As she stepped down from the worn and shabby carriage of the Armagh train two days later, Clare decided that the Great Northern Station hadn’t changed much in six years. She walked briskly along a platform as noisy, crowded and dirty as the one she remembered from the evening of her arrival with Auntie Polly.
The brilliant sunlight that had drawn out the rich greens in the passing countryside and cast lengthening shadows from the higher points of steeple, farmhouse and barn all the way from Armagh, now struck the worn brickwork and the soot-covered pillars and accentuated the shabbiness of the high-arched train-shed with its handsome wrought-iron work and leafy decorations.
She strode along, aware of the crisp rustle of Auntie Polly’s dress. Already far ahead of the other occupants of her carriage, she remembered the struggle she’d had to keep up with Auntie Polly’s hasty trot, the way suitcases and porter’s trolleys loomed up in front of her, major obstacles to be negotiated.
The thought of the child she had been cast a shadow over the excitement that had grown steadily as the miles passed and the time of her arrival drew closer. Even after all these years, thinking of Ronnie still brought back the awful memory of her weeks in Belfast after her parents died and how desperately unhappy she had been.
Suddenly, she felt overwhelmingly grateful for the life she now had. However hard it might be, however dull and boring, at least she was free to try to make things better. She did have choice in her life and choice was something the unhappy child she’d been could never have had. Children might have good luck or bad luck, but they had never had choice. She had just been very lucky.
She spotted Ronnie almost as soon as she set foot on the platform. Standing beyond the barrier, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes appraising the people who streamed by, his face seemed thinner than she had remembered, his hair thicker and darker, his eyes more strikingly brown.
‘Hello,’ she said, coming up beside him as he craned his neck to scrutinise the last few passengers now making their way down the platform.
He stared at her in amazement, put an arm round her and kissed her cheek.
‘You’ve grown,’ he said accusingly.
‘Well, what did you expect? A wee cousin with a teddy-bear?’
He grinned broadly and looked her up and down.
‘On balance, I think I rather fancy this one,’ he said, as he took Jessie’s new weekend case from her hand and propelled her towards Great Victoria Street. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late for our tea.
‘Mrs McGregor has taken a fancy to you,’ he began, as they queued at the bus stop. ‘She said you sounded “vairry pleasant” on the phone.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘How do you do it, Clare? My father always said you could charm ducks off water.’
Clare blushed. She blushed even more as Ronnie took her hand and led her upstairs and she saw the bus conductor eyeing them. He winked at Ronnie and said something she just couldn’t catch. She wondered if he thought she was Ronnie’s girlfriend.
‘Shaftesbury Square, Clare. Do you remember? We passed through it on our way up and down to Smithfield to find books.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she replied doubtfully, as she looked down at the crowded pavements. ‘I remember Ormeau Park and the bridge over the river and the smell of the Gasworks,’ she added more confidently.
‘That hasn’t changed. Still stinks.’ His voice changed and a bitter edge crept into it. ‘The immediate environment has the highest incidence of bronchitis and chest complaints in the British Isles. And bronchitis is one of the areas of research that can’t get funding. It’s too unglamorous.’
She turned to look at him, startled by his tone, but before she could say anything he grabbed her hand again, pulled her to her feet and hurried them back downstairs.
‘What about this?’ he asked, waving his hand at an extensive red-brick building set beyond impressively smooth lawns and a flourishing line of trees.
‘No, I don’t remember it,’ she said, as she stepped back on to the pavement, ‘but I know it’s Queen’s University. When you asked me to your graduation you sent me a postcard. I have it stuck in my mirror, so I see it every morning.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it. My Alma Mater as they say. Yours too, I expect. Unless you head for Oxford or Cambridge.’
‘Oh Ronnie, don’t be silly. How could I ever go there?’
‘Perfectly well, if you get a scholarship,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘But you mightn’t want to be so far away from Granda,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘I couldn’t possibly go to England,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not sure I could even manage Belfast unless I travel every day,’ she went on, surprised that she had even thought of the possibility in the first place.
