The evening train was crowded. There were many people like Sarah herself, going home to farmhouses in the countryside after a long working week in the city. There were others too, already free from their week’s work, heading for Hillsborough, or Dromore, or Banbridge, for some Saturday night entertainment. Couples sat together close enough to hold hands without being observed. Young men in stiff collars, like Peter Jackson, put down their newspapers and thought about a home cooked supper, a Sunday lie in, a walk in the lanes, listening to news of animals and fields, weather and prices, in the different world to which they were returning.
Sitting by a window, she stared unseeing at the passing landscape and saw no one in the crowded carriage. Her thoughts were all of Jamie. She turned over and over in her mind the brief conversation Miss Slater had granted. It didn’t give much hope. In fact, the more she considered it, the more sure she was it didn’t give any hope at all. Jamie had shut the door of the studio behind him, just as he had shut the door on the Hamiltons of Ballydown, when he got his long-awaited managership.
‘He’d forgotten Ma’s lovely shirts,’ she said to herself, torn between sadness her mother’s loving gesture could be so rejected and her own anger that he’d become a person who could do such a thing.
She recalled the way he had stood behind Miss Slater’s chair, his carefully assumed posture both protective and possessive. The picture she’d composed for the camera lens was a picture of what he wanted. His every word, his every move, made it clear he had indeed made up his mind long ago and he had not the slightest intention of changing it. His final words to her, ‘Good luck with the photography,’ were said with a particular dismissiveness that told her he never wished, or expected, to lay eyes on her ever again.
She pulled out her bag from under her seat and took out a bright yellow envelope. Another bright yellow envelope. Only four days ago, she’d journeyed home on this same early evening train with just such an envelope but that one had held a cluster of pictures that brought hope and promised an end to anxiety.
She slid out the single print of the happy couple Harry had made for her. It was a good picture. Neither Mrs Cheesman nor Mr Abernethy would be able to find fault with it. Miss Slater seated, Jamie standing erect, the sharp figures nicely offset against the drapes they’d chosen. She studied it carefully, pretending she herself had not taken it. What did it tell her about this couple and about this young man in particular? What could she guess at from Jamie’s poised, immaculate dress, his confident smile, his hand placed casually, but proprietorially, on the back of the carved chair.
She gazed at it for a long time in the golden light reflecting through the dust-streaked windows of the train. It confirmed all she’d read when she was face-to-face with her brother. She pushed it back into the black lined envelope and into her bag. The question now was what she did about it.
The station was crowded, but the moment she emerged from the booking hall, she spotted Hugh’s motor. Her father and Hugh himself were sitting watching the crowds that spilt out from the Belfast train. Hugh was the first to spot her and waved.
‘Hallo, Hugh, Hallo, Da. I wasn’t expecting to see either of you,’ she said smiling up at them.
‘Hop up there beside Hugh,’ said her father, getting down and taking her bag from her. ‘We were out at Millbrook and Hugh remembered the time. When you weren’t home by three, we knew you’d had to work on. We thought we’d save you a walk,’ he explained, as he settled himself in the back seat.
She sat back gratefully. The walk would have been pleasant on such a fine evening, but suddenly she felt very tired and very grateful to be riding home. Hugh smiled at her, then gave his attention to weaving his way through the usual Saturday evening throng of carts and traps parked at random between the station and the Crozier monument.
‘Well,’ she said, as they cleared the town and the road opened before them. ‘What news? It can’t be bad, for Ma promised to write if it was.’
‘No, it’s not bad, Sarah. It’s as good as it can be,’ Hugh began. ‘They’re paying up. We’ve employed all our own men to clear the debris and the builders are starting on Monday. It’ll take Mackays six weeks to build and install the engines, but we’re going to hire portable ones for the east end and work half the mill on a double shift system,’ he said smiling broadly and looking pleased with himself. ‘Not my idea,’ he added, ‘but I do listen to my friends.’
‘So most families will have wages coming in,’ she replied, breathing a great sigh of relief.
‘All families,’ he declared, nodding, without taking his eyes from the road. ‘When the men finish clearing the debris, those still not needed in the mill are starting work on a small reservoir on the brook so we’ll never be short of water again. We might even attract a pair of swans, like Corbet Lough,’ he added, a strange, wistful note in his voice offsetting her pleasure in what he was saying.
‘Are ye sure ye won’t come in for a bite of supper, Hugh?’ John asked, as they stopped outside Ballydown.
She smiled encouragingly. After this long, hard week, it would be so good to share the whole story of the claim and the plans they’d made as soon as it was clear the worst was over, but she saw a look pass across Hugh’s face which meant he would not come. She felt sad, disappointed. Once more, after a short and happy meeting, she was to be deprived of his company.
‘Thank you, John, that would be very pleasant, but I’ve some contracts to go through, so they can be delivered by hand first thing on Monday.’
Suddenly, she remembered she had a job of her own to do this evening. With luck, when she and Hugh went down to look for the swans tomorrow, her mind would be clearer.
‘Well, well, so that’s the way of it, is it,’ John stated flatly.
