On a mild, late September morning, a hint of mist still lying in the valley bottoms, Sam Hamilton got off the train at Richhill Station. He made his way up a long lane, crossed the broad track used by the road vehicles delivering to the furniture and jam manufactories, and walked on to the village itself. Much to his mother’s apparent delight and amusement, his father had explained that Richhill Station was about a mile from Richhill. He’d then added that though Pearson’s Haulage was Pearson’s of Portadown, their premises were about a mile on the Portadown side of Richhill in a townland called Ballyleny.
The distance was immaterial to Sam. Since Doctor Stewart had taken his plaster off two weeks earlier, he’d been walking miles every day for the sheer joy of it. Dressed in his second best coat and trousers, carefully shaved, with his boots polished till they gleamed, he strode out, noting as he went the wheel marks of the various engines that had passed earlier in the day. He found Pearson’s with no difficulty whatever, the smell of hot engine oil borne on the breeze alerting him before he was anywhere near the wide space with its large, newly-built engine sheds.
‘And what age are you Mr Hamilton?’ said the overseer, a man in his fifties, wearing working clothes and a hard hat.
‘I’ll be seventeen in October,’ said Sam steadily.
‘And you say you’ve been drivin’ for three years?’ he asked doubtfully, his eyes narrowing.
‘That’s right,’ said Sam, pricking up his ears and casting a quick glance out of the window.
‘Have you ever driven a Fowler?’
‘Like the one that’s comin’ into the yard, or the newer one?’ Sam asked promptly.
To Sam’s surprise, the overseer hurried to the window and stood there for several minutes looking out. Only when a cloud of smoke and steam blew through the open door as the engine crossed the yard did he turn round and face Sam again.
‘How did you know it was the Fowler was comin’?’ he demanded.
‘Sure, I heard her out on the road,’ Sam said easily. ‘She’s the only engine makes that sound. She tends to run a wee bit high in damp weather and there was mist about this mornin’.’
The overseer looked at him more closely, asked him where he’d look for a cross head and what he’d do if there was steam coming out of the fusible plug.
Sam answered him cheerfully, taking the odd glance out the window where the well-maintained machine was now at rest steaming gently.
‘Would ye like to drive her into Portadown and back with Sammy?’ the older man asked, a slight easing in his somewhat hostile manner.
‘Aye, I’d like that fine,’ he replied, beaming.
An hour later Sam met Harry Pearson who asked courteously about Hugh Sinton and his sister and then enquired if Sam would like him to find lodgings for him. He hoped he could start the following Monday.
Sam tramped back to the station, a grin on his face and a cheery greeting for every one he met. Not only had he got a new job, but Harry Pearson had told him he was hoping to expand his business and move into road vehicles of all kinds. He’d ordered a Siddley for himself and he wanted a lad who’d be interested in all the new motor vehicles, not just the haulage engines that made up their present business.
As he passed the last farm before the station, a low, thatched dwelling with blue painted window frames, he suddenly remembered something Thomas Scott had said to him when he was a wee boy. ‘One of these days Sam, you’ll be comin’ to see me in yer motor car.’ Well, indeed, it might not be long before he had a chance to prove him right.
By the end of the first week in October, Sam was comfortably lodged in Richhill. On his weekly visits home it was clear he was thoroughly enjoying his job and was already making friends. Hannah too, was writing lively letters from the enormous castle-like building that had been converted to create her finishing school. The best news of all was that Elizabeth had yielded to considerable pressure from Rose and Hugh and agreed to a wedding date in early April.
As the weather grew colder and the first autumnal storms began to strip both trees and hedgerows, Sarah cycled to and from school with less and less enthusiasm each day.
‘But why do I have to stay on at school?’ she demanded one Thursday evening, as she banged her books shut and pushed them back into her satchel.
Rose put her library book down, but John went on reading.
‘Sarah, it’s very important to have a good education. You know that,’ she said soothingly.
‘But Sam left school at fourteen. Look how well he’s doing. He loves his work,’ she retorted sharply.
As John shuffled his newspaper and folded it up, he caught Rose’s warning look.