‘No, you can’t travel every day. You’d miss too much. You have to be here. As near as possible. That’s why I’m so pleased you’ve charmed Mrs McGregor. Now what do you think of the outward appearance of this dwelling?’ he asked, stopping under a lime tree opposite the garden gate of one of the tall terrace houses on Elmwood Avenue.
Clare ran her eye along the row of red-brick dwellings with their tiny walled-in square of shrubs and flowers. The fluttering leaves of the mature trees cast dappled shadows on the brickwork and stroked the projecting roofing and sills of the first floor bay windows. Despite all the comings and goings of this late afternoon hour, the avenue seemed to have an air of quiet about it, as if nothing could disturb the solidity of either these long-established buildings or their accompanying trees.
The house Ronnie was regarding with such concentration had roses trailing along the garden wall and a clematis by the front door. It had been newly painted. The window frames, a startling white, stood out in contrast to those of its neighbours, which might once have been green or brown but were now indistinguishably peeling and dingy. The front door, a dense, shiny black, looked as if it had been polished as thoroughly as the brass knocker and letterbox which decorated its solid shape.
‘Very smart, indeed,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Is this the house where you live?’
‘Yes, this is where I reside, as journalists are wont to say. This is my domicile, my fixed abode, my pied-à-terre. Until Saturday, that is. I painted it myself. Two weeks freedom from rent and a fortnight’s evening meals. What I lost in sweat up the ladder I put back at six o’clock tea. Wait till you try Mrs McG’s scones and cake,’ he laughed, as he pushed open the tiny gate and took out his doorkey.
Clare decided that Ronnie had been very fortunate indeed to find Mrs McGregor and not just because of her cooking. In person, she was exactly as Clare had pictured her after their brief conversation on the phone, warm, friendly and direct, one of those sensible and kind-hearted women who take a real pleasure in caring for others. Over tea, it emerged that her husband was a merchant seaman who was away for months at a time on the South America run. Mrs McGregor used her time and energy to visit the elderly housebound people who still lived in the avenue and ensure that the six students who occupied her upstairs rooms were as well fed as rationing and the vagaries of her ancient gas cooker would permit.
‘But how do you manage to get the sugar and butter, Mrs McGregor?’ Clare asked, after she and Ronnie had done justice to both the scones and the cake.
‘Well, ye see, I do a bit of a Robin Hood,’ she replied, with a wink as she poured more tea for them. ‘These old folk o’ mine, poor dears, they canna’ eat a lot. I take them wee bits an’ pieces of home baking an’ then whin they offer me their points, I say thank you and use them to feed up my hungry wee students.’
After their meal, Ronnie took Clare up to his bed sitter.
‘My goodness, isn’t this posh?’ she gasped as he opened the door.
She stepped into the spacious first floor room and ran her eye round the decorative mouldings on the ceiling, the worn but still handsome furniture, the framed prints and pictures which filled the wallspace not already occupied by bookcases.
Beyond the bay window with its faded velvet curtains, the heavily leafed trees broke up the sunlight so that it flickered and fell in dappled patterns on the scarred leather surface of a large desk. The desk was piled high with books and papers. There were books everywhere. Some carefully arranged on bookshelves, others neatly stacked in small piles on the floor. A small group had been packed already for a pile of boxes stood in a dim corner, tied with string and labelled. ‘Store, Ronnie McGillvray – July 1952 until further notice!’
She moved between a well-polished table and a huge sofa to stand by the handsome marble fireplace and finger some of the smallest books in the room. Propped between heavy wooden bookends on the chill, white surface of the mantelpiece, the slender volumes had gold lettering on faded leather covers. As she twisted her head to read the titles she suddenly found herself thinking of Saturday, of the Liverpool boat standing by the quay below the Queen’s bridge, its gangways still in place, just like the travel advertisements in the window of the Guardian office in Armagh.
