For Many a Long Day

by Anne Doughty

  Sam Hamilton never knew whether Sam Deisley really meant it, or whether it was part of the joke, but from that day forward Wee Sam was exactly what everyone called him. But not to his face.

  ‘Rich’ he’d been nicknamed and rich he felt as he walked briskly down Scotch Street to tell Harry Mitchell that he’d got the job. As he climbed back into his dungarees, with Harry’s congratulations and good wishes still echoing in his ears, he felt that something great had happened. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d had the chance to test out the timing on Harry’s motorbike the night before the big race, two years ago, and had come within a few minutes of the lap record itself.

  It wasn’t just getting near the record, though he’d been excited enough over that, it was the feeling of freedom, of moving effortlessly through the air. It was almost as if he were flying, swooping along the winding course he’d got to know over the previous years, using all his skill and memory to keep up speed even on the notorious hairpin where Harry had skidded and on the dangerous right-hander.

  He was going to be married to the girl he’d loved and had courted for over four years now. With the bigger pay, they’d be able to find a house she liked and soon there’d be a wee girl or a wee boy. Maybe one day his own son might be able to race, if that was what he wanted to do. It wasn’t just money you needed to race. Even if you did have the right temperament, you had to have someone behind you, someone to encourage you.

  He thought of his sister Rose over in Banbridge and how happy she and Richard were with their little family. Two lively boys and now the baby, the wee girl Richard had wanted so much. It was not that his brother-in-law didn’t love his two sons, but when he’d gone over to see the new baby, Richard had told him that he’d been an only child himself. Never having had a brother or a sister, he wanted a real family. Now his boys had what he’d have so loved for himself. And the wee girl would have brothers to depend on, just as his beloved Rose had her Emily and Sam.

  It was two weeks later, at the beginning of April, that Marion had given him back the ring. At first he simply couldn’t believe it. She didn’t give him any reason and he tried desperately to see what might have gone wrong. Could it be the nerves one was supposed to have before a wedding? But then, the date of the wedding wasn’t yet settled so it could hardly be that. There were Canadian cousins coming over in the summer and Marion wanted them to be there, so they must wait till they heard when it would be. That was perfectly reasonable. But now she told him they weren’t coming after all.

  He hadn’t grasped what was happening until in despair he decided to call and talk to Marion’s mother, a woman who’d always made him welcome whenever he went to the house. From the minute she opened the door, he could see she didn’t want to talk to him. She wouldn’t answer any of his questions and she kept referring to what Marion’s father said and what he thought. She’d even tried to tell him that perhaps Marion was a bit young to be settling down. He could hardly believe his ears. His birthday was in May and Marion’s in December. They’d both be twenty-seven before the year was out. You could hardly call that young, could you?

  Things had been bad for a week or more. She’d said she didn’t want to see him, but he couldn’t let it rest. He’d called at the house each evening after work and asked to see her. Her mother had said she was out and closed the door firmly in his face.

  Finally, he could stick it no longer. He asked for a day off, got up at his usual time and cycled through Richhill and out the Portadown road early on a bright April morning. As he’d expected, this time Marion herself opened the door. She hadn’t wanted to let him in, but he’d insisted she owed him that much. He’d asked her again what was wrong. Was it really about him buying the furniture when he only wanted to surprise her? Did she think she didn’t love him enough? Or did she think he didn’t love her enough? What was it had come between them after all this time?

  She wouldn’t give him a proper answer to any of his questions and in the end she’d lost her temper. She told him bluntly she’d made up her mind she didn’t want to marry him. She never wanted to see him again. If he came bothering her or her mother anymore she’d have to speak to her father.

  She was so vehement, he could barely believe what he was hearing, for this was the girl he’d loved for so long, the girl he’d worked so hard for, so that he could give her the very best his efforts could buy. Her face contorted with anger, she was now looking at him as if she hated him. He’d turned away and stumbled from the house, the tears tripping him, not knowing where to go, or what to do.