‘Sarah, if we were all the same, it wouldn’t be good, would it?’ he said agreeably.
He noticed the dark shadows under her eyes and remembered what her mother had said about how tired she got towards the end of the week. Every afternoon after school there was something on. Choir or Dramatic Society, hockey or Debating Society. Like all young women there were times when she got very short-tempered. He knew that well enough by now. Take her the wrong way when she was tired as well and you’d get the kind of storm they used to have when she was a child.
‘Sam’s a great practical man, God bless him,’ said John as calmly as he could manage, ‘but you’re a clever girl, Sarah. You could do things, Sam or Hannah, could never do. That’s not just what your Ma and I think, it’s what better educated people like James Sinton and Hugh and Elizabeth think too. They say you could go to college, now that there’s places for women. Would that not be a great thing?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. It would be just awful,’ she spat out fiercely. ‘It’s bad enough being stuck at school, but then, to get out of that and go into Queen’s College for three or four more years. I’d go mad. I’d do something desperate,’ she said he voice rising ominously. ‘I can’t stand being cooped up day after day with the same boring old teachers and the same boring old lessons and not even Hannah to share it with,’ she said, bursting into tears and sobbing as if her heart would break.
John looked at Rose helplessly as she stood up and put her arms round Sarah. She held her close, feeling the narrow shoulders shaking, the warm tears soaking through the light fabric of her own blouse.
Over the dark, ruffled curls, they exchanged glances. Rose knew he would back her up as best he could, but she would have to find a way. He’d never had much idea what to do when any of his children were in distress, but Sarah always defeated him completely.
‘Things always look grim when you’re tired, Sarah,’ her mother said softly, stroking her curls. ‘How would it be if we had a talk about it after school tomorrow or on Saturday afternoon, when we’re all fresher? If you’re not happy, we’ll find some way to make it better. Didn’t we find a way for Sam when he was so upset losing his job?’
‘Yes, but we didn’t find a way for Jamie,’ she sobbed.
‘Sarah dear, Jamie didn’t let us try, did he? You’d give us a chance, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.
‘How about some cocoa and a nice hot water bottle?’
Sarah shivered, suddenly cold with tiredness and tears. She nodded. She was sure they’d try to help her, but she couldn’t see what they could do. She was fourteen. She was a girl. No going off like Sam at fourteen to find a real job in the real world. Three or four more years of Banbridge Academy lay in front of her before she could have any life of her own.
At this moment, the enormity of the acres of boredom to be endured was so appalling she thought she’d rather be dead.
Rose did her best. She talked to Elizabeth and went to see the only one of her teachers Sarah seemed to like. They both said wise things about the adjustments Sarah was making in her life. In the course of the summer she’d grown up, she’d lost a beloved sister, whose constant companionship she’d never questioned. Her favourite brother no longer lived at home. Sarah’s teacher didn’t know about Jamie, so it was Elizabeth who suggested she might be blaming herself for his absence.
‘Why can’t I just leave and get a job in the mill, Ma? That’s what other girls have to do. Why do I have to be coddled up at school?’ she demanded one wet October afternoon when she arrived home soaking.
‘Sarah dear, if you just went into the mill, how would you ever do the things you want to do?’
‘What things? What things do I want to do?’ she shouted.
‘Well, you want to take pictures, don’t you?’
‘Yes. And I don’t need to go to school for that. What use is school to me?’ she demanded.
‘It’s a good way of using time till you’re older, Sarah. You can’t just go off like Sam, you know that. After all, he had to do the equivalent of another three years at school when he went to Tullyconnaught as an apprentice.’
‘Yes, but that’s what he wanted. I don’t want any of what they’re teaching me. Nor all those boys being silly and the girls giggling in corners. I can’t stand it, Ma, I can’t stand it.’
She searched vainly for words of comfort, but nothing she said seemed to touch Sarah’s distress. She was forced to watch her dragging herself from day to day, weighed down by a burden of frustration, her discontent floating round her like a cloud.
It had been agreed there’d be no question of her going to Queen’s College. They’d also gone as far as saying she could leave at seventeen, but for Sarah, the gap between these last months of 1897 and the longed-for freedom the summer of 1900 would bring was still an eternity of time almost impossible to visualise and equally impossible to survive.