Sarah looked from her father to her mother and wondered yet again if she’d done the right thing.
‘He didn’t ask for Sam or for Hannah, did he?’ said Rose, already turning over her careful account of the brief conversation in the studio.
Sarah shook her head.
‘And he’s James now again, is he?’ John asked, an edge of irritation in his voice.
‘Yes. Miss Slater didn’t seem to like Jamie at all from the look on her face, so I called him James. But when we were alone I called him Jamie and he corrected me.’
‘Did you not find out her first name, Sarah?’ her mother asked in turn. ‘Surely he didn’t call her Miss Slater?’
‘He didn’t call her anything. Not in front of me. I’ve a feeling he didn’t want me to know, now I come to think of it. He really didn’t want to give away anything. I’m sure if I’d had longer and asked more questions, he’d just have put me off.’
They sat in silence in front of the stove, the big kitchen filling with shadow though the light was still golden across the road in the field the Jacksons had rented for their cattle.
She searched her mind for any word or detail she might have missed, but there was nothing really to add to the simple account she’d given.
‘I do have one of the pictures I took of them. Harry did an extra one by mistake and I asked him for it. I’m not sure now whether it makes matters better or worse. I can’t throw it away till I’ve asked you.’
John said nothing and Rose studied his downcast face for many minutes before she replied.
‘Oh, I think we should see it, Sarah,’ she said quietly, giving her a reassuring glance which he failed to see.
She fetched the envelope from her bag, drew out the picture and handed it to her mother. She studied it coolly for a long minute and then passed it across to John without comment.
‘A well set up young man,’ he said, sharply. ‘If you diden know you’d never guess his Granda laboured tossing sheaves on a Galloway farm and went to Mass on Sunday,’ he went on bitterly. ‘Indeed, you’d hardly think his mother sewed wee babies’ dresses till her eyes ran red to keep him fed, and his wicked oul’ Uncle Sam that helped keep poor, evicted people from starvin’, spent a week’s wage to buy him an’ his brother the first books they iver had about steam engines.’
He handed the photograph back to Rose.
‘Aye, maybe he’ll end up a big man,’ he said nodding. ‘He has the brains for it. An’ he’s picked a girl to get him inta the right places. Sure he might end up on the Board of Harlands and be Sir James.’
He paused, a strange, grim expression on his face, so unlike him.
‘Wasn’t he lucky he had a good Ulster name like Hamilton?’ he continued at last. ‘Sure can’t he pretend he’s one of the Hamiltons of Clandeboye or Dufferin. He need never let on he’s only one of the Hamiltons of Ballydown.’
He got up and marched across the floor.
‘I’ll just away out an’ see to Dolly. I can’t mind if I left her any oats earlier,’ he announced, as he picked up his cap and disappeared round the side of the house.
‘Da’s very upset,’ said Sarah sadly.
‘Yes, he is. But he’ll be all right given a bit of time,’ her mother replied calmly.
‘Do you think I should just have torn up the photograph?’ she asked, still utterly distressed by the bleak look on her father’s face.
‘No, I think you did right,’ she replied firmly. ‘The only thing to do with a hurt is to face it. I faced my loss some time back when there was no word after the second Christmas. But your father has no way of coming to terms with something unless he can see it and touch it. It has to be there in front of him. It’s often that way with men. The photograph was a gift. It helped him do what I’ve already done,’ she ended, with a great sigh.
‘So you’ve really accepted it, Ma?’ she asked gently.
‘Yes, love. There’s never any use wasting time on regrets. There’s so much else more worth doing. But perhaps it’s easy for me. Remember Sarah, I might not have been here to see Jamie turn his back on us. Death would have spared me the hurt. But I’d rather have life. I’m so grateful for all I’ve got.’
Sarah got up and moved restlessly to look out the open door.
‘Will Da really be all right?’
‘Yes, he will. He’s hurt, but he knows he’s loved. Once the sharp sting passes, he’ll remember that and he’ll be fine again. Don’t worry, Sarah, he’s got over worse than this.’
Sarah glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was only just after eight o’clock.
‘Ma, there’s something I need to say to Hugh,’ she said quickly. ‘I know I’ll see him tomorrow, but I’m afraid of losing hold of it. Do you mind if I leave you for half an hour or so?’
To her great surprise, her mother smiled, her dark eyes springing back to life.
‘No time like the present, Sarah. I’ll see you later,’ she said encouragingly, as she caught up her cape from the hooks by the door.
At the bottom of the hill, Peter Jackson and his father were driving the cows back up to their pasture. She waved, but called no greeting, the quiet in her head was so fragile she felt she dare not risk disturbing it.
She walked quickly up the hill and down the avenue to Rathdrum, more aware of the scatter of yellowed leaves at her feet than of the clear sky now paling as the sun went west. There was no sign of Mrs Lappin in the kitchen or in her sitting room nearby, so she went down the hall to the dining room where the long, polished table was usually three-quarters covered with paper. She knocked gently.
‘Come in.’
Hugh was bent over his documents. He glanced up and looked startled, but reassured by her smile, he stood up and came towards her.