  The road outside the smart new bungalow was busy with people going to work, but he wasn’t fit to be seen at the garage in this state. If he went back home, there’d be no sympathy at all from his mother. She’d told him often enough he was far too generous with Marion, giving her presents as well as taking her out, when he was paying so little at home for his bed and board. His father would be at Irish Road Motors. He couldn’t face the thought of the empty workshop in the barn or going upstairs to sit on his own bed waiting for him to come home.

  In the end he’d gone over to his sister Emily. He knew it was Rosie he needed, but she’d only just had the wee baby and Emily was nearer, just outside Richhill itself. He’d found her baking bread and she’d come and put her arms round him before he said a word. She’d got flour all over his best jacket though he never noticed at the time. That night, he went out with his brother-in-law and got so drunk in Lavery’s that Kevin had to ask a neighbour to drive him home to the farm by Richhill Station because he couldn’t even walk.

  Sam wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste and headed briskly for the wash room. He scooped cleanser from the tin, rubbed his hands vigorously, examined his nails and picked up the stiff brush. Some lubricating oils were harder to get off than others, but you couldn’t drive a brand new motor and get oil on the steering wheel. The boss was very particular about that. Rightly so, he thought to himself, as he went on scrubbing. It was several minutes before he was able to reach for the clean towel.

  He glanced anxiously at his watch, untwisted the legs of his dungarees, straightened his tie and ran his pocket comb through his dark hair, sweeping it back from his broad, high forehead. He brushed his shoulders with a quick, practised flick of the hand.

  As he bent down to look in the mirror, he smiled. The mirror was large and new and always kept spotlessly clean, but it had been adjusted to suit Wee Sam. Everyone else in the workshop had to bend their knees to see anything in it at all.

  He removed the grease streak he spotted on his cheek with a corner of his handkerchief. As he hurried out across the yard and into the showroom, the thought came to him quite unbidden that the face he’d seen in the mirror looked a bit happier than it had done a couple of months back.

  ‘Ah, good man, Sam,’ the boss said briskly, waving one hand to the Lagonda before turning back to a small, smartly-dressed gentleman with a neat toothbrush moustache and a soft black hat.

  Army man, perhaps, thought Sam, noting the upright bearing as his passenger climbed briskly into the front seat beside him.

  ‘General Slessinger was interested in the performance of this model, Sam. Take your time and find a quiet bit of road.’

  Sam nodded and caught his boss’s eye. As Wee Sam had commented the other day, ‘It’s amazin’ what ye can say without sayin’ anythin’.’ Clearly what the General wanted was a turn of speed. Well, he’d see what could be done.

  Given that he rode the six miles between Armagh and Richhill back and forth everyday on his recently acquired motorbike, there wasn’t much about the road he didn’t know. There were a few bad patches where the surface needed attention and a couple of sections where the camber, or lack of it, meant you had to keep a very steady eye on the verges. The worst bend on the whole road was the left-hander just past the Post Office at Woodview.

  His father knew the woman who lived in the small house with a high-pitched roof just before the bend itself, one of the gate-lodges to t
he Leader estate. She’d told him that the family got Christmas cards from young men they’d pulled out of the hedge and the deep ditch beyond. They made tea regularly and phoned for the doctor from the Post Office. For the lucky ones, that was. She admitted that over the years there’d been just a few who wouldn’t be drinking any more tea.

  The June morning was fine, the air so clear the stone steps and pillars of the Courthouse looked as if they’d been freshly cleaned, so brightly did they gleam in the sunshine. He took it easy till they were beyond the Royal School and the busy junction at the Dean’s Bridge, then he allowed the speed to rise in a slow curve. Even on the bad bits of road he had to watch, for on the bike the Lagonda sailed smoothly on as if the surface were perfect.

  By great good luck, the last stretch of road into the village was empty so it was not until they reached the main square that he had to reduce speed. He went up the left-hand side past his uncle’s shop, turned right across the front of Richhill Castle and stopped halfway down the far side of the square, the bonnet pointing back towards Armagh.

