On Monday the eighth of May, sunshine poured down on the busy streets of Armagh as Sam Hamilton roared into the city. He slowed smoothly to a walking pace as he came level with Sleators, dismounted, and wheeled his motorbike round the back to its parking place on the edge of the servicing and repair area. Today, was his twenty-seventh birthday.
He was in good spirits. He loved the sunshine and the warmth of the morning and his journey to work from the family home beside Richhill Station had been memorable. The bike always went better in dry air and today it had simply flown, the engine sweet, the road still fairly empty at this early hour.
Like people, machinery responded to the conditions in which it had to function, but it wasn’t simply weather that affected them. There were motors he’d serviced that had nothing specifically wrong with them, but they’d still run badly and one look at their owners had told him why. Impatience, heavy-handedness, irritability, all had their effect on even the most robust systems. On the newer models, with their more delicate tuning and timing, it could be disastrous.
Yet you couldn’t deny the air itself was a factor. No damp today, he thought, smiling to himself, as he peeled off his jacket and hung his helmet on a hook, ready to tackle whatever the day might bring.
‘Rich … Rich …’
He laughed quietly to himself. Peggy had just got engaged to a young schoolmaster. All his colleagues agreed she seemed like a different girl. She beamed at everyone, dressed even more smartly and said please when she wanted something done. Two things though hadn’t changed. She was even more particular about her shoes, and neither love, nor the prospect of marriage to an educated fellow had done anything to soften the sharp edge in her voice.
‘Rich, will you please take out that Chevrolet over there. It’s not right. Here’s the book and a note of what the chauffeur said to Mr Richard last night. He’s not in this mornin’,’ she explained, handing him the papers and the ignition key. ‘’An if you don’t mind me sayin’, you’ve got oil on your bottom.’
‘Thank you, Peggy,’ he said, trying hard not to laugh out loud. She now said bottom instead of backside.
‘Would you have a newspaper?’ he asked politely.
She disappeared below her desk and re-emerged minutes later red in the face and irritated.
‘I don’t know where all the old newspapers go. Do yous eat them out there in the yard?’
‘Not guilty, ma’am,’ he replied, interested to see how a little fluster brought back the old way of speaking.
The Chevrolet started perfectly. He slipped out into the traffic without any difficulty. Not unusual, even with an under-performing motor, it didn’t tell him anything. What he needed was to get up speed, so he could test acceleration and cornering. He eased his way down College Street, turned right along The Mall and decided to head for Hamiltonsbawn.
Of all the roads leading out from the county town, this one had the steepest slopes. Besides, he hadn’t driven it for some weeks. He made a point of varying the road he chose for test drives, so he could keep his eye in. Roads radiated out of Armagh like a spider’s web, so you had plenty of choice and the circle of outlying villages provided parking or an easy turn round.
He drove steadily, his ears tuned, his eyes free most of the time to enjoy the sparkle of Lowry’s Lough and the view out over stretches of green countryside as he climbed higher. Driving to Hamiltonsbawn he always thought of the unknown ancestor who must have founded the village and a favourite story his grandmother told about Aunt Sarah. Once, when they were staying with Lady Anne, over in England, at Ashley Park, she’d provided an extended history of the Hamiltons.
Apparently a Lady Something-or-other had asked Granny which branch of the Hamiltons she came from, assuming a landed family with a coat of arms. He’d always loved the way Granny admitted she hadn’t a clue what to say. She’d heard of the Hamiltons of Clandeboye, but John Hamilton of Annacramp was unlikely to be any relation of that affluent and titled family and it was obvious this woman expected a full family history.
She was only sixteen at the time, but Sarah had upped and given her one. She’d started with the Plantation of Ulster and explained how the Hamiltons had undertaken to plant good Protestant settlers and build fortified houses, known as bawns. She’d held the floor for goodness knows how long and when, at the end of it, your woman asked her if they were related to the Hamiltons of Clandeboye, Sarah had just said rather sharply that their branch of the Hamiltons, the Hamiltons of Ballydown, had been in Ireland far longer than them.
As soon as he got to Hamiltonsbawn, he turned round and drove back towards Armagh at top speed on the empty road, did an emergency stop, then slid into a space by the roadside that fishermen used when they were going down to the lough. He checked under the bonnet and shook his head. It certainly shouldn’t be as hot as that. He could do nothing more till the engine cooled, so he walked away, leant over a nearby field gate and looked about him.
This soft green countryside was beautiful. Damp in the bottoms between the little hills, but if it was, at least it was never other than green. He’d seen pictures of other countries with hot summers and parched, beige land. Not for him. He’d never really wanted to leave his home, but he’d come very near to it last year.
