by Anne Doughty
It was Uncle Henry. Rosie’s heart sank as he got out of his recently-acquired model T Ford and came towards them, beaming graciously.
‘Hallo, Rosie. Has the bike packed up?’
‘Mrs Braithwaite, this is Uncle Henry who lives in Richhill,’ she began, wishing that she could dissolve into thin air. ‘Uncle Henry, this is Mrs Braithwaite, who was so kind to all the people on the big load, when it got stuck over there,’ she continued, waving a hand towards the hollow beyond the bonnet of the car.
‘How do you do, Mrs Braithwaite,’ he said, in his most ingratiating tones. ‘I’ve heard so much about the big load from Rosie and my sister Martha. My goodness, what adventures there have been,’ he went on, throwing out his hands and oozing charm.
It was Uncle Henry at his memorable worst. She watched him deploy what he considered his most irresistible manner to cover his minute observation of Mrs Braithwaite herself.
He made a number of comments about the weather, the prettiness of the garden, his journey to Portadown to collect provisions and the unreliability of the young man he had left in charge of his shop, before he finally decided he’d no excuse to remain longer, by which time, no doubt, he’d stored away as much as there was to be gained from the happy chance of his encounter.
He disappeared down the hill in a cloud of unpleasant exhaust fumes.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Braithwaite, Uncle Henry is the most dreadful gossip in all of Richhill.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Not a nice man at all, even if he is a relative of yours. He has a way of looking at a woman that is not appropriate.’
Rosie nodded, grateful to find her friend’s warm and lively manner was not simply her habitual way of dealing with everyone.
‘I make sure I’m never left alone with him.’
‘A bachelor?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded crisply and then smiled.
‘He has a very good opinion of himself, Rosie, but it doesn’t take much to see through him. Don’t worry about him gossiping. I’ve known worse than him and I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, if you understand me.’
Rosie did understand. It wasn’t just the letting slip of her father’s name, or the fact that she’d been to visit him, it was her warmth towards herself, the uncomplicated easiness of their talk. Surprised at herself, she concluded that this woman loved her father and she’d be very surprised if her father didn’t love her.
‘Mrs Braithwaite, I would like to come and see you sometimes …’
‘Rosie dear, please don’t call me Mrs Braithwaite. Call me Mary. Unless your Uncle Henry’s around. We’ll both know exactly what we’re thinking if you call me Mrs Braithwaite then.’
‘I’ve so enjoyed our talk … Mary. Goodness knows what time it is. I’m not sure there’ll be any supper tonight until I get home and make it, but there’ll have to be some changes before I start work next Monday.’
‘Good luck, Rosie. Can I tell your Da the good news if I happen to get over before you do?’
Rosie nodded as she wheeled her bicycle to the side of the road and hitched up her skirt.
‘He’ll be glad to see you, Mary,’ she said, smiling at her new friend, as she pushed off across the empty road to cycle the two miles home. ‘He really will.’
When she arrived back at the farm a little after five, the kitchen was empty and the stove almost out. Hastily, she did her best to revive it. No doubt the cows did need milking, but couldn’t her mother give a little thought to the family and at least keep up enough fire for cooking supper, even though she had no intention of doing it herself. She knew Jack and Dolly needed their meal and Charlie would come in ravenous after a long day having had only his sandwich for lunch.
She’d just persuaded the fire not to go out and was putting small pieces of coal on top of the crackling sticks when she heard a step behind her.
‘Hallo, Charlie,’ she said without looking up.
When there was no reply she turned round. Her mother was standing staring at her, her hands on her hips.
‘So, ye did come back after all?’
Rosie’s heart sank as she registered the familiar phrase.
‘The Mackay’s must be well sick of you up there every day, running after Lizzie. Has she no work to do either?’
‘I wasn’t up at Lizzie’s,’ she replied doing her best to remain calm. ‘What would you like me to cook for supper?’
‘Suit yerself.’