  Throughout the drive his passenger had not uttered a word.

  ‘You enjoy driving, young man?’

  The tone was short, almost brusque, but the look on the General’s face was not unfriendly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied honestly. ‘Particularly this model.’

  ‘D’you have a vehicle?’

  ‘No, sir. Motorbike,’ he replied, adding the make and model.

  ‘Had an early one of those myself. Nearly broke my neck once,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Too old for that sort of thing now, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Would you like to take her back yourself, sir, and see how she handles?’

  ‘No, no. No need for that. You’ve convinced me,’ he said with a short laugh. ‘D’you get commission on sales?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Sam, smiling. ‘But I’ve a good boss. He’s very fair.’

  The General grunted and looked him up and down.

  ‘What’s he pay you then?’

  Sam told him.

  ‘I need a young man like you. My chauffeur’s getting past it. Time he retired,’ he went on. ‘I live in County Down, visit a lot, both parts of Ireland. I’ve a house in London. Keep a Bentley there. Like to get about. Daughters, you know, since my wife died,’ he explained abruptly. ‘I’ll double your salary. Good time off when I’m visiting them. Use of the motors now and again. What d’you say?’

  For one moment, Sam thought he was dreaming. Here he was sitting in the middle of Richhill almost outside Lizzie and Hugh Loney’s new shop and he was being offered a job that would take him all over Ireland and across to London as well. Driving a Lagonda and a Bentley. What an offer. He could hardly believe his ears.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said slowly, his mind still dazed. ‘I can think of nothing I would enjoy more, but I’ve only been three months with Mr Sleator. He’s been very good to me when I had a … wee bit of a personal problem. I couldn’t let him down now I’m over it.’

  ‘So the answer is no.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. But I’m most grateful to you for asking me, sir.’

  ‘Pity. Great pity,’ said the older man sharply. ‘You’ve a great feel for a motor. But loyalty is an important thing too. Not much of it about these days,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Lucky man, Sleator. Do you think we can do it faster on the way back?’

  ‘We can try, sir,’ Sam replied, beaming.

  He was just about to start the engine when he saw the sun glance off metal. Almost on the edge of vision, a mile or more away on the road leading into the village, he saw the glitter of a black, highly-polished motor. Seconds later he saw that there was a second vehicle behind the first. Unusual. Not one, but two, and both Rolls-Royces. Not motors he knew of belonging to any of the local gentry or landowners.

  They could be bringing visitors to the Castle, but hired vehicles were more likely, perhaps a funeral, but surely he wouldn’t have missed seeing the hearse turning across the foot of the square towards the Presbyterian churchyard or the Quaker burying-ground.

  ‘I’ll just let those motors through, sir. It’s rather narrow on Red Row,’ he explained. He leant forward to get a better look at them as they swung into the square.

  Moments later, all his speculation was resolved. The Rolls were two he’d seen often enough parked outside Loudan’s in the Seven Houses. Father and son were driving, but this was no funeral. Sitting in the first car were two bridesmaids, the pink tulle of their dresses matched by ribbons in their piled up hair. He didn’t recognise either of them but the figure in the second vehicle was unmistakable. Sitting in solitary state on the back seat, looking somewhat uncomfortable in a very large hat, heavy with artificial flowers, was Marion’s mother, the woman who had shut the door in his face only three months ago.

  He took a deep breath, put the car in gear and let in the clutch. Accompanied by her father, the bride herself, would be following. The thought of seeing her in all her wedding finery was more than he could bear.

  He slipped the Lagonda neatly out of the square and accelerated down Red Row to the junction with the Armagh road. The briefest glance towards Portadown revealed the third vehicle approaching. Instantly, he spun the wheel, turned out in front of it and accelerated so fast the driver had neither time nor necessity to modify his own speed.

  To the obvious delight of the General, the journey back to Armagh was achieved in an appreciably shorter time than the outward journey had taken.

