Clare collapsed gratefully onto the vibrating front seat of the double decker bus and stared down at the continuously changing pattern of pedestrians on the crowded pavements below. Across the square, beyond the heavy-leafed trees, the dazzling white stone of the City Hall expanded outwards in pillared porches. Exotic, turquoise-capped turrets reached upwards from its solid mass. Silhouetted against a pure blue sky they made her think of rock outcrops projecting from a limestone cliff.
Beside her, Ronnie waited till two women sat down in the seat across the way, then arranged his long legs as best he could in the aisle between. It had been his idea to walk down from Queen’s to their city centre bus stop. That way, he said, they could get a proper look at interesting buildings like the Moravian Church, or pause at the junction with the Lisburn Road to cast an eye down the terraces of Sandy Row towards the red-brick mass of Murray’s Tobacco Factory.
Although his tour of Queen’s had been very thorough and they’d been on their feet since nine o’clock, she’d been happy enough to walk when they emerged from the main gate and turned towards the city. In the previous two hours, he had shown her all the buildings on the main university site. He’d taken her into the Great Hall to look at the ceiling and the portraits, marched her round the Quad and pointed out the various lecture theatres. He bought them a cup of tea in the Student’s Union, then walked her back to the library and upstairs to the reading room.
Not satisfied with his whispered tour of the main subject areas and his brief guide to classification, he’d approached a small, grey-haired lady, deployed his considerable charm and got permission to take her into the stack.
The warm, musty atmosphere of the book stack was totally intriguing. Fascinated by the endless rows of books on subjects she had never even heard of, Clare realised she wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying. But when she did manage to say something, she was quite surprised to discover he’d been watching her closely and didn’t mind at all that she’d missed what he’d just said.
Curious about the circular windows beside the small work areas beyond the metal walkways, she stepped towards one, pulled out a chair and sat peering down at the sunlit lawns and pathways below. The only noise she could hear was the distant mutter of the central heating system keeping the temperature up for the sake of the books and the quiet footsteps of a librarian loading a trolley with the requests from the reading room.
‘Did you work up here?’ she asked abruptly, aware she hadn’t said a word for ages.
‘In my final year, yes.’
She saw him look at her quizzically, but he said nothing. He just waited till she stood up, then said: ‘Come on, I told Josephine we wouldn’t be long.’
‘Is that her name?’ she asked, surprised they should be on such intimate terms.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he replied, smiling, as she followed him back towards the entrance. ‘But the Chief Librarian is known as Napoleon. He’s not on this morning or you’d see why.’
She grinned back at him as they came through the door of the stack and headed for the request counter. The top of a grey head was the only sign of the lady in question.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Ronnie, as the head responded immediately to the sound of their approach. ‘I’m touting for new business so you won’t be out of a job,’ he added cheerfully, as she cast an appraising glance at Clare, then attempted to look severely at him.
As they were crossing Shaftesbury Square to get to the Dublin Road, Clare realised she shouldn’t have worn her best shoes. The little pair of Louis-heels had had several recent outings, but visiting Aunt Sarah, or going to the Ritz with Jessie, didn’t exactly involve much walking.
‘Queen’s Bridge,’ said Ronnie quietly as they crossed the Lagan. ‘That’s the Liverpool boat berthed down there. They’re probably checking out their red carpet for tomorrow night,’ he added.
‘Don’t say things like that, Ronnie,’ she replied hastily. ‘You’ll make me cry and I mustn’t. I’m a big girl now.’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said seriously. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be so grown up.’ He paused a moment and added, ‘Sweet sixteen and all that. It’s not even your birthday till October,’ as if his problem with her grown-upness was a matter of arithmetic.
She looked away and studied the rows of tiny shops lining the Newtownards Road. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Was that what he was thinking? But she had been kissed. He’d kissed her himself last night and now he looked as if he might like to kiss her again if only they hadn’t been on a bus surrounded by women with shopping bags.
As the thought struck her, she had no idea what to say.