Rosie collected a bowl full of potatoes from the sack in the corner of the room, put on her apron, poured water from the bucket into the tin basin and proceeded to wash them.
‘I suppose it was yer idea to get yer father to sell my cows.’
‘The idea never occurred to me. If Da had to raise a lot of money then the cows wouldn’t make much.’
‘Hello, Ma. Hello, Rosie.’
Charlie appeared in the doorway and cast a glance round the kitchen. With no sign of a tablecloth and not even a pot on the stove, he knew supper was some time away.
‘Can I give you a hand to drive the cows up into the orchard, Ma, seeing Bobby’s not here?’
She looked at him as if he had suddenly lost hold of his senses.
‘Sure what would I want them in the orchard for?’
‘Tomorrow’s the last day of the month, Ma. The lease runs from July the first, that’s Wednesday. It’ll be Mr Lamb’s land then.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ she said angrily. ‘I wasn’t consulted about my cows, nor the land they graze on. Your father needn’t think he can sell them over my head. I won’t have it. I’m goin’ to see my brother Henry an’ ask his advice. Ye can help yer sister make the supper if yer so keen to be useful.’
She turned on her heel and marched out, every line of her body rigid with fury. Rosie looked after her, then across at her brother.
‘What are we going to do, Charlie? Da’s done his best. He said she could keep one cow in the orchard if she wanted to, but the land had to go. She knows that.’
‘Aye, but she’ll not admit it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We’ll have to leave it to Da. Don’t worry, Rosie. He’ll be back soon an’ he’ll have an answer.’
She knew he meant to comfort her, but she was far too worried to be comforted. Faced with her mother’s behaviour the wonderful sense of delight she’d shared with Mary Braithwaite simply evaporated. It was as if her father had said not a word about the land having to go nor about herself and Bobby being free to find jobs for themselves.
In her present mood, she felt there was no point telling her about her job at McGredy’s. At best, she’d ignore her and then accuse her of never having told her. At worst, she’d fly off at her. Rosie felt she couldn’t sustain yet one more outburst of violent temper.
At the same time, the matter of the cows was becoming more serious. If the animals were not moved, her father would be in breach of the lease. Mr Lamb would certainly not make difficulties while her father was still away, but if Martha went on tending them without Bobby to help, who was going to run the house and put food on the table after next Monday? For the moment, the only thing she could do was carry on as best she could. It wasn’t something she could discuss with Miss Wilson and sadly, just when she most needed her, Lizzie had gone with her mother for a week’s holiday in Newcastle.
The only good moments in the very unpleasant week that followed she spent in the barn painting a sequence of pictures to record, day by day, the unfurling of her precious rosebud. Margaret McGredy took two days to open fully, putting out a mass of orange-red petals whose richness and texture delighted her. On the fourth day, stepping into the barn after her visit to Miss Wilson, she found a heap of soft petals lying on the workbench. They were just beginning to shrivel in the continuing heat, their fragrance scenting the warm air.
Tomorrow, she’d be going over to Rathdrum for the last of her two-night visits. Once a working girl, she’d only be able to go when she had a half day on Saturday, just like Sammy coming hom
e from Armagh. She could wait no longer. She’d got to tell her mother tonight that she’d be at work from Monday morning, leaving with her father, Charlie and Bobby somewhere after seven.
She managed to get out her story uninterrupted, despite the sour look on her mother’s face.
‘Oh, that’s news indeed. Well, at least you’ll be able to pay somethin’ towards your keep. You’ll find it a queer change not being able to run around with your cronies and go visitin’ up in Richhill.’
‘Yes, it will be a change, Ma. I’ll not be here to do the washing and cleaning and cooking.’
‘Sure ye can cook when ye get home. Doesn’t many a girl do that? Ye know I’ve the milking to do. I haven’t time for that.’
‘And what about the washing and cleaning?’
‘What about it? Can’t ye do the washing Sunday instead of Monday. I have to work seven days a week. Who do you think you are to come home and be waited on?’
