A Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse

Andrew went to the office as usual on Monday morning, enquired if Thelma had had a good holiday, went through the mail and dictated a few letters. Then he came home, got into his dungarees and joined John, who was already addressing the slogans. By the end of the day they were both exhausted, but the paint had gone, though a shadow remained on the stone that only an industrial sander could ever remove.

‘Sure a man on a gallopin’ horse will never notice it,’ said John philosophically, as he and Andrew sat drinking tea in the kitchen, their sweat-marked faces speckled with dust, their dungarees streaked with both paint and solvent.

‘And we don’t get many of them around these days,’ said June sharply, her Monday routine upset by the comings and goings. ‘Ye can hardly believe the badness of people.’

To Clare’s great surprise, Andrew got up, put his arm round her and kissed her cheek.

‘But then, June dear, you have to remember the goodness of people. Like you and John and the girls and the way you’ve always helped us out and encouraged us. Clare and I will never forget that,’ he said, pressing his free hand on John’s shoulder.

‘Like I can’t manage without a bath, right now,’ he said, laughing.

‘Yes, you do smell a bit. I was trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed.’

As July ended and August launched itself with heavy rain and regular rumbles of thunder, Clare had plenty of time to think. Apart from the sandwich round between twelve and one from Monday to Friday and a solitary birthday in the second week, the only bookings were the commercial travellers, old friends now, and a small scatter of tourists wanting a single night so they could visit Armagh’s two cathedrals.

Their income from guests at Drumsollen just about covered food and wages. That meant the monthly mortgage payments went out from their Trading Account without anything coming in to balance them. That account had had a boost in June from the return of funds she’d put into the Fixed Rate Account. At this present rate of outflow those funds would run out April, or May of next year, unless Andrew made enough for her to support it from his earnings.

Morning after morning, she studied her figures and projections, not because they could tell her anything new, but simply because she’d always found it hard just to sit and think. But as days passed she had to admit no inspiration had come. She was simply going over the same old problems and making no progress whatever.

Obviously, their main asset was Drumsollen itself, a robust, well-built house, in reasonably good condition, but to put it on the market would announce that their project had failed. Were they-ready to do that now? Would the end of August be a good time to try to sell? Or would it be better to wait to the spring? If they did sell before the winter, where would they go? Most of all, there was the question of how they could earn a living. Could one or both of them find work? And if so, where?

Sometimes it seemed that every decision rested on some other decision. Did she order a full load of fuel oil before the end of August to take advantage of the reduced summer price? Or would that simply deplete cash reserves and leave a half-full tank for someone else to use, if they did go this side of Christmas?

She had just decided to confess to Andrew that she was going round in ever-decreasing circles when he arrived home early one Friday afternoon looking more cheerful than he’d looked for weeks.

‘This has to be good news,’ she declared, as he strode into Headquarters and stood with his hands in his pockets in front of the floral arrangement in the fireplace.

‘Totally unexpected,’ he said. ‘The last thing I ever thought of. Lord Rothwell’s Land Agent rang me today. He wants me down in Fermanagh for three days at the end of the month. It looks like someone has managed to lose the documents on the boundary disputes my former employers supplied. The executors have been looking for them since Hector died and have finally given up. There should be copies of the maps and my notes, of course, but my old firm went out of business a couple of years back. Several of the partners are no longer with us, no one seems to know where, or even if, they deposited their records for safe-keeping. They could have ended up in a skip.’

‘My goodness,’ she said, totally taken aback, as he named the fee he’d been offered for his three days’ work. ‘That would take us to the end of June.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, looking totally bemused.

‘Sorry, love,’ she said. ‘It just slipped out. I’ve been working out how long we could go on paying the bills on the present level of income. I’d reckoned we could stay afloat till April or May of next year, but your fee would give us enough to carry on till the end of June.’

‘Then why don’t we say, Thank you nicely, and put a ring round the thirtieth of june? It would give us something to work to, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes. It would. It’s a great idea. It might even stop you saying you don’t have good ideas. It would be such a help to know when we are going. That only leaves us the HOW,’ she said grinning. ‘How about a small celebration?’ she went on. ‘It’s Friday night and I have a piece of news for you too. Not quite in the same category as yours, but worth the last bottle from Robert’s Christmas case.’

Sadly, they hadn’t any wine left after all. When Andrew went to fetch it, he remembered they’d used it July when Harry called unexpectedly. He’d been in very good spirits. Jessie, he said, was much better since she’d been on the hormone treatment recommended by the gynaecologist. He was delighted by how much time she was now spending painting. As she was away on a weekend course, the children with his mother and he’d been going home to an empty house, it had been a perfect excuse for a celebration.