‘Goodness, Ronnie, what are you going to do with all your books? These are so lovely. But you can’t take them all, can you?’
‘That depends on you,’ he said firmly.
‘On me?’
‘Yes, you. The one and only, original Clare Hamilton.’
She giggled.
‘You wouldn’t have a sixpence by any chance?’ he asked, after a search of his pockets had proved unsuccessful. ‘It can be a bit chilly in here even on summer evenings.’
She found one in her purse and watched him while he fed it into the gas meter. She studied him carefully while he turned knobs and struck a match. In so many ways he was still the cousin to whom she had been so devoted as a little girl. He still teased her and made her laugh. But he had changed in some way she couldn’t quite define. There was a tension and a sharpness about his face. There was something different, too, in the way he moved and the way he sometimes spoke, almost as if he were quoting from a text book or a political manifesto.
When he put the match to the fire it hissed and plopped in protest, but after a moment or two it settled down to a comfortable roar. As Clare studied the broken, cream-coloured honeycomb of the gas fire, the flames changed slowly from blue to orange. Soon the roar subsided to a gentle, soothing murmur.
When they settled in the two ancient armchairs in the now shadowy room, Ronnie began to talk about his books and about his time at university. He said a little about his hopes for the future and went on to talk about the two days that remained before he returned her to the Armagh train and departed himself in the opposite direction to begin the longest journey he had ever made.
Yes, he agreed, there did seem a lot to do, but he had made some contingency plans. Mrs McGregor had been most helpful. She’d said he could store his books in a small box room at the top of the house for as long as he liked. It would be a shame to have to sell them, especially if his little cousin could use them.
Clare was just about to ask which of his cousins he meant, for all the McGillvray’s were tall, when she realised he was thinking of her. She opened her mouth to protest.
‘Now Clare,’ he interrupted, ‘as your only relative with intellectual pretensions on this side of the Atlantic, I think I ought to make clear what you ought to do about your future. Just in case you hadn’t thought of it for yourself, that is,’ he began, as he stretched his long legs out comfortably over the fender.
He outlined briefly the advantages of going to university and then pointed out the further advantages of making up her mind now, even though it would be two years before she had her scholarship. If she decided now, then she could take over this room in two years time, bring his books back down from upstairs and be within walking distance of all the main lecture theatres. Mrs McGregor herself had suggested it when he had talked to her about Clare’s exam results last year. Now, she’d gone so far as to say that the quiet young man on the next floor would be a good person to use the room until Clare was ready to come, as he still had two years to do.
‘But me no buts, tonight, Clare,’ he said, when he saw she was about to protest again. ‘I won’t say another word about it till tomorrow’s morrow, as they say in the best of the old romances. I’ll give you a guided tour of the environs first thing in the morning and then I thought I’d take you up to Stormont. Uncle Harry is one of their bouncers. He’s about to retire, so he’s offered a tour on the quiet before he goes. You can tell me what you think of my plan while I’m packing my suitcases on Saturday morning.’
To her surprise, he stood up, turned towards her with a dramatic gesture and launched into song. His light baritone voice was so tender and full of feeling as he sang The Leaving of Liverpool that she was hard pressed to keep tears from her eyes.
‘That was lovely,’ she said quietly, when he finished and strode across the room to draw the curtains and put on the lamps. ‘I didn’t know you could sing.’
‘Neither did I, till I had a few too many one night at a friend’s stag party,’ he said laughing, as he dropped a pile of newspaper cuttings into her lap.
‘Beauty begins with cleansing,’ she read aloud. ‘The importance of moisturisers? By Doris McGilloway?’
She looked at him in amazement, knowing from the sparkle in his eyes that he was teasing her and was delighting in her puzzlement.
‘Who is Doris McGilloway?’ she asked sternly.
He clutched his hand to his heart.