Rose tried everything she could think of to cheer and encourage her, but her intuitions told her so much depends upon how we see things for ourselves. Searching back through her own early years, she remembered times when she too had been dogged by the same weariness. She too had blamed the slow passage of the days and weeks for her frustrations.
‘But is it really time, or is it circumstance?’ she asked aloud, one dim, December morning as she looked around the tidy, well-swept kitchen and thought how she’d spend her own solitary day.
John would not be coming in to lunch and Sarah had a rehearsal after school. Nothing to prevent her doing whatever she chose.
‘Is today a wonderful opportunity to do what I want to do?’ she asked herself, ‘or a miserable piece of time to be filled as best I can?’
She made up the fire and settled in her chair to watch the leaping flames. She smiled to herself. She felt well, there was no immediate problem or weight of sadness to press upon her. She had books from the library. Sewing and embroidery under way. Letters to write to family and friends. If it stayed dry, she could dig up some of her perennials that needed splitting.
She sat on quietly, thinking of Sarah, and suddenly, she saw herself sitting on a hillside, her sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of her blouse undone, a soft breeze stirring the tassels on the fuchsia and cooling her warm skin. She was in Kerry, on her one afternoon off, the only time in her busy life as a servant at Currane Lodge that was really hers. Time was only your friend when you were free to act as you wished.
She thought of the early months of the year and shivered slightly, thinking of the weeks after her illness when time was a blur, the days slipping into weeks as she slept and rested. Then came the months when she was well enough to know what she wanted to do, but not well enough to do any of it.
Perhaps that was Sarah’s real problem. She could see so clearly what she wanted to do, but present circumstances would not let her do it. She was simply not old enough and the waiting was intolerable.
Even with all the reassurances she’d had from Elizabeth and Doctor Stewart, it hadn’t been easy to believe health and strength would be returned to her, if only she waited patiently. How much worse it must be for Sarah. There was no way of reassuring her what she knew she wanted would come to her if only she could be patient.
Of course the months and years would pass. This long century of dramatic change would end, and with it her schooldays. But what comfort was that when the burden of the time ahead lay so heavy upon her?
So far, she’d discovered it was not school work in itself which bored her, but the fact that school stood between her and making her own life. Twice recently, she’d seen the old sparkle return and both times it was school work had done the trick. A history project on The Great Famine set her reading every book and paper she could lay her hands on. She’d talked about it at great length to anyone who would listen. An essay on the Industrial Revolution had the same effect. She’d filled notebook after notebook with the plight of the rural unemployed as they flocked to the towns to be herded into miserable little houses in the shadow of mills.
‘But what do I do for her now?’ Rose asked herself, gazing out at the damp, uninviting day.
She thought of her Quaker friends waiting patiently on guidance. She’d tried that, but nothing had come to help her. She sat on, her mind moving to the affairs of her friends and family. Elizabeth’s marriage plans. Hugh and John working yet more closely in their partnership. Hannah and Sam, each happy with the future they’d chosen. And Jamie?
To her great surprise, it was thinking of him that finally gave her an answer to her question. Obvious, once you saw it. There was nothing she could do for Sarah, any more than there was anything she could do for Jamie. She could love them, cherish them, think of them, but what was ultimately important to them, that they had to find out for themselves.
It was only as spring came with flickers of dazzling light and lengthening days that unexpected hope and possibilities began to diminish Sarah’s sadness and frustration and restore Rose to her happier self.
Elizabeth had been granted permission to marry by their local Monthly Meeting, but, there couldn’t be a Quaker marriage as Richard Stewart was a Presbyterian. As a Quaker, Elizabeth couldn’t be married by an ordained minister of any other church. The only solution was for Elizabeth and Richard to be married in a Registry Office. To make up for this loss of a ceremony they decided to have a small celebration afterwards in Richard’s house in Dromore where they were to live after their marriage. Elizabeth came down from Rathdrum especially to ask Sarah if she would take some pictures for them.