‘Never mind,’ Andrew said, as they settled side by side in the summerhouse and he poured their coffee from the Thermos jug. ‘There’s still your news to lift my spirits.’

‘Well,’ she said happily, ‘I was hard at work . . .’ She broke off and giggled. ‘That’s a good start, isn’t it? Are you impressed?’

‘I’m always impressed, but I am also consumed with curiosity. Please, do get on with it’ he said, appealingly.

‘I did order oil last week to get the summer discount. And it came yesterday,’ she began steadily. ‘Usually, young Matt comes round for my signature and old Matt supervises the delivery, but yesterday old Matt arrives looking really pleased with himself. He’s a rather sober character, though June says he’s a good sort underneath. So, I invite him in, take a quick look at the invoice and ask him if he and his colleague have swopped jobs. Ach no, says he. I got out of the way to give yer man a chance with Bronagh. He’s been trying to pluck up courage to ask her out since she nearly fell off her bike opposite the Depot. And that’s six months ago.’

‘Anyway, it seems the chain came off her bike. Young Matt sees her get off and goes out and fixes it. And every chance he gets, about that time of day, takes a wee walk over to the gate in the hope he’ll see her again. So says Matt senior.’

‘Well, I am enthralled. What happened next?’

‘Apparently the last delivery we had, Bronagh and I were out with the sandwiches, so young Matt was very downcast. Matt senior says he was so annoyed he actually went into the Boss’s office when the Boss was outside having a smoke, to see when the next delivery might be due. So here I was, trying to decide whether to have oil or not, little knowing I was impeding the course of true love,’ she declared, laughing.

‘How do you know it’s true love?’

‘I don’t,’ she admitted, more soberly. ‘But I’ve my fingers crossed. Young Matt is a nice man and it’s not the first time I’ve heard a story about someone having to wait till the chance appeared. My father used to tell me how he had to make do with one or two dances a year with my mother because there was someone else. But he used to say he waited and it all came out right, because she was worth waiting for.’

‘And did Matt manage it? Did he ask her out?’

‘June says Yes. She got out of the way as well, but she says when they left Matt was smiling all over his face.’

‘That’s just great,’ he said, looking really pleased. ‘I do hope it works out too. Somehow it would make it a bit easier to go, wouldn’t it?’

Clare found it easier to concentrate as August proceeded. It was a month she always loved, strong hints of the coming autumn mixed with the last fine, warm days of summer. She now had time to spend a day with Jessie every few weeks and she found she was indeed much more like her old self. She continued her regular visits to Charlie and discovered to her amazement one afternoon that he was tidying his sitting-room.

‘Good Heavens, Charlie, are you moving house?’ she said, teasing him, as she viewed a whole empty sofa for her to sit on and far fewer piles of books on the floor.

‘Ach, it’s the nephew’s fault,’ he explained, grunting. ‘He’s a powerful big man. Great size entirely. Every time he came to see me, he was heart-scared of knocking things over. So I decided to make changes. Aye an’ to your advantage too,’ he added with a sharp nod. ‘Did you ever hear tell of Sam McGinley or Rose Hamilton?’

‘Rose Hamilton, yes. I have heard of her,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘She was Granda Hamilton’s mother. He often talked about her. But I’ve never heard of Sam McGinley. Who’s he?’

‘Well, I don’t rightly know either, but I found some letters your Granda gave me, ach, years an’ years ago, and they’re addressed to Mrs John Hamilton at Salters Grange and they start Dear Rose . . . Now Rose Hamilton would indeed be your great-grandmother on your father’s side but, by coincidence, she used to live in that old house opposite the forge, just a bit away from the forge house where your great-grandfather and great-grandmother on your mother’s side lived. That must’ve been where he found the letters. So Sam McGinley has to be some relative or friend of hers. Anyway, here they are. I hope they lead you to the family fortune. How are the family fortunes, by the way?’

Clare had already told him about their plans to make a move, but she had yet to tell him they now had a date.

Charlie had been all in favour of their move. He’d said that, with all due consideration, things were not looking good under this new Government. The so-called new initiatives were not going anywhere near far enough. They were encouraging hopes on the one side that weren’t being met and upsetting the certainties of the other, so the old animosities were being stirred up again. He reckoned there’d be bad trouble, for no one was paying any attention to what was already happening. They’d do well to go before the whole thing blew up.

She’d just told him about Andrew’s job in Fermanagh and was about to add that they had now got a date for the move when he stood up suddenly and asked her if she’d mind putting on the kettle.