‘What about Emily? You didn’t expect her to do housework in the evenings?’
‘Emily paid her way from the day she left school. You’ve never earned a penny. Just remember what you cost me when you were runnin’ up to Miss Wilson, readin’ poetry and paintin’ wee pictures. Maybe ye fancy gettin’ a man wi’ money like your aunts did. Well, let me tell you, I’m not such a fool as you think. An’ while you’re in this house, you’ll work for your keep.’
‘As well as paying for it, Ma?’
‘An’ why shoulden you? You’ve lived off my back an’ outa my purse since you left school …’
‘Out of whose purse, Martha?’
Rosie could hardly believe her eyes. Her father and Bobby stood in the doorway, blocking the light, before they came into the room and sat down. Martha had been shouting so loudly she’d had been totally oblivious to the usual sounds in the yard.
‘Out of whose purse, Martha?’
He repeated his question quietly and without emphasis.
‘Out of my purse,’ she shot back at him, her tone only barely modified.
‘Judging by what you said on Sunday, Martha, about leasing some land for your cows, it would seem that your purse has been fuller than the needs of our family. You’ve saved quite a bit from what I give you and from what you’ve taken from our children. Even from Bobby and now Rosie, were I to permit it.’
‘And why shouldn’t they pay for their keep?’
‘Because, Martha, I have always provided for their keep, as your savings demonstrate. Our children have been very generous with you, paying you out of the little they earn, or, working without any payment and very little thanks.’
Martha opened her mouth to interrupt, her face screwed up with fury, but Rosie saw her father lift his hand.
‘I haven’t finished, Martha. I have something to say to you and you will oblige me by listening. It is then for you to decide what you want to do.’
Rosie decided her legs might give way if she didn’t sit down. She pulled out a chair and placed herself beside Bobby.
‘You have a choice to make. You can sell the cattle, add the money to your savings and take over the proper running of this house. Alternatively, you can rent land, hire a man to help you and keep your milk money for your own use as you’ve done since Uncle Joe died. In that case, I will ask our neighbours to find our family a pleasant, cheerful woman as a housekeeper. I shall have to deduct her wages from what you normally get for your purse. The money for groceries you will receive as usual.’ He stood up.
‘I hope I’ve made myself plain, Martha. We did agree some eleven years ago that we had a family to raise. That you would do your work and I would do mine. I told you then that if we couldn’t agree, I would have to make other arrangements for the wellbeing of our sons and daughters. That decision still holds good.’
He stood up and glanced across at Bobby who was as distressed as she was herself by their mother’s hostile expression.
‘Bobby and I will go and bring the cattle into the orchard. That will give you time to make up your mind what you want to do.’
He paused and then continued.
‘As for expecting Rosie to cook and clean after a day’s work at her new job, I think you owe her an apology.’
He turned and went out into the yard without another word, gratefully followed by Bobby. A moment later, her mother stumped out after them and left Rosie to herself.
She had a headache and felt slightly sick as she pulled out the casserole to stir it, add a little seasoning and get the vegetables going.
Suddenly she had an image of herself on the loveliest of August mornings, the day after Granda’s funeral, spinning along the road from Banbridge and hearing her Auntie Sarah saying how her da would act when the right moment for action arrived. She’d also said that when he made up his mind he would be absolutely clear about what had to happen and he would be unshifting in his resolve.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After the unusually hot summer, autumn came more quickly than usual, the trees, parched and already weary of growth, dropped their leaves at the first hint of frost and the slightest gust of wind. November mists arrived as early as October and by December the land was already sunk deeply into winter rest.
For Rosie, the months passed with unbelievable speed. Every week brought new experiences. So absorbed was she by skills to be learnt, people to meet and the whole exotic world of rose breeding opening before her, she began to think she might be forever spared from the dreary burden of repetition. However often she made up an order for blooms, or wrapped the root balls of spiky bushes for despatch, however often she pruned or budded, she marvelled that she never got tired of handling the material she worked with every day.
