by Anne Doughty
She smiled to herself. It looked as if he’d got that right after all.
‘Rose,’ her companion repeated. ‘How very appropriate.’
He turned away and glanced up the wide staircase as if he were expecting someone to come and join him.
‘When you come up in June, will you be staying in town or travelling home each evening?’
‘Oh, I shall stay. We have to be here very early in the morning. I have a friend in digs I can stay with for the week.’
‘I suspect you’re going to be very busy in the next two months. If you have any difficulties with arrangements for the stand I may be able to help. I have an office here.’
He reached into an inside pocket, took out a notecase and handed her his card.
‘J. Slater Hamilton,’ she read. ‘Hamilton,’ she repeated, beaming at him. ‘As my grandfather always used to say: “A good Ulster name and there’s a lot of us about”.’
‘Used to say?’
‘He died a year and a half ago.’
‘Sad for you. And for your grandmother. Is she still alive?’
‘Oh yes, very much so.’
He held out his hand.
‘It’s been nice meeting you, Miss Hamilton. Let me know if I can be of service.’
With which, he turned away and strode up the shallow stairs two at a time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Oh Lizzie, what a lovely big room.’
‘Aye, it’s nice isn’t it? Bit of luck I had there. It’s really for two, but Auntie Maggie is gettin’ fed up with boarders, so I’m the last. She’s goin’ to make this a sittin’ room when I finish.’
Rosie put down her suitcase and hurried across to the tall bay windows that looked out upon the quiet, tree-lined avenue. A short walk from Queen’s University, the elms that gave their name to Lizzie’s address were in full leaf, but still kept the softness of early June before the month’s growth strengthened the leaves and took away their delicate translucence.
‘I though of stayin’ up this weekend to keep ye company, but Hugh would go baldy if I diden come home on Friday night. He misses me terribly. Mind you, I miss him too, but it’s not as bad when you’re busy an’ we’ve these exams at the end of the month. Not that they matter all that much. I don’t need the bit of paper, I just need what they taught me.’
‘Any progress on the shop?’
‘Aye, Da’s been great. He’s bought a house in Richhill that’s in a bad way and has started doin’ it up. He’s going to rent it to us for the shop. He says we can use the upstairs for storage, but I’m thinkin’ if we got married we could live up there. Ye couldn’t swing a cat the bedrooms are so small, but we could manage. It’s just across the square from yer Uncle Henry …’
She stopped, a wicked smile on her face. ‘He knows there’s to be a shop but we didn’t let on what kind an’ he thought maybe there’ll be competition. He’s been tryin’ every way to find out what we’re planning. But it was him give us the idea.’
‘What idea, Lizzie? I can’t imagine Uncle Henry giving anybody anything for free.’
Lizzie laughed and threw herself down on the large sofa fitted comfortably into the width of the bay window.
‘We were helpin’ Da the weekend before last an’ we sees the Ford go off. An’ a while later he comes back with a pile of newspapers under his arm. “That’s it,” says I. “Newspapers, magazines, confectionery and bits and pieces you can’t get over the road at yer man’s, like buttons and elastic.” Imagine goin’ to Armagh or Portadown for a bit of knicker elastic.’
Rosie laughed and hugged her friend.
‘Oh Lizzie dear, I’m so glad it’s all going so well. I saw your ma and da out for a walk the other evening when I was coming home and your ma was looking just great. I got a big smile, but I didn’t stop because it was nearly eight o’clock and I was starving.’
‘Did ye get any supper?’
‘Would you believe it, I did? And not dried out in the oven either. A soup plate over a saucepan of water and a lid over that. I don’t know what’s been going on, but something’s brought her round. Long may it last,’ she added, dropping down on the sofa beside her.
‘So what’s happenin’ tomorrow?’ Lizzie asked.
Rosie laughed, opened her handbag and took out a small sheaf of papers held together with a large clip. She read the first few items from the list on top of the pile.
‘Collect postcards from the printers. Collect the blouse that had to be altered. Go to the newspaper offices with details for their feature page …’ Rosie then stopped and explained, ‘We can’t get in to the City Hall till seven on Sunday morning, but we have to have everything else done by then, for it’ll take the whole of Sunday to set up the stand. It has to be absolutely perfect for the roses arriving at seven on Monday. We open at nine-thirty.’
‘That’ll keep you outa mischief. Has Brian Singleton asked you out again?’
‘Yes, he has.’
‘An’ why don’t you go? He’s nice-lookin’. D’ye not fancy him?’
‘I like him as a friend.’
‘What ye mean is ye don’t fancy him.’
The weekend was warm and dry. Rosie was grateful that Lizzie had gone home as usual on Friday evening leaving her the large, quiet room. She had so much on her mind, she was finding it difficult to sleep, but a telephone call to Billy late on Saturday afternoon was reassuring. All the bushes they’d earmarked together would have blooms at the stage they needed for picking in the very early hours of Monday morning, plus enough buds coming on to provide replacements for later in the week.
Billy was not much impressed with the BBC’s new weather forecasting service which Mr Sam’s secretary posted on the information board each day, but his mother’s corns were grand. They’d never let him down yet. They always gave trouble before rain and heavy rain was the last thing they needed.
