Come Rain, Come Shine

by Anne Doughty

  When she heard the vibration of a vehicle in the drive, she got to her feet before she’d even thought about it, rushed out and saw the familiar Royal Mail van sweeping to a halt at the foot of the steps. Hastily, she collected herself and went down to greet the driver.

  ‘Good morning, Ernie, isn’t it a lovely morning.’

  ‘Mornin’, Clare. Indeed it is, great for the time of year. Large fat one for your good man. Can you sign here, please? He’s had great weather for Fermanagh, hasn’t he? Will he be back for the funeral?’ he said, dropping his voice by several tones.

  ‘Yes, he’ll be back late this afternoon. He had a bit more to do than he expected. And I wouldn’t be surprised if this might be a bit more still,’ she added, looking at the London postmark, the franking and the thick embossed envelope.

  ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said, cheerfully, as he hopped into the driving seat and roared off.

  She laughed, decided the morning was far too lovely to spend surrounded by papers and negative speculations. She carried the envelope indoors, parked it on her desk and fetched secateurs and a bucket. Just half an hour’s dead-heading she told herself, then she’d make a pot of coffee and get back to the piles of paper.

  Andrew looked tired when he finally arrived, but that was hardly surprising, she told herself, when he went to have a quick wash and change before supper. It was a long drive from Killydrennan and as Charlie had pointed out only a few weeks ago, the last place you could ever hope for a motorway was one running west to Fermanagh or up the far side of Lough Neagh through Omagh and Strabane to Derry.

  It was hardly surprising either that Andrew hadn’t noticed the changed carpet in the hall. Apart from the smell having gone and the carpet looking as if it had always been there, he’d been far too pleased to see her to notice anything else.

  ‘That looks better,’ she said, as he came back into the kitchen, his hair looking damp round the edges. ‘Did you have to wear your suit all the time?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘No, it wasn’t too bad,’ he admitted. ‘Henry Macaulay is a decent sort. Very public school, but then, I suppose you’d have to say, so am I. We wore outdoor stuff during the day, but the hotel was posh. Suits and ties for dinner obligatory, but the food partly made up for it, though I got so tired by the evening I could just about do it justice. I did miss you terribly,’ he confessed, putting his arms around her the moment she’d finished putting hot dishes on a tray.

  The table was laid in Headquarters, the fire lit, a bottle of wine ready to celebrate his return. The remaining cardboard box she’d pushed into a dim corner where the fall of the curtain almost completely concealed it.

  ‘It is so lovely to be home,’ he said, looking at the waiting table. He smiled as he touched her small posy of roses, then lit the candles for them. ‘I’d rather dine chez Clare than any five star place.’

  ‘At least I was able to cook your supper tonight,’ she said easily. ‘But I did let June do the dessert. No prize for guessing what it is,’ she added laughing, as she served up boeuf bourguignon.

  He ate so devotedly, Clare did wonder if he’d bothered to stop en route to have lunch. She poured more wine and saw him relax a little as the meal went on. How she was going to tell him about her late night visitors she had still not worked out.

  ‘Did you manage to leave my roses for Hector?’ she asked gently when they’d got as far as June’s apricot tart.

  ‘Yes, I did. In fact, I spent some time down there most days. They gave me sandwiches at the hotel and I took them to the lake at lunchtime. Not a lot about yet, but the regulars were there.’

  ‘Is the house completely shut up then while Lord Rothwell is away?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘More or less. Mrs Watkins was there. She asked after you. She told me Russell has been given one of the gate lodges. They’re too small for a family and one’s been empty for a long while. Henry says Rothwell wasn’t bothered about it, so they’ve set up a life tenancy to comply with Hector’s wishes. It will revert to the estate when Russell dies.’

  ‘How is Russell?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘I can’t read people like you can, but I can tell you there were other flowers as well as yours on Hector’s mound. And it wasn’t Mrs Watkins. I asked her if she’d put them there,’ he said flatly.

