January was never Clare’s favourite month. She hated the wild, windy weather that always began just as school started again after the Christmas holidays. On the more exposed parts of the road she sometimes had to get off her bicycle and walk until she reached the shelter of trees or the angle of the road changed, so she wasn’t pedalling straight into the eye of the wind. There were sudden sleety showers that stung her face and made the road slushy and dangerous until it melted properly. Whenever the morning bus or an occasional car overtook her, she was sure to get her shoes and stockings soaked with spray.
In fact, everything she did was more difficult in January. It was still dark when she got up in the morning, the candle flickered in the icy draughts under her bedroom door, the lino was as cold as stone if her warm feet missed the thin, rag rug. Although she kept her underclothes in bed with her, there was nothing to be done about her blouse and tunic. They hung on the back of the door and she shivered as she pulled them on. Often she wore an old jacket over them as she cooked breakfast on the smoking stove, her fingers numb from washing in cold water, the big kitchen only a little less chill than her own icy bedroom.
The wind roared in the chimney pots and sent smoke and soot billowing down around her. Depending on its direction, the wind would blow the fire in the stove so that it glowed orange and burnt itself out while Robert was in the forge, or made it sulk and smoke so much the potatoes took twice the time to boil, the oven was slow and the water in the stove’s tank was only tepid when she had grimy shirts to wash.
Day after day she struggled back from Armagh and hung her school Burberry to dry on the back of the kitchen door. Despite the plastic pixie hood tied over her beret, her hair was always wet. She got soaked so often, it amazed her she so seldom caught a cold. But that was something to be grateful for. What on earth would she do if she wasn’t fit to go to school and couldn’t do their shopping afterwards?
She tried to save Robert the journey into town in the worst of the weather because she was so worried about him. Every time he coughed she felt herself wince. Even in summer he’d had a cough, as long as she had known him, but in January it was always worse. She could hardly bear to look at him when he coughed, his cheeks hollowed as he struggled for air. His whole body shook as he fumbled for his handkerchief to clear his mouth. She tried to persuade him to go and see the doctor but he only shook his head.
‘Ach sure there’s no point childear. Alfie Lindsay’s a gran’ doctor. If ye break an arm, or need the hospital, he’ll have ye seen to as quick as wink, but he’ll tell ye straight what he can’t mend an’ he told me years ago there’s no cure for this cough. It’s Miner’s disease, he says. It has some other fancy name I can never mind, but it means the same. It’s the coal dust in the lungs. There’s no cure for it.’
‘But he might have something to ease it,’ she protested.
‘Well …’
That was encouragement enough. She made up her mind and went to the surgery the next day after school.
The moment she sat down in Dr Lindsay’s room with its big old-fashioned desk and its bright lights over the work surfaces, she was glad she’d come. Dr Lindsay listened to her carefully. He said a balsam would break up the mucus and make the cough less racking and he’d a tonic he was sure would improve Robert’s appetite. He asked her if they had any whiskey in the house from Christmas and when she said they had, he told her how to make a hot toddy with sugar and lemon and a bit of spice.
‘It may not improve his chest,’ he said, laughing, as he took the bottles from his store cupboard, ‘but if it makes him feel better he may get a good night’s sleep.
‘Now is there anything else you need? I can put it all on the one prescription so it’ll still only cost you a shilling. Thanks be to the National Health. What about some Disprin for headaches? Maybe you might need a couple yourself at certain times of the month.’
She nodded and smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. She hadn’t seen Dr Lindsay since she was a little girl, but he’d changed very little. He had always smiled at her and made little jokes.
‘I don’t know what we’ll do if ever Dr Lindsay retires, Clare,’ her mother said one day, when they’d been to the dispensary to have Clare measured and weighed. ‘He’s always so kind.’
Suddenly, Clare saw herself walking down Russell Street with her mother pushing William in his pram. Ahead of them, the bright sun reflected from the marble slabs of White Walk, the path that ran between the cricket pitch and the huge circular pond put there for the firemen to use if the German planes came and dropped their bombs.
‘Are we going past the status water tank, Mummy?’
‘No love, not today. We’ve to go and get orange juice and Robeline at the dispensary.’
‘Why is it called a status water tank?’
‘It’s not status, Clare, its static. Say “static”.’
‘Static.’
She’d repeated the word carefully. Her mother went on to explain that ‘static’ meant ‘standing still’, ‘staying in the one place’. Something static was something that didn’t move. She always explained new words to her like this. She loved having new words to remember.
‘Wouldn’t it be funny, Mummy, if it got up and walked away?’