A moment later, Ronnie had to give his attention to his legs as the two large women in the nearby seat began to manoeuvre their persons, bags and parcels into the narrow aisle. As the bus juddered to a halt, Ronnie collected himself and continued his commentary on the passing scene.
‘It gets posher as you get further out,’ he began. ‘Higher density of trees whacks up the property prices. By the time you see Castlehill Road leading to Massey Avenue you’re in Nob’s Hill. Minister of Education, Under Secretary of This and That, you know. They live there to be near the job. Walk to work on the chauffeur’s day off,’ he added casually. ‘If you see policemen around, then some big shot has been sent from Head Office to make sure they’re doing it right. But mostly in July they all go on their hols. That’s why it gets so quiet the likes of us can sneak in the back door and get a shufti.’
‘Golly, is that it?’ Clare asked in amazement.
Suddenly they were past the substantial suburban houses with neatly trimmed hedges and old roses and a huge building perched high on a hillside shone white in the brightness of the sunlight.
‘Yes, that’s it. The seat of what this benighted province chooses to call “democracy”. Looks quite impressive now they’ve got the cow dung and black paint off. You probably don’t remember that.’
‘Remember what?’
‘Camouflage. During the war. They wanted to put the Air Force and a whole lot of top brass in there. Sounded like a bad joke. The place made a wonderful target. Absolutely marvellous bomb run up any of the approach avenues and a vast, shoe-box of a building gleaming white in a bomber’s moon.’
The bus stopped. They got off and stood gazing up the long, tree-lined drive that climbed steadily towards the imposing front of the building beyond the heavy wrought-iron gates.
‘So they painted it and covered up the avenues with cinders,’ he went on. ‘It’s taken them years to get it cleaned up again.’
‘Did they really use cow dung or are you pulling my leg again?’
‘Yes, honest Injun. I do not tell a lie. Uncle Harry was in on the job. He’ll tell you. Some chemist or other worked it out. But the mix didn’t come off as well as it was supposed to. They’d awful trouble with streaks.’
Clare looked longingly at the green slopes running parallel to the handsome avenue and the grey pavement now growing steeper by the minute.
‘Do you think we could walk on the grass?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Don’t see why not,’ he replied promptly. ‘They can’t put you in jail, you’re under age. I’m being transported anyway. What the hell!’
Clare stepped onto the grass, took off her shoes and felt the soft, cool turf under her hot, swollen feet. She felt better immediately.
‘Ah, these country colleens,’ said Ronnie, looking down at her with a exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m sorry we’re late for the morning dew. You could have bathed in it.’
She giggled and trailed her feet as they slowed down on the steepest part of the slope. Ahead of them, the right arm of a huge statue was raised against the blue of the sky in a fierce, menacing gesture. A few vehicles loaded with tree prunings and gardening equipment were parked on the roundabout at his feet, indifferent to his protest.
‘Worth it for the view, isn’t it?’ he said, as they stood catching their breath on the wide stone terrace in front of the main entrance.
The city with its encircling hills was laid out below and beyond them. Only the beginnings of heat shimmer softened the sharp outlines of the edge of the Antrim basalts, the strong lines of factories and mills, churches and warehouses, docks and gantries and the massed ranks of back to back houses that had spread outwards from the flat land around the docks and the city centre as industry demanded more and yet more labour.
From this distance, the unhealed gaps left by the bombing were almost invisible, the shabbiness of buildings untenanted or awaiting demolition masked by sunlight and trees. Clare looked up at Ronnie and saw his face crumple. He’d said last night that he loved this city, but now she saw so clearly just how much it meant to him. She turned away and looked along the terrace towards the car park in case her seeing his distress would make it even worse for him.
Ronnie gave his uncle’s name to the doorman and they went inside. She took in the vast sweep of the entrance hall, stared up at the elaborately decorated ceiling and looked longingly at the marble tiled floor. She couldn’t quite believe it. She thought of ballrooms on the screen at the Ritz Cinema, remembered the Churchill’s ball in Emma.
