The last week of January 1901 brought with it two memorable events: the long-awaited departure of Queen Victoria and the anxiously awaited arrival of Elizabeth Stewart’s first child. While the country went through the rituals of mourning for a Queen who had mourned for most of her long life, Elizabeth, after a long and difficult labour, borne with her customary calm, gave birth to a robust baby boy who already had a cap of the same fine dark hair as his father. Elizabeth and Richard were relieved and delighted. Every moment they could spend together with their child was a kind of celebration.
Visiting in the evenings after work, when Hugh drove her over to spend a few hours with the new parents and her mother, who was looking after Elizabeth, Sarah was overwhelmed by their joy. She held the very new baby, was amazed at its smallness and its perfection, totally entranced by the curling and uncurling of its fingers and amused by his name. James Richard Pearson Stewart seemed such a big name for such a very small creature.
It was only when Elizabeth was on her feet again and Rose safely back home that Sarah admitted she was so exhausted she felt she could sleep for a week. She wondered how women who worked all day in shops and factories could manage to buy food in their brief midday break, cook an evening meal, keep up with the laundry and housework and be up early enough to get to work by eight o’clock the next day. She’d done it willingly enough for three weeks, but she wasn’t sure she could have kept it up much longer.
With Rose’s encouragement and the knowledge that her mother would be away again quite soon, she gave up her job gratefully in the middle of March and spent her first week of freedom having breakfast in bed and getting up very late indeed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Rose asked, the morning her sailing tickets arrived.
‘But, of course, Ma. I’m absolutely fine now,’ she reassured her. ‘If it weren’t for looking after Da while you’re with Hannah, I’d be thinking of a new job. But I won’t even look at Situations Vacant until you’re back.’
‘You won’t get bored?’ asked Rose cautiously.
‘No. I’ve got lots of plans,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going to work out how I can use my old bedroom as a dark room. Da says he can fit a frame over the window and I’ve found a filter I can use on a torch to make a dark light. That’ll keep me busy when I’m not cooking and cleaning.’
‘You will get out in the fresh air, won’t you?’ Rose went on, suddenly remembering what Lady Anne had said about the smell from the knife room at Ashley Park when Teddy had used it as a darkroom.
‘Yes, I will. Hugh’s offered to help me with my landscapes,’ she explained. ‘He got me to admit you can’t carry a plate camera and a tripod on a bicycle. He says the motor needs regular outings to keep it running sweetly, so he might as well drive me around the countryside rather than just take it out for the sake of keeping it ticking over.’
Rose looked at her carefully. Her daughter’s eyes were bright, her usual good spirits completely restored. Clearly, she was looking forward to the next month, her plans already made. She wondered what changes might occur in her absence. A month was a long time. Only a week earlier, Lady Anne had enquired if Sarah had any admirers.
‘She is such an attractive, lively girl,’ she’d written. ‘I can’t imagine she hasn’t her admirers.’
She’d sat for a while thinking about it, her regular letter already half-written.
I hardly know how to answer your question about Sarah, Anne dear. I sometimes think of what you said about Teddy, that he couldn’t even remember the names of the girls he danced with. Sarah’s a bit like that. Quite disparaging about most of the boys she was at school with. Occasionally, I mention a name, like Peter Jackson, our new neighbour’s son, who is a nice lad and distinctly good-looking, but Sarah just laughs.
I sometimes wonder if it’s because she’s always had such a good friend in Hugh that she finds boys of her own age so very young and unappealing. I must say I’m surprised Hugh has never married. He’s an attractive man and although he does still have a scar, the damage of that terrible fall seems to have been completely corrected. He hasn’t even got a limp now. What marvellous things they can do these days to mend damaged bodies, though I must say Hugh worked terribly hard himself and suffered a great deal to get his muscles working again. I really did think when Elizabeth got engaged to Richard Stewart, Hugh would look around him.
But speaking of looking around, Anne, I’ve remembered something else I must tell you. Sam arrived last Saturday afternoon looking smarter than ever. I’ve never know anyone who could get such a shine on their boots! Sarah began teasing him right away. Sam, of course, said nothing. He has a way of just smiling. But John and I both think there’s a girl in it somewhere. Sarah is perfectly certain there is. She says he may not be saying anything, but she won’t be one bit surprised when he does.