  As they finished their meal and moved across to the fire, Clare made up her mind. She was not going to tell Andrew about Wednesday night’s invasion. It could wait until tomorrow. There was something about Andrew this evening she really couldn’t make sense of. There was unease in almost everything he said, and yet, at the same time, there was a warm enthusiasm for everything they had here in this room, from the roses, to the food, to the fire. She watched his eyes moving restlessly round the room that had been the centre for the project that failed. Here, they’d been on duty for guests, had collapsed after the work of day or the week. Here they’d celebrated with friends and with each other.

  ‘Andrew, is there something on your mind? Something you’re not telling me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure,’ he replied, looking at her uneasily. ‘It may not be worth worrying over. As they say, it may never happen,’ he replied, managing a smile.

  ‘Well, whether it does or not, we could share it anyway, couldn’t we? If it does, we’ll face it, and if it doesn’t we’ll give thanks. How about some coffee?’

  ‘Great,’ he said, looking yet more abstracted as she poured for them both. ‘Don’t know where to begin,’ he confessed with a sigh.

  ‘Just begin anywhere,’ she said encouragingly. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s not in logical order, just so I get the picture.’

  ‘Well, Henry Macaulay was not quite what he seemed. Yes, there was a job to do, given all that work I did years ago had gone missing, but he was more than a Land Agent. He admitted that the second night when we’d been in the bar for a while. He’s been working for the executors on a problem regarding the estate. It’s Lord Rothwell’s wife.’

  ‘Good heavens, what can possibly be the matter be with Lord Rothwell’s wife?’

  ‘Well, she is very good-looking, I can say that. Henry had a photo of her in his file, but it seems she is of mixed race. No, no, not what you’re thinking, my love,’ he interrupted, as he saw the look on her face. ‘It seems her aboriginal ancestors are no problem at all to the executors. No, their problem is that she was sent away from her family as a little girl. Apparently there were a lot of high-minded individuals who wanted to save children from their native families, so she was brought up in a Catholic mission school in Queensland,’ he explained, taking up his coffee cup and emptying it.

  ‘Oh, not again,’ said Clare wearily. ‘Is it any wonder I gave up the whole religion business as soon as Granda Scott died,’ she demanded crossly. ‘Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Do go on.’

  ‘Well, it looked as if the only way for Rothwell to have the estate was for him to divorce her. I think it was hinted in oblique lawyer’s language that should he do so, the letter of the title could thus be adhered to and they could live together in Fermanagh with no one any the wiser. Being English, however, they’d forgotten the local gentry. They’ve been asking questions about his wife and they also invited him to become a member of the Lodge.’

  ‘And how did he feel about that?’

  ‘Apparently his comment was not considered the reply of a gentleman,’ said Andrew grinning. ‘I confess I liked him better after that, even if I’ve never met him.’

  ‘So what’s happening now? Hasn’t he gone back to Australia to see his wife? That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what he told Henry, but it seems now that he’s not coming back. They were waiting in London for his instructions in writing. Henry said yesterday they’d had a definite response from him and it might only be a matter of a day or two until I heard from them.’

  ‘Heard from whom?’ Clare asked, totally confused.
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br />   ‘The executors, of course,’ he said patiently. ‘They’ll send me the relevant documents and if I were to sign them, then, by due process of law, I would become the next Lord Rothwell.’

  Eighteen

  The little grey church on the hill where Clare and Andrew had been married five years previously, to the month, was packed to capacity. Clare almost smiled as she and Andrew made their way to the front pews where Eddie Running had insisted they sit with Charlie’s immediate family. Charlie would be pleased. It looked as if the turnout for him was even bigger than for her grandfather.

  She had been thinking of Robert’s funeral as they drove up Church Hill when they found, to their surprise, a man, black-suited and wearing a hard hat, directing cars to park in a field opposite the churchyard gates. As they bumped over rough stubble, she remembered the field from long ago. Every Easter, her mother and father had visited Granny and Granda. Together, they’d all walked up the lane alongside the orchard from the forge house to the top of the hill, so she could trundle her egg with all the other children from Church Hill.