‘Just perfect for ten couples,’ she whispered, as the doorman disappeared in search of his colleague.
‘Da ta da, ta ta ta ta ta,’ sang Ronnie loudly.
To her utter amazement, he caught her in his arms and swung her across the floor to the unmistakable rhythm of ‘The American Patrol’.
‘Ronnie,’ she gasped, as he executed a skilful reverse turn in the midst of the empty space.
But his only answer was to move them in even wider circles towards the impressive staircase at the far end of the brightly-lit hall.
She had no idea Ronnie was such a good dancer. The further they went, the more elaborate his footwork became, but his hand on her waist was so firm that she reckoned if she missed her step he’d just pick her up and put her down again. Ronnie swung her towards the foot of the great staircase just as a figure appeared on the half landing and began to make his way down.
As they came to a halt, she followed Ronnie’s gaze. A young man in a very white shirt was descending slowly, his jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder, his eyes flickering casually around the empty space behind them. For one moment, Clare thought she was imagining things. The figure stopped beside them.
‘Hello, Clare,’ he said, smiling at them both.
She was quite sure now from the quizzical look in his eye he’d seen them dancing.
‘Hello, Andrew,’ she just managed to reply. ‘This is my cousin, Ronnie McGillvray. Ronnie, this is Andrew Richardson. He lives up the road from us.’
Ronnie looked doubtfully at Andrew Richardson and then smiled suddenly.
‘Clare and I are about to have a free, conducted tour of the premises,’ he began. ‘Would you like to join us or have you done it all before?’
‘No, this is my first time here,’ he said easily. ‘I’m on chauffeur duty for Grandfather and I’d love to see round the place.’
‘Well, now’s your chance. That tall, grey-haired man by the entrance looking this way and wondering what on earth’s keeping us is my uncle. The bigger his audience, the better he likes it. What we lack in numbers, we must make up for in intelligent interest. Come on.’
Taking Clare’s hand, he walked her back along the pillared hall as Andrew fell into step on her other side.
Uncle Harry’s tour of Stormont was an event Clare was sure she’d never forget. Apart from the fact that he insisted they see every corner of the building from the basement to the top storey, he was full of stories about the well-known personalities who had come and gone over his long years of service. Names she knew only from the more up to date history books or from Granda Scott’s avid perusal of the newspapers were Uncle Harry’s ‘regulars’, faces he recognised, striding figures who said ‘Good morning’, or stopped for a friendly word as they headed for their respective chambers.
Harry McGillvray sat them down at the back of the empty lower chamber and described exactly how it looked when it was in session, who sat where and how the various members related to each other. As she listened, it occurred to Clare you might do worse than read an account Uncle Harry and some of his colleagues could put together if you really wanted a history of the political events in the Province.
‘There wasn’t much we diden know about up here,’ he said, nodding to himself, as he led them into the Senate Chamber.
He pointed up at a recently-carved inscription recording the gratitude of the King for the use of the chamber as an Air Force Headquarters during the war.
‘Me an’ young Bill Murray were on duty the night o’ the big Blitz. He was on this door here, an’ I was down at the entrance. All I coud see whin I luked out was the whole sky lit up an’ the city afire. I couden tell whit parts was hit though I knew for sure the docks woud get it. I was thinkin’ o’ course ’bout the wife an’ the boys, fer we lived York Street way in them days,’ he explained, turning to Ronnie.
Clare watched Uncle Harry as he nodded up towards the inscription, his face deeply lined, his eyes bright with moisture, his recall pin sharp. Ronnie was standing very still beside her, the gaunt look suddenly strongly marked on his face. But, as Uncle Harry continued, it was Andrew’s appearance that changed most dramatically. His relaxed manner, his fresh, sun-tanned look disappeared. His skin paled and his features became immobile. He grew ill-at-ease and fidgety.