So much happening, my dear, babies and engagements. I’m so much looking forward to seeing you next week when I come over for Hannah’s confinement. What a mercy she is so well and has you at hand. I am so grateful for that. Love and kisses to you both,
Rose
Francis John Molyneux Harrington was born at Cleeve Hall, one of the manor houses on the Ashley estates, on the last day of March 1901, arriving just before midnight in the midst of an equinoctial gale that felled timber in the park and disrupted sailings to and from Ireland. But within the comfortable old manor, all remained calm and quiet. Shortly after the birth, Rose and Anne retreated to the sitting room to drink tea, leaving Hannah holding her child as if she’d spent her young womanhood caring for babies, while Teddy sat beside her, unable to take his eyes from her face and the fall of her hair.
Rushed to the nearest Post Office by one of the younger servants, the expected telegram arrived at Ballydown next morning. Sarah heard the scrape of handlebars against the garden wall and hurried to the door.
‘Here y’are. I hope it’s not bad news,’ said the telegraph boy, as she flew down the garden path, grabbed the envelope he held out to her and ripped it open.
‘Lovely boy. Hannah well. Letter follows. Love Ma,’ she read, her stomach doing a double somersault before it settled back into its normal position.
‘No, it’s not. It’s good news,’ she said beaming. ‘My sister’s had her baby. All’s well. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Ach aye. That’s great. An’ how’s Sam?’
Sarah paused, confused and somewhat taken aback. She looked more closely at the young man in his smart uniform.
‘Billy?’ she said, still a little uncertain, ‘of course it’s Billy. I didn’t recognise you for a minute. You were Sam’s flagman.’
‘Aye, till I got abolished in ’96,’ he said wryly.
‘But you went on working at Tullyconnaught, didn’t you? It was you went for Da when Sam broke his leg. Thank goodness you did.’
‘Aye,’ he replied, lifting up his bicycle and preparing to mount. ‘But when I came up to see Sam an’ he told me he’d got his cards, I thought to meself. That’s that. And I started to look about. I’m a lot better off where I am. And I’m learning the telegraph forby. As long as they don’t invent somethin’ else for sendin’ messages quicker, I’ll do rightly,’ he declared, as he got into the saddle. ‘Tell Sam I was askin’ for him,’ he called over his shoulder as he pushed off down the hill.
‘I will indeed, Billy. Thanks a lot.’
She read the telegram three times more as if it still had something new to tell her. Laughing at herself, she pulled on her cape and set off up the hill, the bright, torn envelope in her pocket.
The stiff, chill breeze from the north-east almost took her breath away, but it was powerful enough to blow holes in the clouded sky. By the time she got to the top of the hill, great patches of blue sky had already appeared. Against them, the still bare branches of the limes swayed back and forth, the light picking out the pale, swollen buds that would break into leaf as soon as they felt the touch of some real warmth.
She made her way to the workshop, but finding it empty and silent, she proceeded to the conservatory. It was Hugh who saw her first and sprang to his feet, setting aside a pile of papers.
‘Sarah,’ he said, beaming.
‘Hallo, Hugh,’ she replied. ‘Sorry to interrupt the work. I have a message for Granda Hamilton,’ she continued, almost managing to keep her face straight.
‘Ach dear,’ said the man himself, looking up at her, his eyes suspiciously damp. ‘When did you hear?’
She pulled out the crumpled telegram, put it in his hand and dropped down gratefully in the chair Hugh brought for her.
‘And all well?’ Hugh said softly, meeting her eyes, as John read and reread the brief message just as she’d done.
She nodded happily.
‘About ten minutes ago,’ she said, answering her father’s question as Hugh disappeared in search of Mrs Lappin and a pot of tea.
‘I can’t rightly take it in,’ he said, blowing his nose and glancing again at the insignificant piece of beige paper.