By early evening on Sunday the work of constructing and furnishing the stand was finished and the City Hall’s own staff were wanting to lock up and go home. It had been a long, long day from a very early start. There’d been wearing hours when they could do little but watch while carpenters, carpet layers, or electricians finished their section of the work, making sure it was exactly as planned, but it had been worth it. The finished result was just what they wanted.
‘It really does look good,’ declared Brian Singleton, stepping back and narrowing his eyes.
Everyone agreed, collected their belongings and headed towards the back exit.
‘Can I give you a lift home, Rosie?’
‘Thanks, Brian, that’s very kind, but I’m staying in Belfast with a friend tonight, so I can be down on time in the morning.’
‘I could drop you there,’ he persisted.
‘Actually, I need the walk. I’ve had a bit too much of sawdust and the smell of glue and paint all day.’
Sitting alone in Lizzie’s room some time later, a large pot of tea on a tray beside her, she did wonder quite why she was continuing to say no to such a nice young man as Brian. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him. She did. He was a reliable colleague on the job and good company when the job was done. As she emptied the second mug of tea, she decided that she’d think about Brian seriously when the trade fair was over and she felt her mind was her own again.
After all these busy weeks, it was strange to find herself on her own in Belfast on a pleasant summer evening with no work to do. She was too tired to go for a walk and certainly too tired to paint, even if she’d had her box and brushes with her. She lay on the sofa and fell asleep briefly. Waking up, she was so comfortable, and so reluctant to move, she lay and watched the light fade as the sun moved west. Voices of couples walking past below floated in through the open windows.
In a week, it would all be over. Mr Sam’s secretary had reminded her she was now entitled to a week’s annual holiday with pay, plus some extra days in lieu of overtime. After all the intense work and effort, it would be so good to have time
to herself again. She’d go and see Granny.
Since those winter days just before Christmas her visits had all been too short. In the last couple of weeks, she’d not been able to go at all, though she had spoken to her on the telephone, a strange and frustrating experience. The connection was so perfect they might as well have been in the same room, but the context of the general office in the Portadown showroom meant her call could only be brief and rather impersonal.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Rosie found herself thinking of J. Slater Hamilton, the tall man she’d met on her first visit to the City Hall. Mr Sam had been most impressed when she’d produced his card and relayed his offer of help should it be needed. ‘Secretary to the Minister for Trade and Industry. A Cabinet Minister, no less,’ he’d said. ‘A very useful contact.’
They’d had no need to take up his offer of help, as it turned out, but she’d found herself puzzling over their conversation more than once. In fact, she’d been so puzzled she’d mentioned it to her grandmother on one of her visits back in April.
‘We don’t have a distant relative called Slater Hamilton, do we, Granny?
‘Why, dear? Have you met a possible one?’
‘Hmm. Nice man. He was at the City Hall, one of the government people sponsoring the whole thing. He knew Richhill and Pearson’s and Fruitfield and Rountree’s. Though, of course, he said it was his job to know everything like that.’
‘Well, you’d have to be pretty knowledgeable these days with the state of business so depressed. The new government has no money to invest and neither has Westminster. Uncle Alex says we’re heading for real depression if something doesn’t change soon.’
She paused and thought for a moment.
‘What did your Slater Hamilton look like?’
Rosie described him as best she could. She’d even mentioned that he’d looked familiar, but she couldn’t think where she’d seen him before, especially as she thought he’d been abroad.
‘He certainly didn’t get that suntan in Belfast last winter.’
‘Red hair?’
‘Well, yes, but it was a bit thin on top. And it was receding, like Da. He was quite old, probably forty or more. Maybe even fifty.’
Rose laughed heartily and shook her head.
‘Oh Rosie, my love, you do make me laugh sometimes. Not at you. At myself. Forty seems so young when one gets to seventy. But it must seem so ancient when you’re just about to be eighteen.’
They hadn’t said any more about him, but in May, Rosie remembered to bring his business card to show to her. She’d put her spectacles on, looked at it closely and asked if she thought she would see him again in the week of the trade fair. She’d said she probably would and put the card back in her handbag.
Rosie sat up and decided she was hungry after all. The idea of scrambling some eggs in Lizzie’s little kitchen was suddenly very appealing.
Although the trams were already running, the city itself was still quiet when she set out for the City Hall on a lovely summer morning, the sky almost a perfect blue except for little white clouds over the Cave Hill and Black Mountain. The hill slopes were ablaze with gorse, reminding her of the rather different blaze of colour she was hoping to create when the lorry arrived from the rose field. Part of her felt anxious, another part felt confident they’d taken account of every eventuality, but she knew she wouldn’t feel better till she had buckets of roses at her feet and blooms in her hands and knew neither the pickers nor the weather had let her and Billy down.
Everything went exactly to plan, down to the last printed label, the name of each rose encircled by garlands made up of tiny, painted portraits of the rose itself. To her great delight the blouses worn by the girls who would be at work on the stand all through the week looked quite stunning.
When she’d discussed the question of dress for the week with them, their response was immediate.