‘Bill could see nothin’ outside atall because o’ the black out,’ Harry McGillvray continued. ‘But he coud see the big table that was jus here. The wee Waf girls was puttin’ the bombers on it, comin’ in over the city. The telephones were ringin’ from the batteries and the look-outs an’ the fire brigades an’ suchlike. An’ he was thinkin’ jus the same as me. “Ah wonder is the missus and the we’eans all right”.’
As she stood listening, Clare became aware that they were in the room where the devastation of the city had been played out with models and counters on a broad, spotlighted table.
‘And were they?’ she burst out, unable to bear the tension any longer.
He pressed his lips together and shook his head silently.
‘The house was gone the next mornin’ when he got back. Like as if ye’d taken a knife an’ cut a piece out of the row. The neighbours next door was hurt, but not bad. Bill lost his whole family, even his aul granny that’d come to stay to be compn’y fer his wife whin he was doin’ nights up here. Bad times,’ he concluded shaking his head sadly.
‘Yes, Mr McGillvray, very bad times,’ said Andrew with feeling.
Clare was startled by the unfamiliar note in his voice. As the older man drew them over to the benches on the right of the chamber and pointed out where they should sit, she felt Andrew move towards her. A moment later, he sat down abruptly, so close she could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
‘Aye, they were Mr Richardson,’ he responded, with a sharp look at the young man. ‘I’ve maybe said too much about that night,’ he went on, a note of apology in his voice. ‘I’m rememberin’ now about yer father. He wasn’t long elected so I diden know him well. It were the start of the blitz in London, weren’t it?’
‘It was. They’d only arrived that day from leaving me at school,’ he replied, no trace of emotion in his voice.
‘Your mother too, Andrew?’ Clare asked, before she even thought about it.
He nodded and turned to smile weakly at her.
‘And my grandparents, a passing uncle and my youngest aunt,’ he went on. ‘It was always open house in London. It could have been even worse. I do still have some family scattered about the place.’
‘There’s been a lot more scattering since the war,’ agreed Harry McGillvray. ‘We thought the war was the worst thing coud happen, but it’s not over yet. We’ve not seen the end o’ the changes it’ll bring. An’ not all for the better either.’
Clare followed his pointing finger and obediently studied the three painted roundels that decorated the Strangers’ Gallery. Two women with generous bosoms and flowing hair bent over a sickle and a spinning wheel, while a third sat, her skirt spread across her knees, looking uncomfortable, a ship perched across them.
‘In the 1920s when this chamber was decorated, agriculture, the linen industry and shipbuilding were the basis of Ulster’s wealth,’ Harry McGillvray continued, moving back to his more formal tone. ‘I doubt if there’s more than a few hundred acres under flax these days,’ he added sadly. ‘There’s a desperate shortage of work for all the pullin’ strings they do up here to get new industry. We’re way behind the rest of the UK in livin’ standards, even wi’ the new Welfare State. It’ll be a brave while afore we make up to what they have across the water, I’m tellin’ ye.’
As she listened to Harry McGillvray’s sharp comments, Clare remembered Ronnie’s bitterness over the articles on asthma and bronchitis he couldn’t get published. She thought of all the items she’d read to Granda Scott in the last months about dangerous houses that hadn’t been condemned, huge numbers of school children who’d been in contact with tuberculosis, and the high figures for rural unemployment.
Even before Ronnie had talked about his reasons for leaving Ulster, she’d sensed all was not well. Now, the pieces were fitting together and making a picture she must pay attention to. She needed to understand what was going on. This was such a good opportunity to find out more but no matter how she tried, she simply couldn’t pay proper attention to what Ronnie and his uncle were saying. What Andrew had just revealed repeated itself over and over in her mind. It was the most important discovery she had made today. An orphan just like me, she kept saying to herself. An orphan just like me.
They each thanked Harry McGillvray for his splendid tour and wished him a happy retirement. When Clare left Ronnie to say his goodbyes to his uncle and went outside, Andrew followed her. They stood together for a moment, blinking in the brilliant light. After the cool interior of the marble-floored entrance hall, the heat struck fiercely.