‘Tea in a couple of minutes,’ Hugh said, coming back into the sun-filled conservatory. ‘Mrs Lappin says “congratulations,” John. This makes you an aunt, Sarah. How do you like the idea?’ he asked, his sober, grey eyes unusually bright.
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ she replied laughing. ‘I hope he’s as lovely as Elizabeth’s baby. What does it feel like to be an uncle?’ she demanded in return.
Tea arrived. Mrs Lappin was not noted for her enthusiasm or her smiles but even she seemed delighted. What was it, Sarah wondered, that brought such joy? A child born in another place, to a girl once known, a neighbour’s daughter, no relation or close friend. She’d never seen her look so cheerful.
‘We must go to Dromore and tell Elizabeth and Richard this evening,’ said Hugh, as he finished his tea. ‘What time can I pick you up?’ he asked, looking from Sarah to John and back again.
‘I think maybe I’ll write Rose and Hannah a few lines this evenin’,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘But you and Sarah away over an’ see them. They’ll be powerful pleased to hear the news.’
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ enquired Hugh, one calm April evening two weeks later, as he reached out to take the camera and tripod from her. He waited while she climbed over a stone wall.
‘I think so,’ said Sarah slowly. ‘I have a feeling the light level dropped just as I was ready to take it. But I couldn’t work any faster. There are so many pitfalls with landscape,’ she explained solemnly. ‘One wobbly tripod leg and that lake drains out down the main road.’
He studied her closely, surprised to hear her tone so flat.
‘You look tired.’
‘Do I?’
‘You often do when you take pictures. I think it’s because you concentrate so hard.’
‘I never thought of that,’ she said honestly.
‘Come and sit in the motor. It’s better padded than this wall.’
She laughed and climbed up gratefully into the parked motor. Behind her, she heard Hugh make sure her equipment was safely wedged on the back seat.
‘That sky just gets more beautiful,’ she exclaimed, as he got in beside her. ‘But I can’t do anything about it till they invent the colour film we talked about after Elizabeth’s wedding.’
‘Probably won’t be all that long before they do,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up with the rate things change at these days. Probably a sign of advancing age,’ he added, with a slight, wry laugh.
She looked at him and grinned.
‘Da says it’s all the fault of the change of century,’ she declared, leaning back comfortably. ‘Making him feel old, that is. Francis and James will be twentieth-century men, but all the rest of us span two centuries. And two reigns,’ she added, as the thought struck her.
‘Yes, we’re Victorians and the babies will be Edwardians,’ he mused. ‘Just think what they’ll live to see. More radical things than colour film, I suspect. What do you think?’
‘Moving pictures certainly,’ she replied, as she watched fragments of tinted cloud move across the paling sky. ‘Marianne persuaded Lady Anne to go to the cinematograph in London. They do marvellous things with horses. She said some people screamed when they came racing towards them and flew over their heads on the screen,’ she went on, laughing. ‘But I expect that’s only a beginning, like me using a plate camera and a Kodak.’
He smiled at her and gazed out over the broad prospect below them, the calm surface of a small lake perfectly reflecting the low hills that surrounded it, a solitary fisherman standing thigh deep in water, creating ripples that vibrated outwards into the still water.
‘So what’s your next project, Sarah, now you’ve got your darkroom going?’
‘Belfast,’ she said promptly. ‘I want to learn portraiture and I need a big studio for that.’
He glanced away and for a moment Sarah wondered what had caught his eye. A blackbird in the hedgerow or a patch of light on a distant field.
‘You’d go into lodgings?’ he said, matter-of-factly.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, not looking at him. ‘I thought I’d have a word with Elizabeth. She always knows people who know people,’ she said smiling.
But to her surprise, Hugh didn’t smile at all. He just looked thoughtful and rather sad and said it was time they were getting back.
Sarah stood on the shallow steps of the Great Northern Railway Station and looked up and down Great Victoria Street. It was full of vehicles of all kinds coming and going, the noise of hooves and wheels on the cobbles, the cries of carriers and street sellers loud in her ears. There was no sign at all of a cab, but Hugh had insisted she would need one. The Abercorn Studio was in Anne’s Street, he’d said, studying the street plan in his Trade Directory. It was too far to walk through crowded streets carrying the albums of work she’d decided to take.
