Beyond the Green Hills

by Anne Doughty

  ‘Ron McGillvray. Sounds right for a columnist, doesn’t it? I’ll remember that. See you sometime next week then, Keith. Enjoy the party,’ she said happily, as they emerged from the crowd milling around on the steps and he headed off towards the bicycle sheds.

  She looked for Andrew, but saw no sign of him. All around her, couples were greeting each other, going off hand in hand or with arms twined round each other. For those taking languages, this was the very last paper. Parties and celebrations had been planned for weeks now. They’d be welcome at several of them, she knew, but what she really wanted was to get away. They were going to drive up into the Craigantlet Hills, walk among the hayfields, look out over the lough and watch the lights come on in the city below. Just the two of them. To make up for all the lovely summer evenings they’d had to miss.

  Clare sat down on the low wall opposite the examination hall and watched the remaining clusters of people finish their post-mortems, say their goodbyes and head off in different directions. She looked all around her. No sign of a dark-suited figure with fair hair anywhere.

  Of course, she told herself, one of the senior partners could have descended on Andrew just as he was leaving. It happened often, but seldom on Fridays. Unless they’d been in court, the partners tended to begin their weekend after lunch, leaving Andrew and his colleague in sole possession of the elegant chambers.

  She tried to imagine Andrew bending over his desk amid the boxes and bundles of documents. She wondered if he ever noticed the portraits of former partners and prime ministers looking down at him so solemnly, the etchings of nineteenth-century Belfast and the paintings of the SS Titanic leaving the lough on her sea trials.

  ‘Not for much longer now, love,’ she said softly.

  The three elderly partners had been very hard to work with. So arrogantly self-confident, so sure of their own judgement, alternative views were not required. However hard Andrew worked, only doing what they wanted done in the way they wanted it done was acceptable. Worse, what they wanted paid little attention to the ethics involved in a case. What they did was no doubt legal, but seldom what Andrew would judge right.

  ‘I’ll be a good boy. Not say a word. Not tell them what I think. Just keep my nose clean and work for a good reference,’ he’d said, as they sat one evening, large scale maps of Southwest Saskatchewan spread out before them. Even if they were leaving Ulster, a good reference would still be very useful. Clare was grateful she already had hers, a letter from Henri Lavalle that made her blush every time she read it.

  ‘Canada,’ she said, quite firmly, looking around her once again.

  Though crowds of people streamed past on the nearby pavements and there was a long queue at the bus stop, there was no one left on this side of the entrance gates to hear anything she said.

  Over the last weeks, the thought of Canada had kept her going. Whenever washing and ironing simply had to be done, or when she tidied her room, her mind would fly off. Beyond broad expanses of wheatfield, she saw mountains rising into clear air, great white clouds piled up in a blue sky. She felt so heartened by the unlimited possibilities of moving freely in so vast an expanse of space, over the mountains themselves, or across the great plains that rolled towards their feet. All that empty country, and with it the chance to do new things. To live a real life in the real world.

  When she and Andrew were together, they talked of nothing else. They perused the catalogue in the Library, took out whatever they could lay their hands on: geographical monographs, historical writings, exploration. They’d had great encouragement from Ronnie himself and also from Andrew’s much older cousin, Crossley.

  Crossley had thrown up his London bank job in the thirties and settled in a little-known part of Saskatchewan, the Palliser Triangle. He’d read about it by pure chance when he picked up a book in a junk shop, a survey of Southern Saskatchewan by an Irish army officer, Sir John Palliser. He’d been sent out by the British in 1857 to size up its potential for agriculture.

  Palliser had had his reservations about the suitability of the area, but Crossley decided to go and see for himself nevertheless. What he’d found was a remarkable country, harsh but very beautiful, sparsely peopled, demanding to be farmed. He’d been willing to work hard and he’d done well. In his long, warm letter to Andrew, he said things were very little changed since he himself had come out. With the same hard work, Andrew would do as well. He’d be very pleased indeed to help him get started.