  A changed world, she thought, remembering the ponies and traps tethered by the churchyard wall in October 1954. She’d come home from her first term at Queens, on a lovely autumn morning, to find her grandfather in his coffin. Charlie was with him in the sitting-room reading aloud from the local paper.

  Now Charlie had gone too, her last link with this small piece of land where she’d once known every flower and tree so that at any season she could find something to put in the old, green glass bottle that sat on their table in the long, low house with roses over the door.

  Andrew had given up Drumsollen, accepting that one cannot take back what was not given, freely and willingly, at an earlier time. Now, she too would have to give up what had been good, the goodness that had sustained her after the loss of her parents.

  She had tried to give back to Andrew what he had lost and to keep for herself what had been so good, but it was something that could not be done. They had tried and tried again and finally failed, but in the process had learnt a great deal, especially about themselves. Charlie had been part of that old world. Like Andrew’s dream of Drumsollen restored, she too would have to let go her last link with that world of her childhood and young womanhood.

  There were friendly faces all around her, known people who nodded kindly as she walked down the aisle to the seats marked out for them with carefully placed hymn sheets. This place would remain forever in her heart. It might well always be called ‘home’, but she no longer had any tie to the land itself.

  On June Thirty, they would leave Drumsollen. Where or how they would find a life and a future, she did not know. That it would not be here among the little hills of her childhood was certain. Nor indeed would it be amid the isles and lakes of Fermanagh, a county unknown to her until a year ago, a place whose beauty had touched her deeply.

  They sat close together in the whispering hush of the church as the choir in their new red robes filed silently to their places. She felt Andrew make small, restless movements by her side and immediately her mind moved back to Friday evening.

  ‘Oh love, I am sorry,’ she’d said, getting up and opening her desk. One large, white envelope sat in front of the empty compartments. ‘This came this morning. I’m afraid I forgot all about it,’ she apologized, as she handed it to him.

  ‘Yes, I expect this is it,’ he said flatly, staring at his name, at the address, at the postmark. He made not the slightest attempt to open it.

  ‘What’s wrong, Andrew? What is going on?’

  Instead of replying, he tore at the envelope, a tough, fabric lined one which only came apart after he’d applied considerable force. From the ragged opening, several sheets of heavy paper fell to the ground. He bent and scooped them up.

  ‘Here, look for yourself,’ he said, thrusting them at her. ‘Sign on the dotted line for a country estate and a guaranteed income for life. As much pasture for as many cows as you fancy. Gardens and gardeners, too, for your lovely lady wife. Jobs all round for good Protestant lads and lassies like our new neighbours the Brookes. Money in the bank and servants to do the work. All for one little signature.’ He paused. ‘Clare, I can’t do it, I simply can’t do it,’ he said, his face crumpling, anger and distress tearing him in opposite directions.

  ‘So what is your problem, Andrew? Who is asking you to do it?’

  ‘Oh do be reasonable, Clare,’ he almost shouted. ‘We’re broke. If you weren’t working your socks off, we wouldn’t have tuppence. I’ve made no money since I set up on my own, until this business in Fermanagh came up. My only clients are poor Catholics who couldn’t pay my bills even if I did send them. And, on a plate, I’m handed everything I say I’ve ever wanted. Some of the best land in Ulster. And lots of it. A place for children to grow up. Exactly what I’d have loved to have had myself. And I can’t do it. Not even for you,’ he ended, choking on his words as he dropped his head in his hands.

  ‘Good for you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, Good for you.’

  ‘And what exactly is good about it?’ he demanded angrily, jumping to his feet and glaring down at her.

  ‘You’ve always said you had difficulty making up your mind,’ she began steadily. ‘You said when you asked me to marry you, in bed in Drumsollen in April 1960, if I remember correctly, that you’d do your best, if I would help you with making up your mind. Those were the terms,’ she continued, managing to keep her voice a lot steadier than she was feeling. ‘Well, it seems you’ve made up your mind about something. That has to be good news.’