Sarah was delighted. She hadn’t touched her camera since she’d taken a picture of Sam on crutches, to use the one remaining exposure on the roll for the journey home from Ashley Park. Now, she took it out again, loaded it up and began to practice. She wanted to be sure her hand was steady and her eye was in, for she’d decided she would make an album for Elizabeth and Richard. Just like Mr Blennerhasset had for Ma and Da all those years ago.
Ballydown,
May 1898
My dear Hannah,
Thank you for your lovely long letter. It was great! It wasn’t quite as funny as your account of learning to ski, but now I shall always think of you whenever I see someone wearing a cap and apron. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to measure the exact angle of a cap, or the distance from apron to floor. I really can’t see you spending your time bossing your servants round like that, but it was funny. Especially as you had to practice on Marianne who was being ‘pert’.
Elizabeth’s wedding was lovely. You knew she wouldn’t be having a wedding dress because Quakers don’t, but she did wear a most lovely new gown. It was perfectly plain as always, but it was silver-grey. I never realised what wonderful grey eyes she has until I saw her standing looking at Dr Stewart, though she says I must call him Richard now. She looked quite beautiful and I so wished I could catch the exact colour of her eyes and the dress.
Hugh says one day there’ll be colour film, but in the meantime he was going to see if he could have some of my pictures hand-tinted. A few days ago he showed me one of his mother, very delicately done, like one of your best water colours.
I was so busy taking pictures I didn’t get anything to eat, but when I stopped Hugh appeared with a huge plate of all my favourite things and a glass of wine. He said if I wanted to take more pictures I was to sip it slowly with the food. A good thing he said that. I was terribly thirsty by then. I could easily have drunk it all up. What would your dear Teddy say if I had camera shake from drinking wine?
I took pictures of everybody, but no big groups. One of Ma, straightening Elizabeth’s dress, one of Richard talking to Da and Hugh. That sort of thing. Not those awful groups that get made into postcards. I’d hate to be stamped on the back and dropped through a letter box.
Sam is well and still loves his new job. Da bought him a bicycle for getting to work and last time he came home he asked me to go over some weekend, so we could go riding round that part of the world. I didn’t know I could take my bicycle on the train, but I can. Now the weather is so much better I can start taking pictures again.
I also must tell you that I have been offered a job! I am so delighted. I don’t get any pay, but I’ll have all my expenses plus a small fee. Hugh wants me to start work on the four mills, building up a picture of each of them. Not just the machinery and the buildings themselves, but the people and the things they do.
He keeps mentioning that picture I took at Ashley Hall of the oldest gardener picking the peach. He says he wants the equivalent with all the different processes. Unfortunately, he also wants written notes to accompany the pictures which is a bit too much like school, but never mind. It means I can have all the film I need and lots of practice. Do tell Teddy I’m going to save up for a plate camera. He is quite right, there are some things it does very well that you can’t manage with a Kodak.
I can hardly believe it’s only six weeks till you set out for home. I’m longing to see you, even if it is for such a short time. Will Teddy be able to come and meet you in London before you come on here? And have you finally fixed the date? If it has to be September, I shall play truant. I simply cannot miss your wedding. Give my love to Marianne. I owe her a letter. I’ve ordered extra prints of Elizabeth’s wedding. If they arrive soon, I’ll put them into her letter and you can share them. Write soon,
Fondest love from us all, but especially from me, to both of you,
Sarah
Hannah arrived home via London, glowing and self-possessed and for most of July gathered Sarah up into their old habits of riding and walking, before going back to Ashley Park to prepare for her wedding in late August. Sam appeared frequently on Saturday afternoons, bringing his bicycle so he could swoop off early on Monday morning and get back to Richhill in time for work.
Throughout the fine weather there were visits to Elizabeth and Richard in Dromore, John driving Rose in the trap and Sarah keeping Hugh company in the brougham. Hugh himself became a much more frequent visitor at Ballydown, walking down the hill several evenings in the week after his solitary supper. Sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon, he’d ask Sarah if she’d like to drive over to one of the mills instead of going on her bicycle. While she was taking her pictures, he said, he could cast his own eye around without being very much noticed.