‘Sarah, what a nice surprise,’ he managed, recovering himself.
‘There was something I needed to ask you Hugh.’
He brought her a chair and placed it near to his own. She sat down without taking her eyes from his face.
‘I wanted to ask you if you ever feel lonely,’ she said, matter-of-factly.
‘Well, yes. Yes, of course I do.’
‘I’ve been wondering why you haven’t done anything about it.’
‘Should I have?’
‘No. There’s no requirement. But it’s a pity to be lonely if it’s not necessary.’
He looked around him awkwardly, surveying the piled up pieces of paper as if one of them might just contain the answer. They had always been direct with each other. Candour had come to Hugh from his Quaker upbringing. It had been a characteristic of Sarah ever since he had known her.
‘If I were twenty-six and not thirty-six, there might be a possibility of a solution,’ he said with an effort, the struggle to choose his words drawing out the lines of weariness the last anxious week had brought.
‘You’d marry?’
‘I’d risk a proposal.’
‘So why would it be a risk?’
‘Because I feel old and tired and the woman in question is young and energetic and has infinite possibilities in front of her. Besides, were I to propose and be rejected, I would lose what is precious to me. It’s not worth that risk,’ he said, dropping his face in his hands.
‘Oh dear, you have had a bad week, haven’t you?’
He looked up and saw her smiling, her eyes sparkling with laughter.
He managed a feeble smile in response but said nothing.
‘I’ve had a rotten week too,’ she said softly. ‘I missed you. I wanted to be with you. I longed to be here helping you. I’ve been just as lonely. So what are we going to do about it?’
‘Sarah, are you saying you’d be willing to marry me?’
‘Yes, I think that’s the general drift of my thinking,’ she replied, in a light teasing tone. ‘It might be a good idea if you forgot about age, yours or mine, and just concentrated on friendship and love.’
‘And cherishing whatever time we have?’ he said, reaching for her hand.
His eyes wide with surprise, he found at last the words he needed.
‘Sarah, my dear love, will you marry me?’
‘Yes.’
‘As soon as possible?’
‘I have a half day next Friday,’ she said, her face straight for a few moments before she dissolved into laughter.
He stood up, gathered her into his arms and kissed her.
‘I really ought to ask your father’s permission,’ he said, hesitantly.
‘We could go and do that now, couldn’t we?’ she said, releasing him. ‘No time like the present, as the saying is,’ she added, thinking of her mother, who had finally shown her what she needed to do.
Sunday afternoon was fine and warm when they drove off down to Corbet Lough with two bags of crusts for the swans. Back at Ballydown, Rose and John sat by the stove reading the Sunday papers.
‘Did you know this was goin’ to happen?’ he said suddenly, his paper lowered to his knees.
‘Yes, I did,’ she replied, dropping hers on her lap.
‘Well, if it’s not a rude question, how did ye know?’
‘John dear, he’s been fond of Sarah since she was a wee girl,’ she said laughing.
‘Aye, ah know that. I’m not completely blind. But how did ye know Sarah was fond of him?’
‘I knew from the questions she was asking me. Only a week or so ago, she asked me how I knew you were the man for me.’
‘An’ you told her?’
‘Of course, I did,’ she replied. ‘That’s what mother’s are for.’
‘But why last night, Rose?’ he persisted. ‘Why did she suddenly away off when I was out seein’ to Dolly and the next thing we knew Hugh was askin’ my permission to marry her? My goodness, I’ve never seen a man shed the years like our Hugh last night. Sure, he cou’da been in his twenties and the sight o’ the pair o’ them standin’ there did my heart good.’
‘They say love does that to people, John. Had you forgotten that in your old age?’ she asked, teasing him.
‘Aye, well,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I am gettin’ old I suppose, but I haven’t forgotten that,’ he went on. ‘But ye haven’t answered me. Why, last night after all that talk about Jamie?’
‘I’m not sure, love, but I think suddenly Sarah saw her way. Maybe it was the contrast between her and Jamie. Jamie is ambitious, he has a plan and marriage is a part of that. Sarah has great hope. She wants to do things, but she could never use someone like Jamie could. With Sarah love must come first. She just had to be sure of herself. She may be young, but she wasn’t hasty.’
‘No, I can see that. Hugh wouldn’t let her do something that wasn’t the right thing for her. That’s why he’s never spoken.’
He paused, staring at the flames through the open doors of the stove.
‘Do you think they’ll be as happy as we are, Rose?’
She smiled and looked across at him, smartly dressed, with his Sunday coat hung over the back of his chair, his dark hair well dusted with grey at the temples. There were times when she felt such an overwhelming tenderness for this man with whom she had shared so much, she hardly knew what to do about it.
‘Yes, I think they’ll be happy. If they’re as happy as we’ve been, they’ll do well,’ she said, getting up and bending her face close to his to brush a kiss against his wind roughened cheeks. ‘Sarah told me Hugh said they should cherish the time they had. Good advice, don’t you think, love?’ she asked gently.
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘Cherish the time an’ cherish the ones that love you. We’ve got so much, Rose, we’ll waste no time on regrets,’ he said, with an air of finality.