They moved slowly across to the edge of the terrace. The shimmer had increased over the city and some small white clouds were beginning to bubble up on the horizon, but overhead the sky was still an unmarked blue. Against its vivid backdrop, the mass of the building towered up behind them like an impregnable fortress, dominating the landscape in every direction, thrusting its ruler-straight avenues outwards with the same strong gesture as the raised hand of Sir Edward Carson’s statue.
‘It’s quite a view, isn’t it?’ said Clare abruptly.
Andrew was standing close beside her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He remained perfectly at ease, but she suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious.
‘Yes, it is. Very impressive,’ he said agreeably. ‘But it’s not my favourite view in these parts,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘That’s a few miles down the road. Scrabo Tower. Just outside Newtownards. D’you know it?’
Clare shook her head and smiled, grateful for a simple question.
‘No, I don’t. This is my first visit to Belfast,’ she admitted. ‘I came when I was a little girl, but that was just after the war, so no one took me anywhere. Except Ronnie, of course,’ she corrected herself. ‘He used to take me to Smithfield to look for storybooks, because I’d lost all mine.’
‘How did you lose them?’
Clare felt the colour drain from her face as she looked away. He had only asked a simple question, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She thought of saying something ridiculous like, ‘I left them on a bus.’ Then she glanced back at him. When she found his eyes were watching her steadily, she couldn’t bring herself not to give him a proper answer.
‘All my things were burnt after my parents died. They had typhoid,’ she said hastily.
‘I thought there was something different about you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘What sort of something?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ he began. ‘I’ll tell you when I find out,’ he added quickly, as he heard a footstep behind them.
‘Admiring the view?’ asked Ronnie sharply.
Clare thought he looked very near to tears and was about to say that they were when Andrew got in first.
‘I was telling Clare that my favourite view is a few miles down the road. Scrabo Tower. Do you know it?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied Ronnie, ‘I had a great-aunt used to live half a mile away. D’you remember me telling you about Pretty Kitty?’ he asked, turning to Clare.
Clare nodded, grateful that the bleak look had gone from his face.
‘Wasn’t she the one that used to take you on the route marches?’
‘That’s the one. Thought it was uplifting to the spirit. It may have been, but it was hard on the legs. She was a tough old lady. Used to march me up the hill and then up to the top of the tower as well.’
‘If Clare has never been, we could go there,’ said Andrew casually. ‘Grandfather will be closeted till after four and its only a few miles.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ said Ronnie awkwardly. ‘Would you like to go, Clare? How’s your head for heights?’
‘I’d love to go and my head’s fine, but I’m terribly hungry. I think we’ve walked miles this morning.’
Ronnie laughed and looked almost easy again.
‘Well, if Andrew doesn’t mind, I think I know where we can get some lunch. Fish and chips?’
Andrew nodded cheerfully.
‘It’s an unpretentious little establishment, as they say in the guide books. It’s called Jim’s Place. Only it’s spelt P.L.A.I.C.E. and it comes in newspaper,’ he added, looking questioningly at Andrew, as if he expected the newspaper to create some difficulty.
‘Let’s go,’ said Andrew promptly. He turned on his heel and led the way across the terrace to the nearby car park.
Clare had difficulty keeping up with his long strides, but he stopped by the nearest car, a large, well-polished Rover, whipped out his keys, opened the passenger door and waved Clare into the front seat. She caught a look of irritation on Ronnie’s face as he climbed into the back, but Andrew didn’t seem to notice.
The lane up to the tower was steep, rough and deeply rutted. Clare made a mental note that next time she wanted to wear high heels she would at least try to imagine what the day might bring. Her legs and back were aching again and she was dripping with perspiration, but she knew the effort was going to be worth it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t look back till they got to the top, but with every step she was aware that more and more countryside was spread out around them.