Long before summer came, she’d drawn up a list of what she wanted to photograph in and around the four mills. It was only when she got started, she discovered it wasn’t as simple as she thought it would be. Before you can choose what you need to record, you have to make yourself familiar with the whole set of processes involved in production, from the growing of the flax right through to the boxing up of the finished linen for export around the world. With her usual enthusiasm, she began questioning both Hugh and her father. She spent yet more time in the local library and poring over prints spread out on the kitchen table for minute and critical study.
Rose breathed a sigh of relief as the characteristic frown reappeared. In another person, a sign of irritability or bad temper, with Sarah, a sure sign of complete absorption and the surest sign that she was happy.
‘I think maybe we’re over the worst with Sarah,’ Rose said to John one August evening when they walked out along the Katesbridge road.
‘Aye, she seems more settled,’ he said easily. ‘Are ye not afeerd that wi’ the excitement of the weddin’, she’ll find it hard back at school?’
‘There’s bound to be a bit of a come down, but she’ll have her pictures to work on,’ she replied reassuringly. ‘She’s so delighted that Hannah and Teddy want her to take their wedding pictures when they could’ve had a society photographer down from London,’ she went on. ‘I daresay they’ll go and have portraits done when they’re up in town, but when you look at Elizabeth and Richard’s pictures, you can see why Hannah was so keen. I think she has real talent, John.’
‘Aye, so does Hugh,’ he responded promptly. ‘He says you should just see the way she goes about things when she gets onto the weaving floor or down with the beetlers, eyeing things up from all angles. What gets him is the way she goes up to people and says “Will you do this, will you do that?” with that big smile of hers. He says he’s waitin’ for the day anyone has the heart to say no to her.’
She laughed and they walked on in silence, the evening quiet but for the distant noise of a cow lowing, a dog barking at a passing stranger.
‘Do you think Hugh is missing Elizabeth?’ she asked quietly.
‘Not as bad as I thought he would,’ he answered after a moment’s thought. ‘But he said he’d think of movin’ into town if it weren’t for us. Dromore most likely, to be near Elizabeth and Richard. But he says he never feels lonesome knowing we’re just down the hill.’
‘He’s been a great encouragement to Sarah. Do you think it’s just his kindness, or does he really want to collect up all these pictures?’
‘I think maybe it’s a bit a both. He says he’s foun’ out more about workin’ practices since Sarah was walkin’ about with her camera than he’s ever learnt from the mill managers. She doesn’t miss much, an’ she tells him everythin’. I’m amazed at what he comes out with sometimes. She’s been at him to start a co-operative shop. He’d bring in the stuff in bulk an’ the workers wou’d get it near cost. Any profit goes back into stock for parcels at Christmas or when people are sick.’
‘Sounds like a very good idea,’ said Rose enthusiastically.
‘Aye, so Hugh thinks,’ John replied, nodding. ‘But he’s a crafty one. He’s goin’ to pursue it, but he’s not told her that. He’s told her he has a problem and he wants to know what he’s goin’ to do about it. So she’s away to work that out.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Rose, intrigued.
‘What he does about the shopkeepers who’ll complain he’s takin’ away their livelihood.’
‘But he’s not taking away their livelihood,’ protested Rose.
‘No, I know that and you know that, but the shopkeepers will probably have a go at him anyways. Hugh wants to test her out to see if she can come up with somethin’. He’s serious you know about her comin’ on the Board when she’s twenty-one,’ he added suddenly.
‘My goodness, love, can you remember her tramping up the path at Ballydown with Ganny under her arm?’
‘Ach it seems no time ago. It moves so fast these days and there’s so much change goin’ on ye can hardly keep up with it, what with things so bad in South Africa and the Russians eyeing up China and all this disturbance here with the anniversary of 1798, forby our own family …’
He broke off suddenly. She knew at once he was thinking of Jamie.
‘D’you think we’ll ever see him again, Rose?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I sometimes think he’ll come to his senses and remember he has a family. And then I think, if he does, he’ll be so ashamed at what he said and what he’s done, he’ll be too proud to come back. Sometimes I try to imagine what it might take to bring him back, but I don’t expect anything. I try to accept he’s gone, as they’ll all go. I don’t dwell on the manner of his going.’
