Beyond the Green Hills

by Anne Doughty

  ‘Well, Andrew made me go out, and then he took me to this nice man in Belfast. He made me talk about Teddy and how I felt about him. It was awful, Clare. I used to just sit and cry and he’d pass me tissues and wait till I stopped. I went to him for weeks. It must have cost a fortune.’

  When the food arrived they both admitted how hungry they were.

  ‘Mm … this is marvellous,’ said Ginny, as she munched her pasta.

  Clare ate more slowly and listened as Ginny talked in short bursts, mostly about Daniel but also about Caledon and Drumsollen. A hazy picture of what had been happening to the Richardson estate began to emerge. By the time coffee appeared, Clare had quite a number of questions to ask, but she wasn’t sure how accurately Ginny could answer them.

  ‘So The Lodge will end up as a hotel, will it?’

  ‘Probably. It was going to have to go anyway, because of the death duties and the upkeep costs. Mum and I have some money from Grandad Barbour, but dear old Barney hasn’t a bean. His first wife was rolling in money and he helped her spend it. They had a wonderful time and were terribly happy, but when she died, hers was all gone and he was broke as well. I wondered why Mum ever got involved with him. Actually, I was rather horrible about it to begin with,’ she confessed. ‘If it hadn’t been for Teddy I’d have gone on being a pain about him. But Edward told me off. Barney is just so kind, and being kind is worth a ton of money, he said.’

  She picked up her cup and drained it. ‘Is there any more in that pot, Clare?’

  ‘Yes, lots and lots,’ Clare replied, reaching for her empty cup.

  She remembered so clearly a tear-sodden morning when she herself had wept all over Barney’s rough tweed jacket, and he’d lent her a silk handkerchief with racehorses on the border.

  ‘Well, Andrew got stuck in,’ Ginny went on. ‘He took advice and sold off the Caledon farmland to the people it had been let to, except for some fields close to the house and the paddocks. Then he got a something on the death duties. Can’t remember the word. It means they don’t throw you in jail for debt provided you cough up what you can and pay the rest within a certain period. And he raised a loan, so Mum and Barney could find a house. Oh Clare, it’s the loveliest house, quite small, only four bedrooms, down at Rostrevor, looking out over Carlingford Lough. It has wonderful gardens. You’d love them.’

  Clare listened, delighted by Ginny’s liveliness. She went on to talk about going to London to stay with friends of her mother when Andrew was able to find the money for her plastic surgery, but finding out something about Andrew himself was proving much more difficult than Clare had expected. She waited patiently. When Ginny paused to drink her coffee, she took her opportunity.

  ‘So is Andrew farming at Drumsollen?’

  ‘Goodness no,’ she said laughing. ‘What made you think of that? He’s working as a solicitor in Armagh. Drumsollen’s been shut up since The Missus died back in May. I expect he’ll have to sell it. He probably needs the money for the death duties, like with The Lodge. The Lodge isn’t on the market yet. He says it’s not fit to sell till it’s had a facelift. It’s had nothing done to it for years. Good old Harry just fixed things and kept them going. You remember Teddy tackling the sitting room, don’t you? No, there’s no chance he can keep it. Drumsollen will have to go.’

  ‘Charles, how lovely you could come,’ she said, putting down her book and walking up to him, as he strode into the foyer and looked around. She kissed his cold cheek and brushed flakes of melting snow from his shoulders. ‘Sorry about the short notice. And the weather,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Not a bit, I’m just so pleased to see you. What’s Robert up to?’

  ‘He hasn’t told me,’ she said, laughing. ‘But if he appears with a parcel under his arm, don’t be surprised. He went off yesterday afternoon and came back asking if I’d mind staying a few hours longer. There was some business he had to complete after this morning’s meeting. So we’re on the evening flight, not the afternoon one. Now, have you time for a drink first, or have you only got an hour?’

  Charles Langley threw out his hands.

  ‘I am yours to command,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve run away, absconded. Absent without leave. Till about four o’clock anyway,’ he added, with a wry smile.