It was much warmer in the city than in Banbridge and her smart straw bonnet seemed to make her head hotter rather than keep her cool. She patted her face with her handkerchief. It was much noisier too. She’d have to get used to that. But the thought of getting used to this continuous noise oppressed her.
‘It’s just a question of giving it time,’ she said to herself, thinking of what her mother would say.
She’d got used to standing all day and running up and down that steep staircase in the tall, narrow building looking out over The Cut, when she first started work. Other girls did it. So could she. She spotted a cab, waved her handkerchief and was grateful when the driver tipped his whip in acknowledgement and manoeuvred his way towards her.
The Abercorn Studio comprised two floors above a chemist’s shop and wasn’t nearly as elegant as it claimed to be in its advertisement. But it did have its own entrance, a familiar steep, narrow staircase. Clutching the bag with her albums in one hand and picking up her skirt with the other, she climbed up to a landing where she was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fixer.
A number of doors opened out of the landing. None of them were labelled and it was not immediately clear where someone coming for interview should apply. Knowing she was early, she sat down on a hard wooden chair to consider her next move. Hugh had been quite right. The albums were heavy. She’d never noticed that before, but then, she’d never before carried them around all at once.
As she sat collecting herself, a woman emerged from one of the adjoining rooms. She swept past without taking the slightest notice of her. On her return, Sarah stood up.
‘Excuse me. I’ve come to see Mr Abernethy. I have an appointment at three o’clock.’
‘He doesn’t see sales people in the afternoon,’ she said disagreeably, her eye lighting on the albums as she looked her up and down.
‘I’m not a sales person,’ she replied coldly. ‘My name is Sarah Hamilton. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell Mr Abernethy I’m here.’
The superior being moved on with a swish of skirts, the only acknowledgement of her words a slight tilt of the chin. Some minutes later Mr Abernethy himself appeared.
‘Ah, Miss Hamilton,’ he boomed jovially, as he extended his hand. ‘Please come into my office.’
He waved her into a large room filled with heavy furniture, bookcases full of ledgers, large pot plants with very shiny leaves, a collection of plaster pillars, cherubs heads and velvet drapes.
‘Do sit down,’ he said charmingly, as he retreated behind his desk and took up the letter she had written in reply to his advertisement.
‘You are eighteen, Miss Hamilton,’ he said, looking at her sharply with small, dark eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking straight back at him.
Her birthday wasn’t for another two weeks, but she was determined not to miss this opportunity for the sake of a fortnight.
‘You say you have quite a lot of experience, though your last employment was only some eight months,’ he continued, his joviality beginning to grate, his manner wearing rather than pleasant.
‘I’ve been taking pictures for almost four years. I’ve brought some of my work to show you.’
‘Ah excellent. Excellent,’ he said, as she took the albums out of her bag and placed them in front of him.
He flicked through the pages of the first one.
‘Of course, we seldom have much need of landscape pictures,’ he said in the same genial manner. ‘We don’t do picture postcards,’ he added, by way of explanation as he slid the album aside and began on the next.
‘Hmm, most interesting,’ he said, leafing through marginally more slowly. ‘We do sometimes have commissions from manufacturers, but more often for exterior pictures. For advertising, you understand,’ he said, nodding to her.
She watched him closely. For all his avuncular manner, there was something unpleasantly calculating about him. He knew exactly what he wanted and if he didn’t think she could provide it, he’d escort her to the door within the next three minutes, still as charming as ever, and forget her before she’d even set foot on the stairs.
He’d reached the third album now. She knew by the cover it was her first one, the pictures from the summer of ’97 at Ashley Park.
‘And what did you use to take this one?’ he asked, smiling at her over the first double page.
‘That’s the only one I didn’t take,’ she said steadily. ‘I got that from a friend who borrowed a rotating camera. I wanted it as an introduction to the rest of the pictures. I took all of them.’
Mr Abernethy peered at the panoramic picture Teddy had taken and turned the pages more slowly. He came to an abrupt halt at the study of Hannah and Teddy under the rose arch.