‘Ach, you’re wiser me, Rose. Ye take that from your mother. Aye an’ ye’ve passed it on to Hannah. It takes a lot to ruffle our Hannah. Sarah’s different, now. I don’t know where she comes from at all.’
She laughed as they turned at their usual spot. Down here on the road, the sun was already hidden behind the trees, but as they went back up the hill it would re-appear. They’d pause at their own gate and watch it sink. This early in June it was light till after ten but by the time they came back from Ashley Park the evenings would have shrunk enough for neighbours to say, ‘The nights are drawing in,’ a phrase that made Rose feel sad. Ultimately, life drew in, like the days from June to December. It became shorter, more limited, until it finally disappeared altogether.
She took John’s arm as they began the steep part of the climb and pushed away such sombre thoughts. A week today, they’d be travelling with Sarah and Sam to Hannah’s wedding. Surely that was joy enough to sustain them through the dark of winter.
The days shortened, but the weather stayed remarkably mild as life settled back to its autumn routine and Hannah and Teddy drove south to Italy on their wedding journey. As her mother had predicted, Sarah was so absorbed with her work on their pictures she had difficulty fitting in the visits she wanted to make to the mills. When there wasn’t schoolwork she read volumes from Hugh’s library on the complexities of spinning and weaving to help her with her notes for the pictures she’d already taken.
As long as she was complaining of not having enough time for all she wanted to do, Rose could relax and enjoy the extra hours she had for herself now she’d but two to look after. She took up her reading and sewing gratefully and made Sarah a new dress for her first school dance.
So long awaited and so much anticipated by the other girls in Sarah’s year, this great occasion came and went in early December. Clearly she enjoyed the dressing up, being bowed to by Hugh, when he chanced to call just before she departed, being driven down in the trap by her father, and listening to the very good band, but the opportunity to dance with her contemporaries filled her with no great enthusiasm.
‘Most of them can’t think of two words to say to you,’ she summed up next morning, when she came down to a late breakfast. ‘The best thing was the supper,’ she added, as she buttered more toast.
Rose enquired about one or two boys she’d mentioned occasionally and the handsome, red-headed lad, eldest son of the Jacksons who’d recently moved into MacMurray’s empty farmhouse at the foot of the hill.
‘Oh yes, I danced with all of them. I danced with nearly everyone. Peter Jackson’s not a bad dancer, but the only one I like dancing with is Kenny Taylor and he’s stupid.’
‘So why do you like dancing with him?’
‘He’s a marvellous dancer,’ she said coolly, as she munched steadily. ‘He’s so light on his feet, I sometimes think we’ll take off and fly,’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘And I don’t have to bother talking to him. He’s so lost in the music, it puts him off his step if I say anything.’
‘What’s Kenny going to do when he leaves school?’ Rose asked casually, wondering what she really meant by ‘stupid’.
‘Oh, he’ll be a solicitor like his father,’ she replied, indifferently.
‘You have to be quite clever to be a solicitor.’
‘I suppose so. That sort of clever he can manage, but he says such stupid things. He keeps asking me to go for walks with him. Honestly, as if I hadn’t better things to do,’ she added, as Rose turned away towards the stove to hide her smile.
It was later that same morning when the postman delivered an invitation to Hugh which he certainly had not been expecting. Standing in the kitchen finishing a quick mug of tea with John, he flicked through the handful of envelopes parked on the table. Out of pure curiosity, he opened the only one he couldn’t immediately identify.
‘Good gracious,’ he said, as he drew an elegant card from its equally elegant envelope.
John glanced across at him, caught sight of the stiff, gold-rimmed communication and laughed.
‘Are ye for London or Dublin, then?’
‘Neither,’ said Hugh, his tone strangely sad as he examined the printed text with greater care. ‘It’s an invitation to the launch of the Oceanic,’ he said awkwardly, as he dropped card and envelope on the table.
‘Aye, it’s due, from the last I heerd of it,’ John replied steadily.