As they climbed higher, a tiny breeze sprang up and the birds hiding in the heavy patches of shade began to stir. Little flocks of linnets flitted across their path from one patch of gorse bushes to another. From high above their heads, skylarks, almost imperceptible dots against the blue, suddenly began to pour a cascade of sound into the heavy, quiet air.
‘Hail to thee blythe spirit,’ said Andrew, stopping up ahead of her and shading his eyes to look upwards.
Ronnie stopped too and wiped his face with the back of his hand as he waited for Clare to catch up. For a moment, Clare saw the two of them look at each other across the deeply rutted path; Andrew, fair-skinned and freckled with a gleam of red in his fine blonde hair, his body slim and at ease; Ronnie, dark-haired and sallow, his face angular, his limbs taut with tension.
‘Bird thou never wert. Wert thou?’ demanded Ronnie, as he peered up into the sky.
Clare smiled to herself and wondered why they were so wary of each other.
‘How much further?’ she asked, just to keep them occupied.
‘Not far,’ they replied, speaking at the same time.
She was glad they both laughed simultaneously. It broke the tension.
They threw themselves down in the shadow of the tower to cool off and were still sitting there exhausted when an elderly lady appeared with three glasses of water on a tray.
Andrew jumped to his feet immediately.
‘Miss Millin, how are you?’
‘My goodness, it’s Andrew. Goodness, how you’ve grown. How is your Aunt Charlotte? Still gardening?’
‘Yes, she manages to do a bit. Still carries her secateurs in her knitting bag wherever she goes! Do you think we could possibly go up the Tower? It’s not one of your tea room days, but Clare has never been before and she’s going back to Armagh tomorrow.’
‘And I’m leaving the country tomorrow, so it’s my last chance,’ said Ronnie, as he got to his feet more slowly.
The old woman looked at him sharply.
‘I’m sure I know you, but I can’t remember your Christian name,’ she said quietly. ‘You used to come, years ago, with old Miss McGillvray from the back of the hill. I remember she could never understand why you always wanted to look at Belfast when you went up.’
Ronnie blushed. In that single moment, Clare grasped one of the biggest differences between Ronnie and Andrew. While Ronnie had begun to expect the worst, Andrew still hoped for the best. It seemed to make a difference to everything they said and did.
‘Of course, ye can, an’ welcome,’ she said, waving her hands at them. ‘We may open the tea room later if there’s many about. We’re our own boss, as they say. But if we’re not open, come round to the kitchen for a drink. You’ll be needing it, I think, by the time you do the steps.’
‘All one hundred and twenty-two of them,’ laughed Andrew, as he put their glasses back on the tray and carried it back to the kitchen for her.
‘Well then, was it worth the climb?’
Clare leant against the rough stone of the parapet and gazed away to the south. Beyond the gorse-covered rock outcrops below the tower, all the way to the furthest point of the horizon, the gentle, undulating countryside was ribbed and seamed with hedgerows. Bathed in sunlight, the little fields thus divided lay like a patterned counterpane over the bumpy surface of the drumlin swarm, moulded by the flow of an ice sheet, aeons ago.
The waters of Strangford lough lay shimmering at the edge of the fields, its calm surface dotted with the same humpy little hills, now islands lapped by blue water, the green of their summer grass yet more vivid by contrast with the encircling lough.
‘What did you say?’ she said vaguely.
Her eyes were held by the varied patchwork, the contrast of new grown pasture with the pale colours of cut meadow, the rich brown of recently ploughed stubble set against the heavy bluey-green foliage of potato fields. Farms and cottages were scattered among clusters of trees and along narrow winding lanes. All was still but for the clacking movement of an old reaping machine, a strange insect-like creature moving steadily up and down a nearby field of wheat.
Ronnie smiled to himself and moved on, his respects paid to the three sides of the tower on which his aunt had lavished her enthusiasm. Miss Millin was right. He wanted to look back at the city, as he always had.
‘Can that be the Mountains of Mourne?’ Clare asked herself, as her eyes focused on the furthest point of the horizon.
