When Clare woke next morning to the quiet of a summer Sunday, Andrew Richardson was the first thought that came into her mind. Twice now he’d come to the forge and she’d been away. It did seem such bad luck. Apart from going to school and the occasional outing with Jessie, she was almost sure to be at home, studying or cooking or doing housework. Why couldn’t he have come then?
‘Third time lucky, perhaps,’ she said to herself, as she slid out of bed and poured rainwater into her basin.
But the first week of the holidays passed without a further visit from the rider on the chestnut mare.
‘Stop being so silly,’ she muttered, when she caught herself glancing out the kitchen window as she scrubbed the table, peeled the potatoes or washed dishes.
‘He’s not going to come, you know,’ she told herself severely when she’d been lingering at the front of the cottage, slowly dead-heading the flourishing perennials over by the water barrel, the spot which gave her the best possible view of the road beyond the forge.
Before she set out to scrub the floor, she made sure her blouse was clean. She took care that she didn’t wipe her perspiring face with a grubby hand when she was doing dirty jobs. Her dark curls were combed much more often than her usual once a day and a tumbler from the corner cupboard in The Room had been brought through to the kitchen cupboard and was left well polished in case Robert should send the visitor up to the house for a drink of spring water.
When she went to look after Margaret’s children on Saturdays, she took them to play in the small field in front of the forge. With the main road on one side and the lane to the forge on the other, there was no possibility of missing a visitor. But none of her efforts were of the slightest use. No one came. She just knew the more she watched and hoped, the less likely it was he would appear.
‘He won’t come now,’ she told herself sadly, as a new week began and there had been no sign of him while she’d been at home and no teasing word from Robert when she came back from the expeditions Jessie had planned for them.
To make matters worse, John Wiley hadn’t come to the forge for nearly a fortnight. Normally, he turned up every two or three days to tell them about the comings and goings at Drumsollen House. Just when he might have news of Andrew Richardson, John was enjoying one of those rare periods when none of the Drumsollen vehicles broke down and not even one of his tools needed a repair.
The weather was heavy and sultry, the dense foliage of the trees and shrubs hung dark and motionless by the roadsides. In the deep shadows, myriads of insects rose and fell in the warm, still air. The last of the early summer flowers had gone and, although the cottage gardens were a blaze of colour, the countryside itself was dull, weary with heat and growth, dim under the pearly skies when the cloud was high and sodden when the continuous warmth generated heavy, thundery showers.
Clare felt restless and impatient. She was thoroughly irritated with herself for spending so much time on her vain imaginings. Thinking about an encounter with Andrew Richardson only made the unexciting character of her life yet more obvious. Each day, she made up her mind she’d not waste another moment wondering if he might turn up, thinking what they might say to each other, or asking herself why he’d come in the first place. But it was not until a letter arrived from her cousin, Ronnie, that she was able to put Andrew Richardson to the back of her mind.
Letters from Ronnie were frequent enough and always welcome, but taking the slim envelope from the postman one Monday morning in late July, Clare felt apprehensive. Ronnie’s letters were usually long, often enclosed newspaper items he thought would interest her. Recently, he’d put in his own articles about the state of agriculture and industry in the Province. He’d spent hours in the Central Library looking up material and then he’d cycled out into the countryside to talk to farmers and visit factories. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a letter from him in an ordinary sized envelope.
She tore it open hastily. As she’d guessed, there was only a single sheet of note paper. Carefully folded inside it were two very battered pound notes.
Dear Clare,
You know how hard I’ve been trying to find a job in journalism. Well, I’ve finally given up. Belfast is hopeless. I’ve just had an offer from a Liverpool newspaper and I’m going to take it. But I’ve decided I’m not coming back. I’ll try to get a second job in Liverpool, probably in a pub, and as soon as I’ve saved my fare I’m heading for Canada. Mum and Dad have said they’ll help me raise the money.