‘Jamie’s ship, I’ve always called it,’ Hugh said, tightening his lips.
He remembered the summer day in ’96 when they’d all climbed the wall to watch Sam steaming past in the new Fowler. Delighted by Sam’s achievement, he’d thought immediately of Jamie. ‘We’ll have to do better than a wall to stand on when they launch Jamie’s ship,’ he’d said then.
‘Maybe there’ll be one waiting for you at lunchtime,’ he went on quickly.
John shook his head.
‘Ach, I don’t think it’s very likely, Hugh. Sure it’s sixteen months now since we last saw him. We’ve had no word at all. Not so much as a wee note to his mother for the Christmas present and the two birthday presents she’s sent him. Even if there were an invitation, I wouldn’t have the heart to go, unless there were a letter from Jamie himself alongside of it.’
‘I really can’t think why I’ve been invited.’
‘Sure all the big manufacturers has likely been asked,’ John replied. ‘There’ll be a lot of publicity for it, an’ people over from England and abroad. Ye ought to go Hugh,’ he added more firmly. ‘It’s a historic occasion. She’s a fine ship and a credit to Ulster. Don’t let our sorrow put you off. Sure life has to go on,’ he said, getting up from his chair and heading back for the workshop.
‘John, it says and party, maximum four,’ Hugh added, as he caught up with him. ‘Would you and Rose, and Sarah, not come with me if you don’t get an invitation of your own. You’re quite right, it is a historic occasion. It would be something for Sarah to tell her grandchildren about. See what Rose says and I’ll maybe walk down tonight to see what you’ve decided,’ he ended, as he took up his drawings and collected his thoughts.
There was no launch invitation among the morning’s post at Ballydown, just a postcard from Hannah, a note from Elizabeth and a letter for Sarah from Marianne.
‘Well, what do you think?’ John asked, as they sat down together.
‘I don’t think we should go,’ she said quietly. ‘It wouldn’t do any of us any good if we met up by accident,’ she went on, shaking her head. ‘But it’d be a pity if Hugh doesn’t go. He’s quite right about it being an important occasion. It’s the world’s biggest ship, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, it is. They say she’ll beat the German one on the Atlantic run when she’s finished. And there’s others comin’ on behind her. D’ye think Sarah wou’d enjoy that?’
‘Well, there’s no harm in asking, as the saying is,’ said Rose laughing. ‘Maybe we should let Hugh ask her himself, if he has a mind to. Will he be down tonight?’
‘He said he might, but I’ll have to walk up this afternoon some time. I left my spectacles on the workbench. Sure I can’t read the newspaper now wi’out them,’ he added ruefully. ‘I’ll tell him what ye’ve said and leave it up to him.’
The first week of January 1899 was wild and stormy but not particularly cold, but the following week the storms died down and on the second Saturday in the month, the day of the launch, the air was bright and dry with hints of sun and no threat of rain.
Hugh had asked Sarah if she would like to go and Sarah had jumped at the chance. Rose noted that she was looking forward to the outing with a great deal more anticipation than she had to the school dance.
As Hugh had lost no time at all in claiming his tickets, they were directed to seats half way up the specially constructed grandstand alongside the Victoria channel. From where they sat, not only could they see the huge, elegant shape of the ship almost directly in front of them, but also the smaller, beflagged and bedecked pavilion a little distance away, where the lords and ladies, distinguished guests and foreign visitors, would take their seats.
‘Hugh, isn’t this exciting?’ Sarah exclaimed, as they sat down and she took in the scene with one long-sweeping glance.
‘Yes, I have to admit it is,’ he replied laughing. ‘There’s an extraordinary atmosphere. I must say I hadn’t expected so many people. No wonder we had to wait so long for a cab at the station.’
‘Special trains from all over Ulster,’ she replied promptly, running her eyes over the gleaming hull. ‘What time does it happen?’ she went on as she studied the tiny figures on the deck above.
‘Eleven, I think. But nothing will happen till all those seats are full,’ he said, smiling and nodding towards the pavilion.