What had happened between him and Marion had hit him so hard he just couldn’t believe it. One day he was on top of the world, going down to Rountrees to buy the furniture for their new home, wanting to surprise her that he’d done so well, saving up enough money for all they needed, the next, she was making excuses, wanting to put the wedding off. Then she refused even to talk to him. Then she threatened him with her father if he came looking for her again.
Both his sisters had tried to talk sense to him. Each said the same thing quite independently, that he wasn’t to think it was his fault. There had to be someone else. Well, now he knew there had been, he’d had to admit they were right, that it was Marion who’d let him down. But just knowing still hadn’t helped him.
That’s when he’d decided the only thing to do was go away and make a new start. He’d gone to the Guardian office and spoken to the woman there. Very helpful she was. She thought at first he wanted to go on holiday and gave him a brochure. New Zealand, the Land of the Long White Cloud, it said. That was what the Maoris called it. When he explained he wanted to emigrate, she was even more helpful. Told him skilled people were much in demand. There’d be no trouble at all with an assisted passage provided he was single and in good health.
Well, he was certainly single. Perhaps he wasn’t as fit as he’d been when he and Marion played tennis at the club in Portadown, but that was easily put right. His wee cousin Daisy had been at him to join the RUC Club. He could take out his racquet again while he was making all the necessary arrangements.
‘Son dear, do you think you’re doin’ the right thing?’ his father had asked, one evening in the workshop in the barn, the pair of them sitting on two empty cans of lubricating oil.
‘I know you’ve had a hard blow, but you’re young and has every hope before you. You’ve your two sisters in particular who’d miss you terribly … and, of course, your Ma,’ he added quickly. ‘I wouldn’t stand in your way if it was what you wanted, but I’m not sure it would take away that pain in your heart. The only way with grief and loss is to turn and face it. If there’s a hole in your life you must see what you can do to fill it.’
He’d looked hard at his father. He had a fair idea he was speaking from his own experience. He was grateful too that he never once mentioned God or faith whenever he tried to help him. Being a Quaker, his father had a deep commitment to his beliefs, but to his credit he never tried to push them at other people. His advice was always kind and practical and meant to help them, not to make himself feel he’d done the right thing.
‘You know it might only be some wee thing at first,’ he’d gone on. ‘Maybe a small success. Something you’re good at, like your job, or maybe somewhere you always wanted to go, or making a few new friends. You’ve been so long with the one person, you might have forgotten men and women you used to know. Would you not give it a wee while yet and see if anythin’ comes that might lift your heart?’
His father had been right. He’d found there were good things. He’d met Richard Sleator through work, as great a follower of motor-racing as he was himself. They’d become friends and together met a whole lot more people at the Tennis Club. He thought immediately of Ellie Scott. He’d told his father at one point that he thought he’d never even dance with a girl again, but he’d danced with her and if she’d not been spoken for, he might even have got as far as asking her to go to the pictures. But that, he hadn’t told his father.
Rosie said he was too soft. It could be a nice fault in a man if he found the right woman, but it would cost him dear if he took up with someone who wasn’t as kind-hearted as he was. Like his father, only she put it more bluntly, she didn’t think New Zealand would solve anything. He’d still have the pain within him and maybe no one to take the place of their father or Emily and herself to help him live through it. He might end up even more lonely without all the familiar things one can hold on to in bad times.
He looked all around him at the burgeoning freshness of spring. This would always be something to hold on to. The little green fields, the hawthorn hedges sprayed with creamy white blossom. This elegant motor was his till he handed it back, the better for what he’d be able to do for it when he got the engine stripped down.
He opened the driver’s door. Disturbed by the light breeze from the open offside window, Peggy’s newspaper slithered from the driving seat and fell at his feet. He picked it up, looked to see if there was an oil mark from his backside and found Marion’s name in the Family Announcements.
Prentice – Ritchie. To David and Marion Prentice, nee Ritchie, a son, Richard David. Born 7 January 1933 at The Carlton Maternity Home, Portadown.
He had to read it through three times before it finally sunk in. January. For a moment the date made no sense. Then he heard his mother’s voice. How often had she stood in the middle of the kitchen, the newspaper in her hand, and declared, ‘Another premature baby. Sure you could hardly believe how many of them there are these days. The hospitals must be run off their feet.’ Dropping her sarcastic tone, she would then count up on her fingers and say. ‘That must’ave been after the harvest home,’ or, ‘that was the holiday they had before they were married.’ Sometimes she would say, ‘Well they didn’t waste much time.’
He had never paid any attention before, but now what he saw were her fingers. Long, bony fingers, the joints enlarged with work and arthritis. Counting up to nine.
For the first time in his life, he did the same. And what he found was that Marion Ritchie, his fiancée, had conceived a child with David Prentice before he had gone out to buy the furniture.
He put the newspaper back on the seat and slid his oily backside across it. It was a small gesture to make, but it eased the anger welling up in him. He drove back to Armagh so slowly he picked up another fault he would never have expected to find in a motor of this quality.
