek.
‘But then, June dear, you have to remember the goodness of people. Like you and John and the girls and the way you’ve always helped us out and encouraged us. Clare and I will never forget that,’ he said, pressing his free hand on John’s shoulder.
‘And we’ll not forget the way you’ve worked with Bronagh. And Brendan too, when he comes to
give us a hand,’ added Clare. ‘If only everyone were like you.’
‘Ach well,’ said John awkwardly, watching June as she got ready to go home. ‘Sure life’s too short to be making bad feelin’,’ he went on, as Clare slipped an envelope into his jacket pocket without him even noticing.
‘What do we tell them about what’s going to happen?’ Andrew asked after they’d gone.
‘Nothing at all for the moment,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t know where to start yet and I hadn’t much time in Headquarters today. We had a huge pile of sandwich orders. Besides, I wanted to spend time with Bronagh. I was worried she’d be upset about the slogans.’
‘And was she?’
‘Yes, she was, but it was you and me she was upset about. She said we didn’t deserve that sort of treatment from anyone. She actually asked me if it might be better for us to find another Protestant. She said she’d understand.’
Andrew sighed and shook his head. ‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I said, Not likely. Apart from the fact she’s part of the team and we’re glad to have her, that would be giving in.’
‘It almost makes you want to stick it out, doesn’t it?’ he said uneasily.
‘Well, it does remind us of the good things, as you said to June, but I’m not sure we have very many options. There is still the matter of bookings. I sent out a mailshot before we went away. I’ll know better when I’ve seen the response to that.’
‘I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to sound as if I’d changed my mind,’ he said quickly. ‘We made a deal and I stand by that. What I was really trying to say is that I’ve no idea what to do, or where we go, or when we go. You won’t think I’m not doing my bit, will you, because I’m not making helpful suggestions?’
‘No more than you thought I wasn’t doing my bit when I didn’t get going on the paint with you and John,’ she came back at him. ‘I think I am better at planning, I’m certainly better at sums, but I’d be no use at anything much if I wasn’t doing it for us and for our future. You just mustn’t forget that, love. We each do what we can and confess what we can’t manage.’