‘I don’t think I can do much in the way of a picture,’ she said, opening up her camera. ‘She’s too big. But I’d like to take some pictures of the crowd and I might just catch the wave. Do you know about displacement waves?’
‘No,’ said Hugh grinning. ‘But I’m sure you do. I’m listening,’ he said, as he sat back in his seat and waited.
She laughed up at him, thinking what a lovely smile he had when he was happy. She’d observed that Hugh wasn’t always happy. In fact, she had come to the conclusion that he was often rather unhappy though he concealed it awfully well. If ever she dropped into the workshop unexpectedly she’d catch a look in his eyes that made her wonder if he was as bored with machines and running mills as she was with school. She also noticed how quickly the look disappeared because he seemed always so pleased to see her. Which was nice. But it didn’t mean that the sad look wasn’t there when there was no one to distract him.
On the still air, voices carried long distances. They heard instructions being given to the shipwrights by megaphone and picked up the witty comments of those in the crowd who were impatient for proceedings to begin. At regular intervals, there were great booming explosions which turned out to be salutes in honour of the small parties of distinguished guests arriving at the pavilion to their left.
‘Them bangs wou’d do ye no good if ye’d a bad heart,’ said a man, seated a row in front of them.
A section of the huge crowd on the terrace below them had begun to sing ‘Go on the blues’. Other sections took it up and either by accident or by design it proceeded antiphonally with great gusto, until another series of explosions suggested that something might really be about to happen.
Silence descended once again. From where Sarah and Hugh sat they could see it was a salute to a final party of guests, whether the most important or the least important they couldn’t tell, as they watched yet more bejewelled ladies accompanied by men in top hats and morning dress being led to the few remaining seats under the canopy.
‘Do you recognise any of them?’ she enquired, as she surveyed the pavilion through her viewfinder and decided that it was too far away.
‘I don’t exactly move in those circles, do I?’ he said, with a slight disapproving look.
She laughed, knowing he was teasing her.
‘There’ll be some of the top men at Harlands. You might know them. Ismay or Pirrie or Gustav Wolff,’ she offered. ‘And the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava, he’s our local bigwig isn’t he? I heard there are some Americans have come over especially. Why do you think they like things just because they’re big?’
Hugh laughed. Before she could continue, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face the pavilion.
‘Is that Jamie?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes, it is,’ she replied, her voice tight with tension the moment she caught sight of the tall, lithe figure who ran up the steps of the marquee and handed a note to a seated dignitary, before bowing and withdrawing out of sight.
‘It’s his big day too, remember.’
‘It should have been a big day for all of us,’ she came back at him, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘You really mean I should forgive him, don’t you?’ she went on, glaring at him.
‘You could give it a try. We all make mistakes and hurt people.’
‘Even you?’
‘Of course. Perhaps particularly me. Or so I sometimes think.’
She looked at him in silence, wondering how he could ever have hurt anyone.
‘Look,’ he said urgently. ‘They’re waving a flag. I think that’s for the launch.
His words were drowned by another barrage of explosions. Sarah swung round and glued her eyes to the ship. For what seemed like an age, there was neither movement nor sound. Then, quite suddenly, she heard the snap and crack of the timbers that had stood against her sides. Like matchsticks, the huge, tree-sized wedges were thrown in the air, as ropes ran out and hawsers gave way. She began to move.
‘Oh, Hugh look!’ she cried.
Down on the promenade below, the displacement wave had soaked some of the photographers and all of the people standing close to the dock. Even more unexpectedly, the force of its movement under the lower part of the grandstand pushed up fountains of dirty water among those seated immediately below them. There was laughter and cheering, even among the unfortunates who had been soaked, as the Oceanic settled with grace and equilibrium in the placid waters of the Lagan.
Above the roar of the crowd and the cheers of those who had worked upon her, an incredible symphony of sound erupted into the air. The ringing of ships’ bells and sirens, foghorns and hooters, rang out in peal after peal of joyous celebration.
Suddenly she felt tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Are you all right, Sarah?’ Hugh asked, his face full of concern.
She nodded fiercely and rubbed her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Thank you for bringing me. I don’t think I shall ever forget today, however long I live.’