  ‘Oh that’s lovely. I want to hear all your news.’

  They settled comfortably and began to talk, moving easily between business and more personal matters. The Covent Garden project which had first brought them together was going from strength to strength, even better than anyone had expected.

  ‘Do you still get fed up with the importing business, Charles?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said honestly, leaning back in his armchair and twirling the stem of his sherry glass. ‘But there are compensations. I fly at weekends. And I didn’t have to come in a taxi,’ he said laughing. ‘I’ve got a new car. An actual new car, not off the second-hand lot.’

  ‘Oh that’s great news. I know how much you enjoy driving. You had the odd bad moment that day you took me on a Langley’s Tour. On the steep hills.’

  ‘And how. Wish I could whiz you round in the new one.’

  ‘Ah, but there were advantages to the old one. I could take in the countryside. All those lovely patches of woodland and green fields. I sometimes think of your bit of England when we’re doing vineyards in the south of France. “England’s green and pleasant land”, as my school hymn would have it.’

  ‘But your school was in Ireland. How come you sang ‘Jerusalem’?’

  Clare laughed and shook her head.

  ‘I haven’t the remotest idea, Charles, but I always sang it with passion. I think I miss my green and pleasant land.’

  ‘Do you?’ He looked at her in amazement.

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss yours?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I would. Never thought of it before.’

  She smiled to herself, amused by the directness and the honesty of the man, who had always told her the truth, even when it was to his own disadvantage.

  ‘Say you inherited a nice French château,’ she began cheerfully. ‘Lots of lovely vineyards running nicely. Guaranteed income, very large. Oh, and an airfield nearby for your private plane,’ she added, as the thought struck her. ‘But you had to go and live there. What would you do?’ she said, looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘You do ask them, don’t you?’

  She giggled.

  ‘Well …’ he said, opening the menu the waiter had just brought.

  ‘If you like pasta, it was great yesterday,’ she said, helpfully.

  ‘Mm … yes, good idea.’

  ‘Can I choose the wine, or will you?’

  ‘You choose. I’m too busy walking round the vineyard I’ve inherited to see if I like its wine.’

  ‘Well?’ she asked, after she’d chosen a Châteauneuf-du-Pape she’d tasted in the vineyard near Avignon.

  ‘Perhaps I could commute,’ he suggested. ‘Château in France and cottage on the Downs? How about that?’

  ‘No, it has to be a real choice. No sneaky compromises.’

  ‘Oh well, sad as it is, all that lovely wine and lolly, I’d choose the Downs.’

  She laughed happily. ‘Oh Charles, I’m so glad. I thought it was only me that got homesick when I’d everything I could ever wish for.’

  ‘You?’ he said, amazed. ‘But I thought you loved France.’

  ‘No, I like France; I do like it very much. I find it interesting and often very beautiful. It’s Paris that I love, not France. But sometimes, even in Paris, I long for my little green hills. That day you took me out, I think it was homesickness that suddenly came upon me when we got back to your nice house.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘To my advantage.’

  ‘To our advantage, Charles,’ she said gently. ‘I won’t ever forget how loving you were.’

  The wine waiter arrived, poured a taster into Charles’s glass and stood back. Charles sipped it, looked severe and nodded.

&nb
sp; ‘He should have let you taste it, given you chose it,’ he said, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

  She shook her head and smiled.

  ‘Still a man’s world, Charles, for all the talk of equality and women’s rights. But it’s coming on a bit. At least I can ring you up and ask you to lunch. My treat. What do you think of the pasta?’

  ‘Great, just great. I’ve had worse in Italian restaurants. And I like this wine too, now that I’m not being asked to taste it.’

  Clare was pleased that Charles could be so relaxed and easy with her. It hurt her still to remember how downcast he was when she told him she wasn’t the right woman for him, however easy it would be to love him. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t get on well together – they would. But after the first joy of having someone to be with, someone to love, she knew they’d end up feeling lonely all over again. What Charles needed was someone like Ginny, someone far more outgoing than she was.