The last year has made it perfectly clear that there’s nothing here for me and from the papers Mum sends I can see there are plenty of openings in the Toronto area. It’s all rather sudden I know and I’m sorry to spring it on you. I do so want to see you before I go. Please will you come up to Belfast for a couple of nights? My landlady says you can have her daughter’s room as she’s away at guide camp. I’ll show you the sights of the city and then you can help me pack! I’m off this Saturday. Leave me a message with Mrs McGregor and I’ll meet your train. I know it’s dreadfully short notice, but I can’t afford to miss this Liverpool job even though they say it’s only temporary and I really can’t bear to go without seeing you.
Give my love to Granda. I’d have liked to have come up to see him properly and then I wouldn’t have had to steal you away, but I’ve some things that just have to be done before I go. Please come if you possibly can. Remind me to tell you how you helped me to earn the cash enclosed which is for you whether you come or not!
As always, with love,
Ronnie
She stood in the laneway, the torn envelope and the pound notes in one hand, the single blue sheet in the other. She read it a second time as if reading it again would make it easier to grasp. But it didn’t. She’d grasped it perfectly well the first time. Ronnie was going. Her dear cousin was taking the Liverpool boat and he wasn’t coming back. She’d seen him only twice in the last six years, but he had been a comforting presence through all that time. Tears sprang to her eyes.
She couldn’t possibly blame him. He’d worked so hard and got a good degree but he’d still not been able to find a job. He’d had to work weekends at his uncle’s butcher’s shop on Beersbridge Road, a job he hated, just so he could go on paying his rent to Mrs McGregor, for the room he’d had as a student. He’d done all sorts of temporary jobs while trying to find something on a newspaper, but there’d been so many disappointments. In his position, she reckoned she’d have ended up doing just the same.
But the thought of his going made her feel desolate. She shivered as she went back into the dark kitchen even though the morning was warm and the room steamy from the soot-streaked shirts she’d set to boil on the stove in the biggest saucepan they possessed.
She was surprised to find Robert so philosophical when she told him about Ronnie’s plans.
‘Sure that’s the way, chiledear,’ he began, ‘it’s always been the same as long as I’ve heerd tell. There’s young ones that’ll niver be able to settle. If their minds are fixed on somethin’ they want to do, or if they have an ambition to make money, sure there’s no stoppin’ them. An’ why woud one stop them? Haven’t we all to make our way with what’s given to us?’
He dropped off his cap by the side of his chair and waited till she set his midday meal in front of him.
‘Boys, that looks good,’ he said, as he made a hole in the middle of the pale green mound of champ and sliced a knob of butter from the dish to put in it.
‘Did you ever think of America, Granda?’ Clare asked as she pulled her own chair up to the table.
‘Aye, ah did. I was all for it at one time. My brother William went out to Montreal and started up a business, got on his feet in no time and sent back saying he’d have any o’ the family that was interested out t’ help him. The ticket woud be seen to if we just said the word.’
He nodded to himself and took a deep draught of his buttermilk.
‘My mother was always the one that wrote the letters an’ she says to me “Robert, are ye for off. We’ll not stan’ in yer way. Will I send word to William that you’d like your ticket?” An’ I says to her, “I’ll tell ye the night, Mam.”’
He paused again and made hungry inroads into his champ, mixing the melted butter with the well-mashed potatoes and chopped scallions. Clare waited, watching the flickers of memory touch his eyes and lips with the faintest of smiles.
‘I went back down to the forge, for I was my father’s helper in them days, an’ as I was goin’ in the door I sees this white mare comin’ up the loanen with a neighbourin’ man. So I went to meet him an’ give him the time o’ day. An’ as I was standin’ there the mare nuzzled up to me and blew down me neck. They do that sometimes if they like ye. An’ I thought to meself. “What woud ye be doin’ behind some counter in some shop in Canada, Robert? Sure ye’d be far better makin’ shoes for a mare.”’
He finished his buttermilk in a long swallow and laughed a short, hard laugh. ‘Did ye iver hear anythin’ so daft in your life?’
He pushed back his chair and began to undo his bootlaces. As he tramped across the kitchen in his stocking feet, Clare turned from the table and answered him.
‘I don’t think you were daft at all,’ she said firmly. ‘And where would I be if you were in Canada?’
He stopped on his step, turned and laughed again.
‘Aye, well …’ he said, looking pleased, as he headed for his lie-down leaving Clare to her thoughts and her plans for going to see Ronnie.