Her mother laughed and said yes it would be very funny, but it wouldn’t be a good idea. Because it might be needed where it was. They crossed the road and walked along under the shade of the trees, until they were opposite the red-brick house where Dr Lindsay used to work before he had his new house and surgery on the other side of the Mall.
That lovely summer’s day must have been before she went to school. So long ago. Her mother took the two of them out every afternoon, William so small he slept in his pram most of the time. Sometimes there was shopping to do, but often they went for long walks. That was when her mother told her the names of all the different trees and flowers they met by the roadside or leaning over the garden hedges. She learnt the names of the places where they walked, Lisanally Lane, Mullinure, Drummond, Drumadd. She often said them over to herself, or made them into a song when she was playing by herself.
When William got too big for his pram, Daddy bought him a Tansad. Her mother found the push chair much harder to manage than the pram over broken pavements in town and the bumpy lanes they so enjoyed, but she said it wouldn’t stop their walks.
William never liked the Tansad. He cried when her mother lifted him in and did up the straps to stop him falling out. As he got bigger, he just wouldn’t sit in it at all. He wanted to walk too. But then, he’d get tired and have to be carried. However hard her mother tried to persuade him, he just wouldn’t get back in once he’d got out. Time and time again, Clare pushed the empty Tansad home, knowing her mother was exhausted long before they could see the roof of their own house.
Her mother persisted, hoping that William might grow out of his reluctance. Each day she scooped him up and put him in the pushchair, talking to him all the time. Sometimes she winked at Clare, who knew perfectly well they simply couldn’t go for a walk if William wouldn’t sit in his chair. It’d have to be once round the field on the Cathedral Road and even then, he’d probably have to be carried back.
One day they set off well enough, heading along the Portadown Road, to visit the stream at the Dean’s Bridge. Halfway up College Hill, William began to complain. He screwed up his face and started to pull irritably at the restraining straps. He couldn’t talk very well, but he always managed to make his meaning perfectly clear.
‘Wan out. Out, Mummy. Walk. Wan t’ walk.’
Clare’s heart sank. If he wasn’t let out, he’d scream, but if he got tired and had to be carried, it was such a steep pull back the way they’d come. She was so grateful when her mother bent to loosen the straps, for when he screamed she couldn’t bear the noise.
‘Now, William, that’s a good boy, take Mummy’s hand.’
She remembered hearing her mother speak, but what happened next took her entirely by surprise. She heard a screech of brakes. Startled she looked up. A car stood with its back towards her, its bonnet up against the garden wall opposite, and William was sitting in the middle of the road screaming his head off. A man got out of the car, came over and picked him up.
‘That was a near one, Ellie,’ he said, as he brought a kicking, writhing William back to where they stood by the empty pushchair.
It was the first time she had ever seen her mother smack William. She smacked his legs hard, put him back in the Tansad before he’d got over the surprise and fastened the straps firmly, as he wriggled and twisted to get out again.
‘Tom, I’m sorry,’ she said, tears streaming down her face. ‘You might have killed yourself if you weren’t such a good driver. I just don’t know how he did it, he was so quick. Are you all right?’
‘Right as rain, thank God. What about you? You’re white as a sheet. Can I take you all home?’
‘Ach, Tom I can’t trouble you,’ she said, wiping her eyes.
‘Sure it’s no trouble at all for you, Ellie. Wait here an’ I’ll get the car reversed back onto the road. I’ll take it up and turn in front of the Royal.’
Even now, she could still recall the funny smell of the leather seat in Tom’s car and how he’d asked her would she be all right in the back with the folded Tansad wedged behind the passenger seat, a rug over it in case it might bump against her. And she remembered so clearly that that was the last walk she’d had with her mother.
‘How’s your brother, Clare?’ Dr Lindsay asked, as he helped her put the bottles of medicine into her shopping bag. ‘He’s with the Hamilton’s out near Richhill isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is,’ she said, collecting herself, the memory of that awful day still vivid in her mind.
She saw him lean back in his chair, ready to listen to her as if he had all the time in the world. She made an effort to respond.
‘He goes to Richhill School now.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see him very often, though I do go over nearly every Sunday afternoon. But even when he’s there he doesn’t seem to want to see me. William can be very awkward,’ she ended, uneasily.
He nodded and pressed his lips together, recalling the night he had delivered William. The midwife sent for him, because labour had gone on for so long, far longer than she’d expected for a second child.
‘Your mother told me how awkward he could be a few months before she died,’ he began, looking at her very directly. ‘She was worried she mightn’t be handling him the right way. But I’m afraid there’s no right way we know of for boys like William. It’s maybe not his fault at all, but it’s very hard on those who have to deal with him. How does your granny manage?’