‘I’ve just remembered, Clare, I’ve a phone call to make about an appointment and every time I go to do it, something distracts me. I’ll do it now before I forget again,’ he explained, as he stepped out into the hall.

Later, as she walked home, she thought of the bundle of letters in her basket. She wondered what stories they might tell of people she didn’t even know, who yet had this fragile link with her. Back in Headquarters, she gazed at the flowing handwriting, studied the stamps and the return address in New York State and decided that, like Charlie, she must not let herself be distracted. She parked them in one of the small drawers in her desk and promised herself there’d be time to read them in the wilds of January when there would probably be very little work to occupy her.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind being on your own, love?’ Andrew asked, yet again, as he took clean shirts from the drawer. ‘The house can feel so big and empty all on your own. Won’t you be nervous?’

‘Well I might be if it were really empty,’ she admitted honestly, ‘but dear old Sam Rogers is here for the first two nights and Jessie’s talking about staying over the third one so she can make colour sketches in early morning light. If I do get twitchy, I can always ask June if Caroline could come over and stay. But it is only three nights and you can phone me as much as you like. You won’t be paying the hotel bill, will you?’

‘No, I won’t. And Yes I will phone. But I may have to work with your man in the evenings, so don’t be anxious if it’s getting on towards bedtime before I manage it.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of leaving me alone with Sam Rogers?’ she demanded, teasing him about the elderly bachelor who was one of her favourite regulars.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Sam may be the world’s greatest expert on gripper treads and carpet laying supplies, but I can honestly say I don’t think you need lock your bedroom door,’ he replied calmly, as he zipped up his suitcase, a huge grin on his face.

By the Tuesday of Andrew’s departure, the weather had settled into that soft, fine and dry warmth that the end of August often provided. He would have a lovely day for the drive. As she waved him goodbye, she felt so sad she couldn’t go with him. She had such happy memories of the time they’d gone together, even if they would now always be tinged with the sadness of Hector’s loss.

The previous day she’d picked roses for Hector, made them into a posy, wrapped it in wet moss in a polythene bag and placed it carefully in the boot. Andrew had promised to put them in water when he arrived in his hotel and take them to the grassy mound by the lakeside when he began work on the estate.

She turned away as the car disappeared from sight, a list of jobs already printing out in her mind. Routine things like the end of the month on Wednesday, preparations for a birthday party on Friday, bills to pay, and letters to write, both business and family. With her usual visit to Charlie on Wednesday afternoon and Jessie coming on Friday, she’d not have much time to feel lonely, not during the day at any rate.

The fine weather tempted her outside and she spent more time than she could really afford in the rose garden and the new herbaceous border, but she comforted herself as she worked by thinking how easily she could make up for it by doing chores in the evenings.

That first evening, she sat in Headquarters and got stuck into the paperwork until Andrew rang, in the best of spirits, full of interesting observations about the hotel where he and the Land Agent were staying. He even suggested they might just manage a brief visit themselves before June Thirty, as they called it, their private name for Departure Day.

Wednesday evening brought another phone call just as she was finishing her solitary supper. A short one this time. The work was going well, but there were complications. Lord Rothwell had gone back to Australia to visit his wife and had either mislaid the key for the safe, or inadvertently taken it with him. They were actually having to employ someone to come and break it open because they had to consult the original manuscript drawings of the estate.

‘To visit his wife, Andrew?’ she repeated, puzzled. ‘Didn’t she come with him?’

‘Don’t know, can’t say,’ he replied laughing. ‘All sorts of funny things emerging about my distant cousin. Must go. I’ll ring tomorrow. Be a good girl.’

‘Can’t say I’ve much opportunity to be otherwise,’ she responded gaily.

Standing over the ironing board later that evening, a huge pile of their own ironing stacked on two kitchen chairs, Clare turned over what he had said. She wondered how any woman could bear to be so far away from her husband. But then, not all husbands were friends as well as lovers, and some husbands saw a wife merely as a provider of heirs, goods and services. Like ironing shirts, she thought suddenly, and laughed.

It was almost half past ten when she decided to leave the neat piles to put away in the morning. She could tell from the grumble of the television that Sam had come back from whichever pub he patronized and was settled for the late night movie. As there was no one else in residence, she could lock up right away and get to bed earlier than usual.

She put out the lights in the kitchen and looked up through the tall, barred windows at the pale, fading sky. The nights were dropping down visibly, but it was still not quite dark. She pulled the door behind her, stepped out into the corridor and felt a cool draught on her face.