  ‘A quarter to six,’ she said, with a sigh. A pity Andrew should get held up today of all days.

  She tried to visualise what a school might look like in the Palliser Triangle, with a population so spread out. Crossley said the ranches varied in size, but even the smaller were hundreds of acres and the larger extended to thousands.

  Within a few months, she’d set out on the longest journey she’d ever made in her life. Sometimes she felt quite nervous, but the moment she thought of the two of them together, her anxieties vanished. Together, they’d share the problems and laugh over the difficulties. They would get through. Beyond everything else, they would have choice. No one would be telling them what to do and how to do it. No one standing over them expecting them to do it their way, without question.

  She looked at her watch. She’d give him another five minutes. When he still didn’t appear by six o’clock, she walked quickly back to Elmwood Avenue. The phone was ringing as she went into the house. She paused anxiously in the hall and then relaxed. Mrs McGregor’s voice sailed through the house.

  ‘Jean dear, it’s your maither.’

  She went to her room, put her things away, looked out of the window. She felt so restless she began pacing up and down, indifferent to the squeaks and protests of the floorboards. A couple of minutes later there was a knock on her door. She ran to open it. Mrs McGregor was standing there, a piece of paper in her hand.

  ‘Clare dear, I’m sorry, I didnae hear ye come in,’ she said apologetically, passing over the old envelope on which a number was written. ‘I was just sittin’ doun to a cup o’ tea when I heard your foot upstairs. Andrew phoned. It must a been a call box. It was terr-able noisy. I cou’d hardly hear him. Ah cou’den make out what he was sayin’ so he asked me to get you to ring this number. He was awful upset he couldnae meet ye. I think he hopes he might see ye later.’

  Clare looked at the number, then at Mrs McGregor. She was puzzled. ‘I don’t recognise it at all, but I’ll ring right away.’

  ‘Awa doun an’ use my phone, Clare,’ she said promptly, as Clare picked up her purse. ‘Jean’ll be on the hall one God knows how long once her maither gets started,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘If there’s anythin’ awry ye’ll not get cut off so easy. Away on, ye know I’m slow on the stairs.’

  Clare flew downstairs and into Mrs McGregor’s small, crowded sitting room at the front of the house. Her hands shook as she dialled the unfamiliar number.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice that answered was sharp, female, but otherwise unknown.

  ‘My name’s Clare Hamilton, my fiancé, Andrew Richardson, asked me to ring this number. Who’s speaking please?’

  There was a moment of complete silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Ach, Clare, it’s me, Elsie Clarke. Did Andrew not tell you what’s happened?’

  Clare heard the voice falter and break. Elsie, the dear lady who had once been Ginny and Edward’s nanny, now the housekeeper at The Lodge, was in tears. Clare waited for the blow to fall.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ Elsie went on, managing now to sound quite calm. ‘One o’ them damn lorries from the quarry. They shoulden be allowed on these wee lanes. Sure there’s no room at all an’ the speed them boyos drive at. Virginia’s face is all cut an’ she’s broken her arm. She’s in the Infirmary in Armagh. But Edward is hurted bad. Real bad, they say. They took him in an ambulance to Belfast. That’s where Andrew’ll be now, I’m thinkin’. I phoned him at his work about an hour ago.’

  S
he ended abruptly, as she burst into tears again.

  ‘Do you know which hospital, Elsie?’

  ‘Royal Victoria,’ she mumbled, through her tears.

  ‘Elsie, I’m so very sorry. All I can do is go up there. I promise I’ll ring you as soon as I can. Where’s Mrs Richardson? Mrs Moore, I mean.’

  ‘Sure we don’t know. Didn’t they go down to Dublin, the two of them, to see about a mare that Virginia wants to buy and we can’t get hold of them. The police has the number of their car. The poor things don’t even know yet.’

  For Clare that was the last straw. The thought of Helen and Barney coming back to find Edward in hospital when he’d only just arrived home for the summer was too much for her. She said a hasty goodbye to Elsie, broke down and sobbed in the empty room.