  ‘You mean you don’t mind?’ he demanded. ‘You’d give up all you’re being offered?’

  ‘I’m not giving up anything,’ she said firmly. ‘I have what I need. We do have one or two little local problems just at present, I’ll willingly admit. Doesn’t everyone? But we’ve managed well enough up until the present. So why should that suddenly change?’

  She realized now that the minister had appeared, a young man new to the parish. He had not known Charlie very well, he admitted honestly, when he began his address, but he’d had the great good sense to talk to people who had known him all their lives. He proceeded to deliver a short synopsis of Charlie’s life, interspersed with stories which exactly caught the essence of the man. There was laughter and a nodding of heads and Clare heard the odd whispered, ‘That was yer man all right.’

  To Clare’s great delight, the minister followed his tribute, not with the customary reminder of the shortness of life, the need for repentance and a proper attention to one’s own salvation, but instead with a request for celebration and thanksgiving. The congregation lifted up their voices in full and hearty response. Clare did shed tears, more of relief, than sadness. Charlie would have approved entirely of the whole proceedings.

  To Clare’s amazement the party given for Charlie at Drumsollen after the funeral generated more business and bookings than many of the events she’d organized over the years with that aim in view. To begin with, the Canadian cousin for whom the funeral had been delayed decided to work through Charlie’s vast archive to make it easier for sending back to Canada. One look at Charlie’s bungalow, where he’d expected to live while doing the job, and he returned for two weeks at Drumsollen.

  Clare’s main preoccupation now became the selling of Drumsollen. She talked to her Bank Manager and found it was possible to register a property quietly with an estate agent. No board on the roadside, nor advertising in local papers, and therefore, no need to share news of their going with anyone but June and Bronagh and close friends.

  What it was supposed to do was open the possibility of the agent being able to put a client in touch with her should the description of Drumsollen appear to meet their needs. That was exactly what happened.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Richardson,’ said an unfamiliar voice, when she answered the phone one sodden November morning. ‘My name is John Crawford and I
represent Eventide Homes. I wonder if it would be possible for me to come and see you sometime next week.’

  ‘Eventide Homes,’ she repeated to Andrew that evening. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘Well I suppose it is a possibility,’ he said dubiously. ‘I’ve heard of several big houses being converted into nursing homes but I can’t see Drumsollen fitting the bill. Surely you’d need lifts with two floors.’

  ‘All things are possible if they have the capital,’ she pointed out. ‘That was our problem, wasn’t it? We might have made it work if we could have refurbished, with phones and TVs and en suites for every room.’

  ‘Are you sorry?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m glad we tried, but there’s no turning back now, is there? I think, though, we need to make use of all we’ve learnt. And we’ve got to do our homework properly. Have you got any further with your researches?’

  For weeks now, Andrew had been poring over editions of Farming News, sent by Aunt Joan, and the North Norfolk Property Guide sent by Mary and John. What he was trying to do was see what it would cost to buy enough land to make a start, assuming land was available which Phillida seemed to think was the case. His problem was that their capital was tied up in Drumsollen. He had no idea what its sale might raise or how much he’d have available for either land or stock.

  ‘Try not to worry, love,’ Clare said, when he’d explained his difficulty. ‘We might know better when this John Crawford comes next week. Which reminds me,’ she went on quickly. ‘We really need to lay the old entrance hall carpet down in Number One. We’ll have to shunt it around to see if we can get the damaged bit under the wardrobe.’

  ‘Why bother?’ he asked. ‘There are four other double rooms. We hardly ever have one double room in use, never mind four.’

  ‘Can’t give you an answer,’ she confessed. ‘Something about rightness. Not letting that business over the paraffin spoil a room. Especially when someone is coming to see the place. My magic, if you like,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’d like to put the room straight again.’