‘I cannot tell a lie. It is I,’ he began. ‘But I got the idea from you,’ he went on. ‘Don’t you remember Doris Gibb and the beaten eggs to put on your face?’
She nodded silently. Eddie and his Picturegoer magazines, Uncle Jimmy and his piles of newspaper, the copies of fashion magazines the customers brought, the battered books from the library van, all came into her mind simultaneously.
‘You used to read everything you could lay your hands on, even the beauty hints. It was all a bit advanced for a nine year old. Well, I have news for you. The Doris Gibb who wrote those beauty hints was a man. I met someone at the Belfast Telegraph who knew him. He had a whole collection of nom de plume. Which one he used depended on what he was writing. He used to do household hints as Dorcas Something-or-other. “How to look after your fur coat”, “How to remove iron stains from your marble work surfaces”, “How to make your own beeswax polish”. You name it, he did it. So, I thought, “McGillvray, you need to eat. If he can do it, you can do it.” So I did. I used Doris in memory of our past inspiration and McGilloway to conceal my real identity.’
Clare shook her head and laughed. In this mood, there was something so direct about Ronnie. He was so open and without guile. And yet she sensed he was not as easy as he liked to pretend. It seemed to her his dramatic style and lively manner was one way of distracting attention from his true feelings. The more she saw of him, the more she thought he’d begun to be very unhappy indeed, that something had made him really uneasy, even downright angry.
‘But, it wasn’t enough to get you a job, Ronnie?’ she said softly as she leafed through the pile of articles.
‘Nope! You don’t want people asking questions unless you’re sure they’ll come up with the appropriate answers and I might have had some answers that didn’t suit. Quite reliable on the beauty front, but a different cup of tea if you let him loose on anything that matters.’
‘Like your research on bronchitis?’
‘How did you know about that?’ he asked sharply, a startled look on his face.
‘You mentioned it in the bus when I said I remembered the Gasworks and it sounded to me as if you knew quite a lot a about it.’
She watched him look away as if something at the far side of the room required his immediate attention. In the low light from the two lamps he’d made from old wine bottles, his face looked almost haggard, quite unlike the person who’d reminded her of a wartime beauty recipe.
‘And what you knew had upset you,’ she added quietly.
‘You don’t miss much,’ he said wryly, as he turned back towards her and stared down at the black marble hearth. ‘That was the last straw, when they wouldn’t publish that particular article. “It wouldn’t look good”, they said. “Controversial”, “Might offend the Ward councillors.” If journalism is about anything, surely it’s about the truth, about pointing out human misery and exploitation. How can you ever change what needs to be changed if all the unpleasant things are swept under the carpet, if only the people who are well-fed and comfortable have a voice?’ he said, making no attempt whatever to conceal his bitterness.
‘That’s why you’re going, isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is, Clare. Part of me doesn’t want to go one little bit. I love this grim, old city in a funny way. I don’t mind being broke. I don’t even mind the place being run down and behind the times, but I mind not being able to say so, not being able to try to change things, to make things better. I thought I could stick it out, but I can’t. I’m getting nowhere fast. And that’s wrong. If you’ve got something you can do then you have to find a place and a time where you can do it, otherwise you let yourself down. And if you let yourself down, then ultimately you let others down.’
He looked into the glow of the gas fire, defeat on his face.
‘You won’t let anyone down, Ronnie,’ she said firmly. ‘You never have, so you’re hardly likely to start now. At your advanced age,’ she added lightly.
To her delight, he smiled. He reached out, took her hand and squeezed it.
‘My father once said you were a lot older than your years. I think he has a point,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘I shall miss you more than anyone else in Ulster, even though I’ve only seen you once in a blue moon. Don’t forget that.’
He got up, drew her to her feet and kissed her gently on the lips. Without another word he led her downstairs and brought her through to the kitchen where Mrs McGregor was filling hot water bottles on the scrubbed wooden draining board beside her ancient gas cooker.