Ellie too had set off to cycle to work in the best of spirits. Not only was the countryside shining in the sunlight, the dandelions opening bright eyes all along the hedgebanks, but on her way past Riley’s Rocks she met the Stevie McQuaid.
‘Aye,’ said the postman, getting off his bicycle before she’d even asked. ‘There’s one from your sister and one from that young man of yours,’ he went on, beaming cheerfully, as he pulled his mailbag over his head, undid the buckles and went through the small bundles. ‘I’ll not give you the bill for iron from Shillington’s, I think it would be more use to your Da.’
She slipped the two letters into her handbag, thanked him and sailed on, her good spirits buoyed up yet further by the thought that she could slip upstairs and read the one from George at the first quiet moment in the morning.
It came as a surprise to her when a mile or so later, walking up the steep slope from the Mill Row past the asylum, she discovered she was no longer feeling happy. By the time she’d remounted, pedalled past the small stone cottages of Gillis Row and bumped her way over the level crossing into Railway Street, she knew she’d grown anxious.
She’d thought by now she’d adjusted to the fact that George was no letter writer. At school, when they were asked to write ‘compositions,’ he could never think of anything to say and she’d often had to help him out. It ought to be different between them now, but even when she asked quite specific questions, hoping they would help to get him going, he didn’t answer them, or said so little he might as well not have bothered.
She still knew almost nothing about the camp, how it was organised, where they slept, or where they ate. As for the trees they cut down all day and every day, all he said in answer to her questions was that they were coniferous. She wasn’t all that well up in trees herself, but she did know the difference between larch and spruce and if he’d told her about other varieties, she’d have been able to go to the library and look them up.
Every time a letter came, she’d open it full of the same excitement and pleasure and almost always ended up with the same disappointment, as if she’d been looking once more for something that just wasn’t there. She had no idea what she could do about it.
Monday morning was always busy in the shop. It was not specifically customers, for that varied with the season and the weather, but the window and the aisle displays had to be changed first thing. Mr Freeburn was always in his office for the whole morning and frequently there were deliveries which meant at least two staff were needed out at the back to help with the unloading and checking the bill of lading.
Her main task was to ensure there was no disorder or dislocation while the displays were being done. Mr Magennis, Joe and Daisy looked after the counters while she and Harry, assisted by Stanley and Susie, dressed the models and draped swathes of new fabric. Trying to create something eye-catching week after week was not easy. She often wondered how they kept it up.
Even though all the materials had been prepared late on Saturday afternoon and Harry had made sketches of what they’d planned to do, it was late in the morning before they’d finished. She checked that Daisy and Susie had had a tea break earlier, then slipped quietly upstairs herself.
The staff-room, in Miss Walker’s time little more than a repository for cardboard boxes and unwanted furniture, had been transformed and it had been entirely Susie’s idea. First she’d persuaded the boys to rearrange all the storage above the shop to take what was in the room itself, then she’d got them to freshen the walls with a coat of distemper, paint the surround of the fireplace and varnish the bare floorboards.
That made a big difference, but Susie wasn’t satisfied. Having draped the two sagging fireside chairs with brightly coloured remnants and seen how much better they looked, she’d got Joe to use his carpentry skills to mend the chairs. She then re-covered them herself and made a remarkably professional job of it.
When he’d viewed the result, Mr Freeburn had been impressed. A few days later, he produced a third fireside chair for them, so that they would all be able to sit comfortably for those few minutes when they arrived upstairs weary after work, before the effort of going home.
Ellie took out her letter. Indifferent to the now pleasant surroundings, she dropped into the nearest chair, tore open the envelope and drew out the folded sheets. She read it quickly, sighed, and read it again. It was neither better nor worse than she’d expected. It didn’t tell her anything about what he was doing or what he was thinking, or how he felt about this new life he was making in a new country.
He did say he missed her and longed to be with her. Unfortunately he’d used the same words, in the same way, in every letter he’d written since last October. It reminded her of the way mothers say the same things to children, night after night, when they put them to bed: ‘Goodnight, sleep tight. See you in the morning.’
She smiled suddenly as she remembered Polly’s less genteel version when she herself was being put to bed a long time ago: ‘Goodnight, sleep tight. Don’t let the bugs bite.’
She picked up Polly’s letter and devoured it, dropped it to the floor and covered her face with her hands. She thought longingly of her. Long or short, her letters never disappointed. They were so alive, whether she was on top of the world or out of her mind with fatigue, or beside herself with frustration over the behaviour of the boys. With a letter in her hand, Ellie could see her, feel what she was feeling, but there were times when the distance between them brought such an ache of loss, it was almost unbearable. Nothing but a flesh and blood Polly would do.