  Sam had a bad afternoon. Whatever job he put his hand to managed to produce some complication or other and he blamed himself for his poor concentration. Had his father been there to observe his work, he could have comforted him. There were times when problems clustered. It was mysterious, but it happened to everyone, no matter how good they were nor how long they’d been doing the job.

  As it was, Sam was puzzled as well as upset. Even in the dreadful weeks after Marion had first broken it off, he’d been able to do his work quite normally. If his colleagues knew he was in a bad way, as he now suspected they did, it was probably only the fact that they couldn’t make him laugh that had given him away.

  The afternoon wore on and Sam spoke to himself severely. His mother had told him there was someone else. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d put it down to rumour and the gossip of neighbours. His mother brought home all the gossip there was to be had and you couldn’t believe the half of it, but he remembered now that one evening in the workshop his father had asked very quietly if he thought there might be someone else involved. He’d denied it vigorously. Whatever he might feel about Marion and what she’d done, he’d never think that of her. If there’d been someone else, surely she’d at least have had the courage to tell him.

  His father had just nodded to himself and said that maybe however bad it was just now, it was better now than later. There was many a man had married with the greatest of hope, thinking he knew the woman he’d chosen, and then found out she wasn’t at all the woman he’d imagined.

  He hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but now he knew for sure. Well, whoever it was she’d lined up for the June wedding she’d always wanted, he’d a lot more money than he had. Marion’s father had made it clear when they’d told him of their engagement that their wedding would be ‘a family affair’. There’d have been no wedding cars from Loudan’s if it had been him and Marion. No doubt his mother would be able to provide the details of the day even before it went into the newspapers. Bride’s dress, bridesmaids, number of guests, reception and honeymoon venue, as the Portadown Times always called it.

  Hardly a week in Newcastle, or Portrush after all that style, he said to himself bitterly, as the bell rang in the yard for quitting time.

  ‘Boss sez to call upstairs afore you go,’ Peggy informed him, as she collected the keys of the Austin he was working on and put them back in the safe.

  ‘D’ye know what he wants?’ he asked abruptly, a sudden wave of anxiety
sweeping over him.

  ‘Maybe yer for the sack,’ she said pertly, as she closed her handbag and waited for him to remove his large frame from the entrance to her small office.

  ‘Ach, I was only foolin’ ye,’ she added, relenting, when she saw the look on his face.

  Nevertheless, Sam felt anxious as he tramped upstairs. The only time any of them ever went to the boss’s office was to collect their pay packets on a Thursday.

  ‘Sam, come in. Sit down a minute till I finish this receipt, will you.’

  Sam settled himself, looked out the window, and waited patiently while the older man carefully transferred the Lagonda’s details from its logbook to the bill of sale. It took him a good five minutes and when he finally applied the sheet of blotter to the completed document, he shook his head wearily.

  ‘Every job has things you dread. I can’t stand filling in receipts,’ he admitted, ‘despite the fact that that’s what keeps me in business,’ he added, smiling for the first time and handing Sam a brown envelope across the desk. ‘Go on, open it,’ he said, ‘I think I know what’s in it, but I want to see your face,’ he went on, grinning at him.

  Sam’s large fingers caught at the sealed envelope, managed to tear off a small corner and finally ripped it apart. As he pulled out a large, white banknote, a small card fell from the envelope and dropped on the threadbare carpet at his feet. He picked it up and looked at John Sleator in amazement.

  ‘Is it a fiver?’

  Sam nodded and stared at the flowing italic script on the banknote and the fine silver line running through it. Then he focussed his attention on the business card. There was something written on the back.

  ‘If you change your mind in the next year, let me know. Thank you for the drive.’ There was a squiggle by way of signature, but the author’s full name, rank and addresses were clearly laid out on the other side.

  ‘It seems I might have lost you,’ John Sleator began. ‘He told me he made you an offer. Do you not think it was a good chance?’