  She watched him as he ate, enjoying his pasta, as he enjoyed so many things.

  She knew she’d made him sad, and yet, by the time he’d taken her back to her hotel, he’d been able to take the friendship she’d offered. He’d hugged her and kissed her cheeks like a Frenchman.

  ‘You are a funny one, Clare Hamilton,’ he’d said. ‘Here I am ready to die for you and you turn me round and point me in a different direction. At the bottom of it, I know you’re right, damn it, yet I can’t think how I know. Don’t desert me, will you?’

  She had promised willingly. ‘Of course I won’t. I’ll come and dance at your wedding. And you can come to mine, should I ever marry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she now said, as the waiter set down a tray of coffee and presented a document for her to sign.

  She wrote her name and wondered if she would ever change it. Marriage had looked so easy when she and Andrew got engaged, but it had somehow become a much more problematic thing. Threatening, as well as promising. She would never forget how much she loved Christian Moreau, nor the frightening prospect which had opened up at the thought of being married to him.

  ‘I haven’t asked you about John and Jane Coleman,’ she said, suddenly remembering the anxieties of that visit.

  ‘Oh, they’re fine. Absolutely besotted with son and heir. They’ve asked us to be godparents at his christening next month.’

  She looked at him sharply, and laughed when he suddenly looked sheepish.

  ‘All right. Confession,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I was going to tell you. Her name’s Lindy. She says it’s short for Lindbergh. We met at the flying club. We went climbing in Scotland in October and things took off rather. She’s been rather badly let down herself, so we’re not rushing it, but when we do name the day you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Oh Charles, what lovely, lovely news. That’s the second piece in two days. I saw an old friend from home yesterday and she’s getting married here in June. Perhaps we could meet up when I’m over for that.’

  ‘Great, I’d like you to meet Lindy. They say good news goes in threes. That leaves you,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully.

  She smiled, offered him more coffee and refilled their cups.

  ‘Oh, I’ve had my good news,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you remember I told you about Robert Lafarge losing his wife and daughter in 1940 when the Germans invaded?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do. There was a son as well, but he’d never been able to trace him.’

  ‘It looks as if he’s found him,’ she said, beaming. ‘It’s an extraordinary story, one way and another. Robert had no sooner signed on with the agency than they contacted him about a young man who’d approached them several months earlier. He’d been trying to find his father and he’d seen Robert’s picture in a newspaper. The details fitted perfectly. The photographs the agency sent were so like Robert it was incredible. If he arrives back with half a dozen pictures for his collection, I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s so excited about it all,’ she ended up, laughing.

  ‘That really is splendid. I always felt rather sorry for old Lafarge. He’s fond of you, but he must know darn well he’ll lose you one of these fine days.’

  ‘Yes, he does, but maybe not just yet. He’s offered me a job on the financial side from next October.’

  ‘Whee …’ Charles shook his head and put down his coffee cup. ‘My goodness, Clare, you are going it. Will you take it? Will I have to come and grovel if I need new lorries?’

  She shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s a big vote of confidence, but I actually enjoy being Robert’s assistant, whether it involves translation or not. I certainly wouldn’t leave Paris for one of the regional branches.’

  She glanced out of the window and saw the snow had begun to fall again, big, soft flakes out of a grey sky. The trees in Park Lane were already lightly covered, the traffic throwing up wet spray where the feathery flakes had turned to slush.

  ‘I’ll think about it in the springtime, Charles. I always think better in the spring.’

  24

  The spring of 1960 came for Clare, neither on the Champs Elysées with Louise, nor in the Bois de Boulogne with the St Clair family, but in the Dolomites, in a small skiing resort that turned itself into a conference centre as soon as the first of the snow began to melt. After three dull, cloudy days, well matched by the series of lectures Clare had endured, the sun suddenly appeared.