‘Sure we always wear the same, black skirts and white blouses.’
She’d been horrified at the though of white blouses, almost the worst colour for any girl to wear next to her face, especially as these girls were not professional models, skilled at make-up, but the girls who ordinarily worked in the fields, or the showroom and therefore knew something about roses.
She’d argued for colour and it had been accepted. When she met the girls chosen for the trade fair, she’d put forward the idea that each girl should choose a rose and match her blouse to it.
Not surprisingly, there’d been problems, even before a suitable dressmaker had been found. Some girls had chosen colours that didn’t suit their complexions and she’d discovered how tactful she could be. In the end, they’d worked out a colour for each girl, the blouses echoed the blooms against which the girls would move. As for the skirts, there was nothing wrong with black, because the outfit was completed by a moss green overall embroidered with the McGredy crest. Some of the men had been uneasy about wearing pale pink shirts instead of white, but again, worn with black trousers and moss green blazers the same shade as the girls’ overalls, they’d had to admit they did look very smart.
A few minutes after nine o’clock, staring at the finished effect of staff and blooms and wondering if there was anything more she needed to do before the doors opened in half an hour’s time, she turned to find Slater Hamilton on his way to work, a bulging briefcase in his hand.
‘Well, are you pleased? You ought to be.’
‘Yes, truly I am. Though I think I’m more relieved than pleased at the moment. When I’ll be really pleased is when I see full order books after all the hard work.’
‘Some American buyers are scheduled for today. I may see you again later,’ he said, turning away.
‘Just a moment. Mary, would you bring me Patience, please.’
He stopped, somewhat taken aback, as she spoke to a rather plump, round-faced country girl wearing a pale, pastel-pink blouse under her green overall.
‘You are our first visitor,’ Rosie explained.
She took the rose Mary passed over to her, a small spray of foliage already in place and handed it to him.
‘It may fit your lapel. If not, I have a pocketful of pins.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, tucking it into the lapel of his elegant grey suit. ‘That will be most helpful for my day’s work.’
Within minutes of the doors opening, the vast marble hall was full of people. She was kept busy answering questions, providing buttonholes for the gentlemen and postcards for purchasers. A glance across at Brian Singleton, his head bent over a clipboard suggested that orders were flowing in already.
There was little respite from the stream of interested viewers until halfway through the afternoon. A member of the City Hall staff appeared suddenly and cordoned off the stand with dazzling white ropes suspended from highly-polished brass supports. Moments later, the Americans, including a very influential rose-breeder from California, appeared, escorted by Slater Hamilton and two of his dark-suited colleagues.
When they were followed by three photographers, who grouped and regrouped the Americans, their hosts and Mr Sam, Rosie moved behind one of the display stands and slipped off her shoes for a blissful ten minutes. Fortunately, she’d just put them on again when Mr Sam asked for her. He wanted a photograph with all his staff and he insisted she stand beside him.
‘Your boss obviously thinks very highly of you,’ Slater Hamilton observed, as he and his colleagues waited politely for the Americans to finish their conversation with Brian Singleton and Mr Sam.
‘He’s given me a wonderful opportunity. A year ago, I was keeping house for my family with no prospect at all of a job.’
‘And you found this job yourself?’
‘Well, not this job exactly. I started in the rose fields …’
There was a movement in the small knot of people to their right and visitors surged towards them as the cordon of white rope was removed.
‘We must continue this conversation …’
He strode off to catch up w
ith the small party as it continued on its way to the next point on their itinerary.
An hour later, a stiff white envelope was delivered to Rosie containing a single sheet. She read the brief message twice.
If you are free for dinner tonight at 7.30, Grand Central Hotel, Royal Avenue, or one other evening this week, I should like to continue our conversation. I must also confess I have a matter of some importance to me upon which I should value your comments. Please reply by the messenger. I should be most grateful for your assistance.
She didn’t need to study the signature, she simply looked at the piece of paper and the messenger who stood waiting. She was free tonight. She might be free every night, but she couldn’t be sure. If a problem occurred she might need to go up to the rose fields herself so that she and Billy could sort it out together.
She took a pencil from her pocket, turned over the sheet of paper and scribbled a message. As Granda would have said, ‘Sure there’s no time like the present.’
‘It was good of you to come. From what I could see you were on your feet all day. I’m surprised you’re able to look so fresh.’
Rosie smiled at him and sat down gratefully, her back aching gently. She hadn’t looked fresh when she’d arrived back in Lizzie’s lovely room, but a bath and a whole pot of tea had done wonders. So had Granda’s dress, the red one he’d bought for her in Kerry. She’d brought it with her, just in case, as she’d had no opportunity to wear it again since his funeral.
‘When I first started in the rose fields, I was exhausted by lunchtime, but I got used to it quite quickly. And the last weeks have been so busy, I think I must be getting fitter. Actually, I did have an hour’s rest this evening. When we closed, there was nothing that needed to be done. Later in the week, there’ll have to be replacements.’
‘You mean in your arrangements?’
‘Yes, the centre of the big side panels are done with rosebuds set in damp moss. They’ll start to bloom with the heat and spoil the design.’
‘And can you just put fresh ones in?’