There were indeed times when she felt the chill of damp earth, days too when the sadness of dying blooms called up a strange longing she couldn’t quite put a name to. But, for the most part, she was happy. Whatever the tensions at home, she could be sure of friendliness at work and often laughter.
Billy McWilliams, the overseer, the man who had given her such a bad time when he’d interviewed her for the job, became a good friend. He also turned out to be the brother-in-law of the young man who’d been her father’s helper on a memorable delivery from Fruitfield to Jacob’s Biscuit Factory in Dublin at the time of the Easter Rising. Having confessed to her how much he hated summer and how much more he hated people who had no feel for his beloved roses, he set about teaching Rosie all he knew and the range and scope of his knowledge was extraordinary.
For a man who could barely read and write and was heartily glad to have someone who would sort his invoices in a fraction of the time it took him to do it himself, he was able to quote the genealogy of a rose all the way back through its ancestors, naming the breeding stock used and the rose-breeders responsible. He talked about roses like Margaret McGredy or Norman Lambert as if they were personal friends and loved speculating as to what might happen if they were cross-bred.
‘You can never tell, Rosie, that’s the joy of it. Cross a red with a white and you’ll not get pink. It’s not like mixin’ paint. Far more interestin’. You might get half a dozen sports an’ maybe only one of them will be robust. You have to learn to throw away. To move on, try somethin’ new. An’ in time, when you’ve made enough bad choices and have a whole lot of poor, wee spindly things about the place, you’ll know a good grower when it’s less than the size o’ your thumb.’
She listened and watched what he did, the thick fingers with the dirty, chipped nails, moving faster than a woman knitting or using a typewriting machine.
In the very short days of December, Mr Sam gave his staff extra time off to compensate for the long hours they worked in summer and to celebrate the prize the nursery had recently been awarded. If Billy McWilliams had won ten thousand pounds in the Irish Sweepstake, he wouldn’t have worn a bigger smile than the day the telephone call came from Mr Sam in London telling him Margaret McGredy had won the National Rose Society Award for a hybrid tea.
Bill
y was ecstatic. He tramped round the large shed that provided both office and despatch department, muttering to himself. In their tea break he reminded her she’d worn a blouse that very colour the day she’d come about the job. Cycling down the lane that night, her flash-lamp catching the glitter of frost on the road ahead, she remembered the sequence of pictures she’d made, one for each day of the opening and falling of the bloom he’d given her to take home with her. She thought perhaps he’d like to see them, a reminder of a day they joked about like the friends they’d become.
Meantime, she had the opportunity to go to Rathdrum for three whole days. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks. Going on a Saturday afternoon and having to return on Sunday evening made it seem such a very short time. It felt as if they’d just got started to talk when she had to put her nightdress back in her suitcase and walk down to Emily and Alex’s, so he could run her to the station in Banbridge.
‘Oh Granny, it is lovely to be here. I feel as if we haven’t had a proper talk since I got my job. By the time we got through all the news of how everyone is and what they’re all doing we haven’t any left to put the world to rights, as Da calls it.’
‘Well, we’d better get started right away then, hadn’t we? Let’s hear your news first. I’ve got a lovely tray of sandwiches out in the kitchen and some of the sherry you like best. The first sherry you ever had. Do you remember?’
Rosie nodded happily and drew in a deep breath.
‘Da is well and seems in very good spirits. I think he’s terribly pleased with how well Bobby is doing and Bobby is saving up for a motorbike like Charlie’s. Sammy has fallen in love. Her name is Marjorie and she lives in Portadown, but that’s all he’ll tell us. Billy has finished his training and has his new uniform. I must admit he looks well in it, but he’s very full of himself. Ma thinks he’s just great.’
‘And Ma herself?’
Rosie smiled wryly.
‘Well, I have to say, Da won the battle outright, but she still tries to put him in the wrong. Every time she sets a jug of milk on the table she says if it hadn’t been for her fighting to keep Daisy we’d have no milk.’