‘She says he wears her out. She can’t really stand having him on her own. She leaves him very much to Granda. Billy and Jack do their best, but Granda is the only one can get him to do anything. He just keeps on at him, very quietly. William never does anything he should do without being told, every single time.’
Suddenly, to her own surprise, she found tears in her eyes.
‘I think if I had to look after William again I’d go mad,’ she burst out suddenly. ‘I could manage it when my mother was alive, but I just couldn’t do it now, not with Granda, and school, and keeping the house going.’
She put her hands over her face and wept.
‘There now, Clare,’ he said, standing up and putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘No one could possibly expect you to look after William. You’ve your work cut out looking after Robert. My spies tell me you’re doing a great job of it too.’ He paused to hand her a couple of squares of gauze to wipe her eyes. ‘Now, have you been worrying yourself about not doing enough for your brother?’
She nodded silently, afraid if she said a word more she’d start crying again. Really, she was being so silly and she was keeping him back. It was long after his surgery should have closed. She’d met him on the doorstep, seeing out the last patient when she’d arrived straight from school. It must be at least half past four by now.
‘Now Clare,’ he said firmly. ‘I want you to listen to what I’m going to say and to remember it. Whatever problems William causes, they’re not your problems. Just because he’s your brother, you must not think it’s up to you to cope with him. If all’s well at the moment, put him right out of your mind. If the situation changes, come to me and we’ll see what can be done then.’ He paused a moment to let his words sink in. ‘Is your Auntie Polly still in Canada?’
‘Yes, she is,’ she said, nodding quickly. ‘She’s very happy. Uncle Jimmy’s back is much better and he has a job with no standing or lifting.’
‘So there’s no word of her coming home?’
‘Oh no.’
She wondered why he’d asked about Auntie Polly. She watched him swinging gently from side to side in his swivel chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, and waited.
‘I was thinking you could do with a nice auntie to talk to. Is there no one you can tell your worries to?’
She shook her head.
‘No one I can think of.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see what can be done about that,’ he said, nodding to himself. He got to his feet and opened the door. ‘Now you’re to forget all about William, remember. And that’s an order. And the next time you start to worry about something, the first thing you do is come and see me. If I can’t help myself, I have a nice young nurse here every morning. There are times she might be more use to you than an old fellow like me. But you are not to worry. You wouldn’t want to give me extra work, would you?’
Outside, on the Mall, she got on her bicycle and slowly peddled off. For once it was not raining. Stars winked in a clear sky. She shivered in the frosty air after the warmth of the surgery. As she headed out of town and into the velvety blackness of the countryside she began to feel an enormous sense of relief. After all this time there was now someone she could turn to if any of the awful things she could imagine were actually to happen.
Robert’s cough improved very slowly, but his appetite picked up quite quickly and Clare was grateful for Uncle Bob’s Christmas envelope. She added a few shillings to their grocery money, so she could buy extra bacon and butter and anything she could think of that would encourage him to eat more. A week of bedtime toddies rapidly lowered the level in the whiskey bottle, so she made up her mind to refill it. Once it was empty Robert would never hear of buying another just for a bedtime drink, but if she were to top it up every few days, it might be quite a while before he’d notice.
The barman looked startled as she pushed open the door of the Railway Bar and cast her eyes around the place she knew so well by repute only. He put down his cloth and the glass he was polishing and hurried over to her.
‘Were you lookin’ for someone belongin’ to ye, miss?’ he asked loudly, as a group of elderly men drinking porter turned their eyes towards her.
‘No, I’ve come to buy a bottle of whiskey,’ she said, wondering why he was trying to edge her away from the bar. ‘How much is the cheapest one you have?’ she asked, stepping past him and taking out her purse.
‘I’m afraid I have no whiskey for sale today, miss,’ he announced loudly, as if she were standing at the far side of the dim, almost empty saloon.
She saw him glance furtively towards the solitary group of drinkers, sitting motionless underneath a cloud of cigarette smoke.
‘But you’ve some on the shelf over there,’ she said, dodging round him again and moving along the counter. ‘It says Bushmills on that bottle and I know that’s whiskey,’ she protested.
‘I’m sorry, miss, I’ve no whiskey for sale,’ he repeated. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead as she leant over the bar and peered at the solitary item standing on the empty shelves behind the upturned bottles ready to dispense measures.
‘Are you having some difficulty, Mickey?’
A large, heavily-built man got to his feet and walked over to where they stood.
‘No, sir, not at all, sir. The young lady just came in lookin’ for her father, didn’t you, miss?’