She thought of what Daisy would say. She was always so quick to support her, so ready to encourage her not to spend her precious days waiting for George to write, or send her ticket, or say he was coming home. Daisy was a comfort, yes, but it was advice about what to do that she needed and she knew it had to be someone older and wiser than Daisy.
When the answer came to her, she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She would tell Rose all about her problem over George and ask her if they could have a word, even if it was her birthday. She knew her friend well enough to know she wouldn’t mind and she could be sure Rose would have wise words to offer her.
Whether it was the thought of Rose, or the sight of the bunch of flowers Susie had put in a vase on the mantelpiece, she felt her spirits rise. She got to her feet and picked up her handbag from its hook.
‘That’s what that display needs,’ she said aloud. ‘At the bottom right hand corner. Red or yellow to offset the grey.’
Half an hour later, after consulting Harry and cheered by her new idea, she set off for the nursery men’s trestles in the marketplace to see if she could find what she needed.
Monday was not a market day, but at this point in May people were busy with their gardens and the nursery men were well aware of the fact. When Ellie rounded the corner into the marketplace she found almost as many vans and trestle tables as on a regular market day, but today they were almost all selling plants, flowers, shrubs and young trees.
What she needed was a plant in bloom for the corner of the window display of men’s suits and suiting fabric. Something to contrast with the pale greys and blues and particularly the very pale grey with the fine chalk white stripe which was displayed in many of the magazines this season.
It was still too early for roses, even the early varieties, but some of the nursery men now had enormous greenhouses and were growing small bush varieties in large pots. Under one of the trestles she caught sight of some bright red blooms. Hoping that it wasn’t a salvia, or dahlia, or one of the other perennials that would never tolerate the shop window for a whole week, she hurried forward, gathered her skirt around her and got down on one knee to have a good look.
To her delight, it was a healthy bush rose with pretty little pale green leaves and some bright red buds just unfurling. It was rather expensive, but she was sure Mr Freeburn would refund at least part of the cost from the petty cash. She often bought flowers and foliage plants for the windows and this wasn’t totally different. If he paid half she’d willingly pay the other half and take it home when it stopped flowering.
She was just leaning forward to pull the tub out from among its fellows when she collided with a leg, a brown, dungareed leg with a slight smell of oil clinging to it.
‘Och, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,’ said a familiar voice, as a hand came down to steady her. ‘Ellie Scott. Will you say a prayer for me while you’re down on your knees there.’
Ellie laughed and grasped his hand, got to her feet and saw Sam Hamilton looking down, amazement and pleasure in his bright blue eyes. She had never before noticed how blue they were.
‘Is that the one you want?’ he asked, nodding at her choice.
‘Yes, it’s a nice shape and it’s going to flower soon. Probably tomorrow if it’s indoors.’
‘An’ what about those two?’
‘Nice plants, but a bit further behind. Should bloom next week.’
‘Now isn’t that just great,’ he said, clearly delighted about something. ‘I think this must be a lucky day for me, having an expert to advise me when I need to buy two presents. You see, it’s my birthday and I want one for Rosie and one for Emily.’
Ellie put her hand over her mouth and laughed. For a minute or two she just couldn’t stop. It wasn’t that funny, but when she looked up at him, he had begun to laugh too.
‘Sam Hamilton,’ she began soberly, ‘has no one ever told you that on your birthday your sisters are supposed to give you presents, not the other way round?’
‘Ah well, ye see, I’ve been giving the pair of them a bad time,’ he explained more soberly, ‘and today I made up my mind I ought to go and see them and say Thank you. I can go and see Emily tonight in Stonebridge and then Rosie in Dromore on Sunday. And those two wee bushes sittin’ beside your one will go down well.’
‘And what about a birthday present for you, Sam?’
‘Would you like to give me a birthday present?’ he asked his eyes suddenly sparkling.
‘Yes, I would,’ she replied, wondering what he might have in mind.
‘Well, the last time you and I were at a dance, I had the first and the last. D’ye remember?’
She nodded happily.
‘Then, for my birthday, you can give me two extra. Four altogether,’ he said firmly, holding up four rather grubby fingers. ‘That’ll leave you enough for all the rest of the Tennis Club queuing up to dance with you in between. Is it a deal?’
‘Yes, it’s a deal,’ she said, as he picked up her plant and handed it to her.
‘I’m sorry I can’t carry that back to the shop for you,’ he added, glancing at his watch, ‘but I’ve got to go and see a man about a motor. I’ll see you and Daisy at the club one of these nights,’ he said, ‘I’ve hardly been yet this season, but I’ll have a bit more time now.’
He tucked his two plants awkwardly under one arm, paid for them and hurried off down English Street a plant now under each arm. As he passed, he gave her a quick backward glance and such a smile as to leave her thoughtful all the way back to the shop.