‘And these pictures were taken at …?’
‘Ashley Park, in Gloucestershire.’
‘And how, may I ask, did you gain access there?’ he enquired with a confidential bow.
‘My mother and Lady Anne, the countess, that is, are old friends.’
‘Ahh,’ he said, nodding vigorously, as if that fact explained the quality of the pictures. ‘We do a lot of portraiture for the gentry. In fact, we rather specialise in engagements and wedding photography. Such interesting work, don’t you think?’
‘I’m very interested in portraiture, that’s why I applied to you. There are some wedding portraits in the fourth album, but they’re only first attempts with a Kodak. I didn’t have my plate camera then,’ she added slyly, as she saw the way his mind was working.
‘Charming. Quite charming,’ he said. ‘May I ask who this beautiful young woman is?’
Sarah could see exactly what he was thinking. With her face as straight as she could manage and a cool, slightly off hand tone, she replied to his question.
‘Oh, that’s my sister Hannah, Lady Cleeve.’
‘Delightful picture,’ he enthused. ‘But, as you say, a first attempt with a Kodak. I’m sure you’ll find our resources will give you much more scope. Now about your hours and remuneration …’
‘So you said “yes”,’ Rose asked uneasily, as Sarah finished her story some hours later.
‘I did,’ she replied, drinking her mug of tea gratefully. ‘The hours are just as long, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.,’ she went on. ‘But the wages are much better. Stockings and tram fares,’ she said laughing. ‘They are well equipped, though. They’ve got stuff I’ve never even heard of.’
‘I don’t much like the sound of the boss.’
‘I probably won’t see much of him,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘I think he does the money. It’s Mrs Cheesman is the real horror. “How do you do, Miss Hamilton,” she went on, mimicking the over polite tones of the woman who had previously swept past her on the landing. ‘She’s the kind of woman who gives you her hand and it feels like a dead fish.’
Her mother laughed and shook her head.
‘Honestly love, I cannot see much to recommend this job, I really can’t. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ she said, trying not to sound anxious.
‘No, I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘But there are things I want to find out. I know nothing about living in a city, or being a working girl in lodgings, or being away from home and family. Jamie did it. Hannah did it. Then Sam did it. I feel I have to do it too. If it’s awful I won’t pretend it’s not, but I think I can learn a lot at the studio. Abernethy is a real snob,’ she continued, her tone contemptuous. ‘I could see his mind working. If he gave me the job he could put big enlargements of Hannah and Teddy in the studio and just casually refer to them when he’s showing customers in. I agreed, of course. It won’t do them any harm and I’ll get a close look at what he calls “gentry”. All part of my education, Ma,’ she ended with a sigh.
‘Yes, I can see that side of it,’ Rose replied, looking at her carefully. ‘I admire your courage, to be honest. I’m just thinking how much Da and I will miss you. And so will Hugh, I’m sure.’
‘But I’ll be home every week,’ Sarah protested.
‘Well, perhaps,’ replied Rose, thinking of Sam.
‘Of course, I will. Saturday afternoon, by the first train. You just wait and see,’ said Sarah firmly.
The first weeks of the new job went well. Despite the long hours and the fact that Mrs Cheesman treated her like a servant, she was so intrigued by the work she simply didn’t allow her behaviour to upset her. The other assistants, all young men in their twenties, were friendly enough, given to silly practical jokes, but good-natured and otherwise harmless.
Her lodgings, run by a vigorous, middle-aged Quaker lady, were clean, old-fashioned and mercifully quiet. In a tree-lined street near Queen’s College, the tall brick house was inhabited mostly by single ladies who worked in offices. In the evenings, if she stayed in, reading in the sombre sitting room, or writing letters in her small bedroom, she did feel lonely, but, encouraged by the long, warm evenings she began to go for walks, sometimes going so far across the city she had to take a tram to bring her part of the way back.