  Unlike Virginia, who was severely lacerated about the face and arms, Edward was quite unmarked. He lay, pale and still, tubes and drips attached to his bare arms in a small alcove of the Intensive Care Unit. Beyond the window, the evening sunshine poured down over the city, warm enough for women to bring chairs to the doorways and sun themselves in the street below. She and Andrew sat in silence, one on either side of the bed, each holding one of Edward’s hands.

  The doctor had shaken his head. No, they were not sure of the extent of his internal injuries. There was no question of operating unless his condition stabilised. They were doing all they could. Had the parents been sent for?

  In the stillness of the small room, Clare’s mind filled with images of the long summer days she had spent at The Lodge. The first summer, Edward began by being so shy with her. But gradually he’d relaxed. He’d ended up making her laugh so with his stream of one-liners.

  Last summer, there’d been no shyness at all. He’d greeted her as an old friend. They’d talked together a great deal and become very close. Often, they’d leave the tennis court to Andrew and Ginny and sit in the shade, talking about Irish history. Edward was excited about doing his own research. Already he’d found his way into the Trinity College archives and was comparing the common view of events found in most history books with the evidence of the reports he’d found, all properly catalogued, but clearly seldom consulted. It seemed to him as if the story most people knew was more important to them than knowing what had actually happened. What he’d really like to do was retell the story making proper use of the facts, however much it upset people.

  She’d been so touched by his relationship with Ginny, so teasing on the surface, so deeply affectionate. She’d admitted to Andrew how much she envied Virginia her Edward, so different from her own sullen, unwelcoming brother.

  Looking down at the still, pale face, she couldn’t imagine how she could bear to lose the liveliness, the animation, the sudden laughter of this young man from whom she had learnt so much in such a little time.

  A nurse put her head round the screen and whispered in Clare’s ear: ‘Mr and Mrs Moore have arrived.’

  ‘Helen and Barney,’ Clare mouthed to Andrew, as she released Edward’s limp hand and got up.

  Out in the corridor, Helen put her arms round Clare and clung to her, weeping, while Andrew and Barney stood awkwardly by, waiting till she could collect herself enough to go in and look at her son, pale and motionless on the high white bed.

  Edward never regained consciousness. Later, the doctor said the impact of the crash had ruptured his spleen. He died in the early hours of the morning.

  8

  The days that followed Edward’s death were the bleakest and longest that Clare had ever known. Clinging to her in the hospital corridor, Helen Moore had begged her to come to Caledon with Andrew. Even if she had remotely wanted to, she could not possibly have refused her heartfelt plea.

  After a few hours of exhausted sleep at the flat, they left the city very early. Slanting through the trees, the low sunlight caught the dew on the grass by the roadside. The air was fresh and the road empty of traffic. All the way to Armagh, it was so beautiful she could hardly bear to look at the familiar landscape.

  They arrived in Caledon just as the village was beginning to stir. The milkman was turning out of the drive. He waved cheerily to Andrew. Ahead of them the long, low building, with its graceful pillars and elegant, tall windows lay bathed in morning sun. It had never looked so tranquil, so welcoming. The sweep of the garden was a joy. Helen and Barney had worked so hard last autumn reshaping the herbaceous borders, improving the lawns and planting new young trees. Now, the early summer warmth of these last weeks had rewarded them, setting sweeps of vibrant colour against the fresh green of the well-trimmed lawns.

  Barney was on the steps to greet them. Without a word, he hugged them both, took them through the house, sat them down in the kitchen and insisted on cooking them a proper breakfast.

  The house felt as empty and desolate as if it were derelict. He’d persuaded Helen to take a sleeping pill as soon as they got back from Belfast. She was still in bed. Ginny was in hospital in Armagh. And Edward was gone, she added to herself. As she tried to eat the bacon and egg Barney put in front of her, all she could think of was his speciality of the house, sausage and chips. Tears trickled down her face and dropped unheeded on her skirt.