She paused, puzzled. The enclosed corridor, often warm and stuffy in summer, only had a cool draught when they propped open front and back doors for precisely that purpose. She checked the back door just to make sure she’d locked it earlier and wondered if Sam, not the most collected of individuals, hadn’t shut the front door properly behind him.

Afterwards, she realized the unfamiliar smell she’d caught on the air as she went upstairs should have warned her. But it didn’t. She arrived in the entrance hall to a tinkle of the chandelier and the shock of finding three masked figures standing by the double glass doors. They were watching a fourth member of the gang going through the pigeonholes of her desk in Headquarters.

‘Stop right where y’ are, missus,’ said the tallest of the guards on the front door, as she was about to turn, slip silently back downstairs and phone the police.

‘Where’s the key to the cash box?’ he demanded, as he strode towards her, pulled out a gun and pointed it at her.

He was giving such a bad performance of a gangster that she wondered if the gun could possibly be real, but she couldn’t risk assuming it was a fake.

‘There isn’t a key, because it isn’t locked,’ she said calmly.

‘You’d better be tellin’ the truth,’ he growled. ‘Over there and hurry up,’ he went on, waving the gun around and directing her towards Headquarters where a slighter man, wearing a grey Balaclava and a black anorak was struggling to open the cash box.

‘C’mon on, c’mon, hurry up,’ said the Boss Man as Grey Balaclava fumbled and finally dropped the box, which fell open on the floor. It was empty.

‘Right you, where’s the safe?’ Boss Man said harshly, turning towards her. ‘We’ve not come here to go away empty-handed.’

‘We don’t have a safe,’ Clare replied, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage and wondering if there was the slightest possible chance that Sam might appear.

‘Ah, don’t give me that,’ he sneered, signalling to the two doorkeepers to come round behind her, in case she tried to get away.

‘Why don’t you look round my office and see for yourself?’

‘Go on then. Have a look round,’ he shouted to the one in Headquarters. ‘Billy, give yer man there a hand for God’s sake,’ he added crossly, dispensing one of her guards to assist. ‘Start goin’ through the drawers of that desk,’ he shouted. ‘C’mon. Get started. Quick. We haven’t got all night.’

It was at that point Clare recognized the smell she had picked up on the stairs. It was paraffin. The two doorkeepers had each been carrying a bottle which she had assumed was beer. Now the one behind her had both bottles and she had no idea what he might be going to do with them.

There was a crash from Headquarters as they knocked over her chair in their haste to obey orders. They pulled out the drawers, turned them upside down on the floor and started kicking the piles of paper apart. They weren’t going to find any money, except the plastic box with the Petty Cash. What would happen then, she wondered. Quite without realizing it, she took a step forward to see better what was going on.

‘Stop where you are, or you’re dead,’ the Boss shouted, startling her with the vehemence in his tone. One of the two figures dumping paper on her floor jerked his head up to see what was happening and in that split second she saw his eyes. Given they were the same eyes she saw every time she applied make-up, there was no doubt as to who it was.

‘I told you we had no money, William,’ she said crossly. ‘Why don’t you and your friends go home before the police arrive? Some of the guests will have phoned by now,’ she said, looking directly at the Boss.

‘Nah,’ he sneered. ‘Ye don’t get us with that one, honey. We’re more experienced than that. The new UVF, that’s us, in case you don’t know. We’ve been trainin’ for a year an’ now we’re goin’ to get the funds we need for proper equipment.’

Clare sensed a movement behind her and heard the sound of liquid being poured from a bottle. Before she had even thought what she could do about this new threat, the entrance hall was lit up and the chandelier tinkled again as a car swung round the turning circle and braked sharply at the foot of the steps.

‘I expect that’s them now,’ she said, totally amazed at her own presence of mind.

William and Billy made a mad dash for the hall doors, almost falling over each other as they tried to get through them at the same time. Clare’s guard wasn’t far behind. The Boss paused only to ignite his ‘gun’ and throw it on the carpet behind her.

There was a sudden whoosh of flame as the doors swung closed behind them. Clare caught up the roses from the centre of the table, grabbed the vase in which she’d arranged them the previous day and splashed the water into the midst of them. Then she gathered up a pile of glossy magazines sitting beside the abandoned roses and dumped them on the small flames that survived.

Coughing and gasping for breath, she turned to find a large man she’d never seen in her life before, coming quickly towards her.

‘Clare, are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t catch them. They took me unawares for my mind was on other things. I’m Eddie Running and I was hurrying to catch you before you went to bed. I have a message for you from your friend Charlie.’