  She could hardly believe it when she drew back her curtains and opened the shutters. Dazzling white, the mountains rose into a clear blue sky, but below their precipitous peaks, the upland meadows, still snow-covered the day she’d arrived, now emerged green and fresh, so close in the clear mountain air she felt she could lean out of her window and touch them.

  She stood in her dressing gown, breathing in the sharpness of the air, feeling the warm touch of the sun on her face. A little way below her, between a pair of older wooden houses, she saw a narrow path leading up towards the high meadows. The cattle were still indoors, but a few days more and they would be moved up the path to their summer pastures.

  She’d never been here in summer, but there’d been enticing pictures in the brochure advertising the financial management course that Robert had felt she should attend. It was the easiest thing in the world to imagine the meadows full of flowers, pink and yellow and blue, whose names she knew in English and French, German and Italian, but whose delicate blooms she’d never seen or touched.

  Feeling a sadness she couldn’t explain, she turned away reluctantly from the window, showered, dressed and collected up the folder of papers for the morning’s seminar. It would no doubt be valuable. Like all the sessions she’d already sat through, it would focus on some aspect of the economic developments the Treaty of Rome had brought to Europe.

  Given how quickly things were changing, it would be useful to know precisely what was going on in the other European countries. She would listen, make notes, ask pertinent questions, and wonder if she might hear the sound of cow bells before she flew back to Paris.

  She breakfasted with an earnest young German who had a particular interest in iron and steel, escaped as soon as she decently could and walked down the road to the largest of the new hotels where those who skied by day danced at night. This week, however, its vast ballroom accommodated well-dressed students from every part of Europe. With the heavy curtains shutting out the sunlight, the only peaks in view were the projections of economists and financial experts.

  As she came level with the little path, she glanced at her watch, crossed the road and walked a short way on its rough, frost-shattered surface. Despite her high heels and the slim skirt of her costume, only a few minutes away from the main street, she found she had stepped into a different world.

  The tall gable of a shallow-roofed house cast a dark shadow on the path, so that she shivered in the crystalline air, but ahead of her, beyond its barns and outhouses and their sheltering trees, she could see the lowest of the meadows. A moment later, she moved out of the shadow, stepped off the p
ath and stood on the edge of the soft, green grass, the sunlight pouring round her, its warmth like the comfort of an embrace.

  The view was different than from her hotel bedroom, but the elements were the same, the high peaks soaring into the clear air, their swelling shoulders shining with melting snow, the lower slopes green, so strikingly green after the city streets and the lifeless, grey vistas of the last three days.

  ‘I’ll make up my mind in the springtime,’ she said to herself, as she moved quickly back to join the last few hurrying figures on their way to begin work.

  The first wisps of cloud floated past the cabin window. They were beginning to lose height already. This was the point when the brilliant, sunlit snowfields that still made her think of Canada were suddenly transformed into grey, enveloping murk. She hated this bit, trapped and enclosed, until land appeared and she heard the wheels come down.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving at Aldergrove Airport. Will you fasten your seatbelts and extinguish all cigarettes …’

  She listened attentively to an unmistakably Ulster voice pronouncing the familiar words with as much care as if she were speaking a foreign language. At any other time, it would have made her smile. But not today.

  As they sank through the cloud, she went over again the sequence of events that had brought her back to Ireland on an April morning when she should have been preparing for a visit to Lyons.

  ‘Mam’selle, I regret there is a telegram. I hope it is not bad news.’

  Perhaps it was the echo of that phrase ‘mauvaises nouvelles’, the sudden remembrance of her grandfather’s death, or simply the look of distress on Madame’s face as she put the envelope in her hand, but she felt a sudden wave of panic, an overwhelming sense that her life was about to fall to pieces.

  All she remembered was ripping open the envelope and reading the short message.

  ‘Jessie poorly. I need you badly. Please ring. Harry.’

  Her hands had trembled so much, she’d dropped her address book on the floor when she went to find their home number. She’d phoned Harry when she’d been in London in February, but the last time she’d phoned Belfast from Paris was the morning her degree results came out. It still took an eternity of time to get through.