With the light lingering till after ten, she would take pictures of people strolling in the parks or looking in shop windows. Having something to do kept her from thinking longingly of the countryside round Ballydown and the evenings she’d spent with Hugh visiting local beauty spots. But she couldn’t always keep herself busy. Sometimes after a long, difficult day with tiresome customers or when things went wrong in the darkroom, she was too tired to go out. She lay on her narrow bed looking up at the small patch of sky in the single window and thought of what her mother had said about Hugh missing her.
She knew she missed him. She thought of him often, storing up things to tell him, wondering what he would say when she described a particular person, or explained the problems she’d had with a particular picture. But then, she remembered, Hugh had been part of her life since the very first day they’d arrived in Ballydown. She’d always talked to him, asked him questions and told him what she thought. Even when she was only a little girl he’d listened to her and considered her words as seriously as if she were a grown up. For years now, he’d asked her what she thought about the changes he wanted to make at the mills.
June passed and the heavy, thundery weather of July made the city even less appealing than usual. She longed for Saturday and counted the hours till she stepped into the Banbridge train. As she felt the miles diminish between her and Ballydown, she stared out at the familiar, green countryside as if she were afraid it had somehow disappeared while she’d been closed up indoors all week.
Although Saturday afternoon was supposed to be her half holiday, there were occasions in the summer months when she was obliged to work, because all the young men were out photographing cycling clubs or field clubs, church outings or wedding receptions. She hated it when that happened, but, while she had no choice in the matter of working, she could at least choose to have time off in lieu of the extra hours. That meant she was sometimes able to be free on Friday afternoons and then the weekend beckoned invitingly, for it seemed almost twice as long.
It was on one of these Friday afternoons in early August she found herself walking along the platform in Banbridge with Peter Jackson.
‘Hallo, Sarah. I thought you didn’t get home till Saturday?’ he said, greeting her with a cheerful smile.
‘Don’t usually. Had to work all last Saturday. I’ve got time off for good behaviour,’ she said laughing. ‘What about you?’
‘Been for an interview,’ he said, as they handed in their tickets and came through the barrier into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘Don’t think I can stand cows all my life. Shipping Office and Travel Agents. Pay is poor, but it goes up when I’m twenty and I’ve an aunt I can lodge with. How’s photography?’ he asked, nodding at the camera slung over her shoulder.
‘Very mixed,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve actually got to missing cows,’ she went on, grinning, as they paused by the bicycle park.
She watched him as he unlocked his chain, wheeled it back to where she stood.
‘Haven’t you got yours?’ he asked.
‘No. Da leaves me down in the trap on Sunday nights. Anyway, I’m looking forward to the walk. Don’t let me keep you back, Peter. I’ll probably see you tomorrow if Ma wants eggs or milk. We get through twice as much when Sam comes home,’ she said laughing.
‘I’ll walk as far as the Memorial with you,’ he said easily. ‘How is Sam? I hear he has a girl.’
‘How did you hear that?’ she asked, curious, as they stepped out of the station yard into the sunlight of the warm August afternoon.
‘Busy as ever,’ Peter commented, looking up and down the main street, crowded with randomly parked carts and drays.
As Sarah followed his gaze, her eye was suddenly caught by a figure on a bicycle weaving expertly at speed between the pedestrians and parked vehicles.
‘Billy,’ she called, as she recognised his trim uniform.
He spotted her and skidded to a halt beside them.
‘There’s a fire at Millbrook,’ he gasped. ‘I’m away up for your Da and Mr Sinton. The Manager telegraphed us. Must go,’ he added, whizzing off without a backward glance.
‘Peter, could I ask you a great favour?’ Sarah said carefully.
‘What?’ he asked, looking at her in surprise.
‘Would you lend me your bicycle?’ she said promptly. ‘I wasn’t planning to take pictures of a fire, but they could be useful, especially if I can get there quickly.’
‘Yes, of course. Can you manage the bar?’ he asked, handed it over. ‘Can I take your bag? It’ll be safer with me.’
She handing him her overnight bag, moved her camera from her shoulder to lie diagonally across her chest and caught up her skirts with a practised hand.
‘Thanks, Peter. You’re a real friend,’ she said warmly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take great care of your bike. See you later.’
‘Just take care of yourself,’ he called after her as she pushed off and wove her way into the middle of the road.