  ‘I don’t think Helen will be able to help us much with the funeral arrangements,’ Barney said quietly, as he poured more coffee for them. ‘We’ll just have to make a start. It can’t be for a few days anyway, because of the post-mortem.’

  Clare looked across at Andrew, his face pale with tiredness and stiff with grief. Barney was being so gentle with them, but she realised immediately that the burden of making all the decisions would fall on Andrew. Her experience of country wakes, her own grandfather’s funeral, would hardly be much use in the context of The Lodge.

  ‘Do you know if Edward has made a will?’

  The voice was so flat and featureless, it hardly sounded like Andrew, and it seemed such a strange question to ask. She couldn’t possibly imagine Edward making a will. What Edward made were games to play, bizarre tests of skill, like driving golf balls up ramps and into buckets. Edward painted ceilings and drove Harry’s car down potholed tracks on picnics. Edward mended things and cooked for them. Made them laugh at his jokes and groan at his awful puns.

  Today, he wasn’t going to be late for breakfast. He wouldn’t appear yawning, tousled and apologetic. Edward was dead. Gone away. Not coming back.

  Clare stopped herself. Forced herself to concentrate on what Barney was saying. No, Edward hadn’t made a will.

  ‘It will have to be Grange Church, then,’ Andrew said, looking from one to the other, his coffee untouched. ‘If he hasn’t made a will, the Richardson rule applies. I’ll have to contact the Rector about opening the vault. When do you think the funeral might be?’

  Barney pressed his lips together and shook his head.

  ‘What do you think Helen might say?’ Clare asked, remembering how distraught she’d been when Edward’s father had died, a bare six years before.

  He shook his head again.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be up to us, Clare. If we leave it a few days, Ginny should be well enough to go. It might be important for her later.’

  Clare nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  When are they going to let her out, Barney?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘This afternoon. They did say to phone before we came, just to make sure. She doesn’t know yet about Edward. No one knows except Elsie Clarke. She sat up last night till we got back. She heard the car pass her house and phoned us as soon as she saw the lights go on.’

  Andrew covered his face with his hands. There was a long pause. He looked up at last and said bleakly: ‘We’ll need a list of people to be told. A preliminary announcement in the Belfast Telegraph and the Newsletter tonight. And the local papers, of course. I’ll have to go into Armagh now and tell Ginny in case any of the nurses hear before they go to work.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Clare asked.

  ‘No,’ he said abruptl
y. ‘Barney will need you here when Helen wakes up. You could phone June Wiley for me and ask her to tell Grandmother. See if you can find Edward’s address book. He has three special friends. Can you remember their names?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘I’ll get back as soon as I can,’ he said, standing up and striding out of the kitchen without even a glance at her. She felt it like a sudden chill of rejection and burst into tears. Barney came and put his arms round her. He held her close while she sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Edward had been right about Barney. He had indeed disposed of a small fortune through excessive generosity and ill-advised business ventures, but, whatever his failings, he was warm, open-hearted and kind. He let her cry, and only when she struggled to collect herself did he let himself say quietly, ‘Edward thought the world of you.’

  She took the large clean handkerchief he offered her. It was silk and edged with a pattern of racehorses going at full gallop.

  ‘Edward was the brother I’d always wanted. We only had two bits of two summers together, but I feel he’s been there all my life. Silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not silly at all, Clare. Some people in your life really matter, however long or short the time you have them. They’re the ones that make you different for having known them.’

  She nodded vigorously, wiping her face and blowing her nose.

  ‘I’m all right now, Barney. Thank you,’ she said, squeezing his hand. ‘What should we do next? What about the washing up?’

  ‘Good girl. I think we’ll have Elsie Clarke here shortly. She was in a bad way last night.’

  Clare took a deep breath. The hardest part of all would be meeting people like Elsie and Harry who’d known Edward all his life.

  Just at that moment, she heard a door close. Footsteps approached. As the clock struck nine, Elsie Clarke came into the kitchen, her usually cheerful face red and swollen with weeping.