Clare stared at him. He didn’t look simple, but really, what on earth was he talking about? With the approach of the tall, florid faced man, he was positively shaking with agitation.
‘Actually I’m looking for a bottle of whiskey for my grandfather,’ said Clare, turning towards him. ‘The doctor said a toddy might help him get a better night’s sleep and the bottle my uncle brought at Christmas is nearly empty. If I don’t refill it soon, he’s going to notice and then I won’t be able to.’
‘And your grandfather is …’
‘Robert Scott.’
‘The blacksmith at Salter’s Grange?’
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding to him, as she unfolded a tattered pound note and scanned the silver in her purse, wondering if she’d brought enough.
The heavy face creased and he smiled, exposing his worn cigarette-stained teeth. He looked down at Mickey.
‘Sure Robert’s been drinking here for years, Mickey. Would he not be entitled to a spare bottle if you have one?’ he said, nodding meaningfully towards the bar.
‘Oh yes, sir, yes. Indeed aye. But …’
‘Perhaps this young lady could deliver one to him with the compliments of the house.’ He caught the barman’s eye. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll recover the cost in the course of plying your everyday trade.’
Before she had time to protest, Clare found herself accepting a heavily wrapped bottle and being escorted silently out through the back premises. It was only as they reached a door leading on to the waste ground behind Lonsdale Street that Mickey caught her arm.
‘Niver say where ye got that bottle,’ he whispered. ‘Niver breathe a word. We’re not allowed to sell whiskey over the counter to anyone. An’ yer under age forby. Thon man that spoke to ye is high up in the police. Mind yerself goin’ home ye don’t break it,’ he added hurriedly, as he disappeared back up the yard, leaving Clare to stumble her way by the light of a flickering street lamp till she reached the pavement and could follow it all the way round to the front of the Railway Bar where she’d left her bicycle parked beside its entrance.
While Robert was taking half an hour’s rest after his tea, she added several inches to Uncle Bob’s bottle. She breathed a sigh of relief as she put it back in the corner cupboard and took the new bottle away to hide under her bed.
She’d been not a moment too soon. She’d only just come back into the kitchen when she heard Charlie Running’s familiar step at the outer door. As he was getting up to go, a few hours later, after entertaining them with the latest news, Robert stopped him.
‘Ah, sure what’s yer hurry man. Stay and have a wee night-cap wi’ me. Sure Clarey here is the best han’ at all at a hot toddy. Woud there still be enough in the bottle Clarey for the two of us?’
‘Oh yes, there’s plenty left, Granda. You only need a wee, tiny bit for toddy,’ she said, as she pulled the kettle over to boil it up and fetched the bottle from the corner cupboard.
She saw Robert look at it as she set it on the table. She was glad to be able to turn away into the dimness beyond the reach of the lamp and fetch the half lemon on its saucer from the kitchen cupboard.
‘It’s amazing how that bottle’s lasted since Christmas,’ said Robert, thoughtfully. ‘Sure, I thought the nite woud see the end of it.’
Clare heated the mugs, made the toddys and watched the two men as they toasted each other across the fireplace.
‘Good health, Charlie,’ said Robert, as he raised his mug.
‘Slainte,’ replied Charlie, as he bent and took the first sip.
‘That’s a drop of good stuff, Robert,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘If I couldn’t see the label on the bottle over there, I’d have said it was a drop o’ Bush, but sure ye can’t get Bushmills these days for love nor money. It all goes for export. Balance of payments, they say.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Robert, ‘it’s a gran’ drop. I’ve had no appetite at all wi’ the aul cough, an’ I’ve enjoyed it well enough these lass nites, but I woud say the nite I can taste it the best at all. It woud put the heart back in ye.’
‘A few more nights o’ that stuff, Robert, an’ we’ll have you fit for a wee outing. Your friends at the pub over in Loughgall has all been askin’ for you,’ he said, as he handed Clare his empty mug. ‘Thank you, Clare, that was great. I’ll not feel the cold at all on the way home. May your bottle never go empty, as the saying is.’
Clare laughed as she always did at Charlie’s sayings, but later, by the light of her candle, she examined the bottle she’d hidden under her bed. It certainly said Bushmills. But how could that be if it all went for export? And what was the difference between Bushmills and the bottle Uncle Bob had brought? Wasn’t whiskey all the same, except it was made by different firms?
As she climbed into bed and blew out her candle, she shivered violently. She could never decide whether to put her hot water bottle at her feet to warm the empty acres of cold space down there, or clutch it to her bosom where she could really enjoy it. One day, when I’m rich, she thought sleepily, I shall have two hot water bottles in my bed and Granda’s whiskey bottle will never run empty, ever again.