‘Yes, that’s them all right.’
She turned round, startled to find she’d actually spoken out loud. Andrew was standing behind her, gazing at the same misty outline.
‘That’s Donard, I know,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘And I think that’s Commendagh, but the others to the west I’m not sure of. I climbed Donard once hoping I could look north and see Scrabo, but it wasn’t a clear day. Not like today.’
‘My grandmother always says you should make up your mind about things on a clear day,’ she began, surprising herself. ‘I’ve never been sure whether she means it literally or not.’
‘What do you need to make your mind up about, Clare?’
‘Nothing very much at the moment, I don’t think. I don’t lead a very exciting life. Visits to Belfast apart,’ she said smiling, as she moved a little further along the battlements and looked out over the lough to the Ards Penninsula on the other side.
‘Perhaps you could make up your mind to write to me when I go back to Cambridge,’ he suggested. ‘I get homesick for Drumsollen and for Ulster and I seem to spend less and less time here,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Why’s that?
‘Family mostly. My mother’s family are all in England, London and the Home Counties. They’ve paid for my education so they expect to see me. Grandmother Richardson finds young people tiring, so even when I am allowed to come, she farms me out to cousins, the further away the better. I’ve been in Fermanagh for the last two weeks. Tomorrow I’m off to Cavan. From there to Dublin. From Dublin to Holyhead. And back to Cambridge. I probably won’t see you again till next summer,’ he added sadly.
Clare was completely taken aback. So he’d want to see her this summer if he weren’t going away, would he?’
‘How long have you been at Cambridge?’ she asked quickly when she realised she’d not said anything for several minutes.
‘Two years. I’ve done Part 1 History. I enjoyed that. I start my Law when I go back. Not so sure about that.’
‘Then why did you choose it?’
‘I didn’t. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do so Uncle William decided. He’s a solicitor, wants me to come into the firm.’
‘In London?’
‘No, actually. He lives in Winchester.’
‘So you’d not come back to Ulster?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll come back. I just don’t know how I’ll manage it. This is still my home.’
‘Even though you’ve been away so much? You seem to have got around a lot.’
‘Yes, I have. Since I was seven,’ he agreed. ‘Friends in prep school and then at Haileybury. I went out to Kenya one long vac with a friend whose Dad was in the Foreign Office. And I spent another one learning French in Brittany. Grandmother was horrified when I came back, she said I sounded like a peasant.’
‘I’d love to hear you lapse into peasant,’ she said, laughing at the thought of Andrew without his public school accent.
‘If I come back in two years’ time, where will you be?’
‘Where I always am, except when you call,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘Getting ready to go to university if I get my scholarship.’
‘You will,’ he said, firmly.
‘How do you know?’
‘I know, because you’ve made up your mind to get it. That’s what’s different about you. I said I’d tell you when I’d worked it out. You make up your own mind about things. I don’t always manage to. Some things, yes, but others no. Like doing Law. But you make up your own mind about everything. Say you’ll write to me, please.’
He slid his arm round her waist, drew her towards him and kissed her.
‘And over there on the south side of Greyabbey is where my Aunt Charlotte lives,’ he said, pointing with his free arm as they heard footsteps approaching.
‘Time’s getting on,’ said Ronnie tartly, as he noted the position of Andrew’s right arm. ‘I think I’ll head down.’
‘Yes, indeed, be with you in a moment,’ said Andrew agreeably.
‘Can I take you to the Mournes when I come back? And to see Aunt Charlotte? And anywhere else you’d like to go. Please.’
‘You seem to have made up your mind about it.’
She nodded briefly and cast a long, wistful glance out over the countryside below.
‘I wish you didn’t have to go to Cavan tomorrow.’
‘So do I, Clare. But there will be other times. I shall be back. You can be sure of that,’ he said firmly.
She nodded and smiled back at him. Even when he took her hand and they began the long descent together, she didn’t quite recognised the fact that she had made up her mind about two very important matters that would shape her whole future life.