Rose drew back a few threads of hair from the pleat she always wore when going out. Standing in front of the mirror on the bedroom wall above Sarah’s sideboard, she thought of the pretty dressing table with the comfortable padded stool she’d found waiting for her when she arrived at the house in Annacramp. Laid out with crocheted mats, a posy of flowers and a cut glass perfume bottle, she’d been amazed and delighted by such unexpected luxury.
‘Never mind, Rose, there are more important things, as you well know,’ she said to herself, as she smoothed out her skirt and adjusted the collar of her blouse, one ear tuned to the monologue going on close by in the tiny bedroom where Hannah and Sarah slept.
‘Now then, Ganny, you must tidy your hair like Ma, ‘cos we’re going visiting.’
Rose smiled. She still couldn’t say ‘Granny,’ with an ‘r’ though Hannah and her brothers kept coaxing her. Hardly a common name for a rag doll either, but it was Sarah’s own choice. She’d named it the day Grandma Sarah had given it to her, just a few weeks before she died and had never thought of changing it. Its dress made from one of Sarah’s own old dresses, its apron cut from an apron little Sarah knew well; long, grey woollen hair neatly plaited as hers had been, there was much of Granny about Sarah’s large, comforting companion.
‘We’re going to see Ganny Sophie and the kittens. You like the kittens, don’t you?’
Rose sat down wearily on the edge of the bed, her back already aching with the effort of dressing and doing her hair in the small space between the head of the bed and the sideboard. She took her purse from the top drawer and counted out shillings from a worn leather pouch.
Little Sarah’s voice carried on, just as if she were talking to her grandmother still. Rose smiled, grateful for the innocence that could replace the beloved old lady with the rag doll she had spent her last weeks making.
‘Not so easy, Sarah dear, if you’re grown up,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Not easy at all if we’d lost you the night Granny Sophie came.’
The memory of that longest of nights flowed back to her once more, as it had a hundred times during the weeks of the summer. When she changed the sheets on the children’s bed, or found the best bucket half full of water, or encountered Sophie on her visits to Robinsons, all the anxiety of that night would return, her stomach tighten and her mouth go dry. The best she ever managed was to recall as vividly as possible the comfort and hope of the day that followed.
Sarah had slept right through it, rousing briefly only when the doctor came and examined her.
‘I can’t tell you what it was, Mrs Hamilton,’ he said sadly, as they stepped back into the kitchen, ‘but this much comfort I can offer you. Children who survive such an event and have no recurrence often have long and healthy lives.’
To her surprise, Doctor Lindsey had accepted her offer of tea. After he’d washed his hands, he pulled his chair up to the hearth and settled himself comfortably. It was true he’d known John’s family for a long time, treated her after both miscarriages and been a regular visitor to Sarah, but in ten years she’d never known him sit down as if he had time to spend.
‘You’re looking very tired, Mrs Hamilton. You’ve had more to cope with than your anxiety over the child,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Rose admitted as much as she moved to and fro between dresser, table and hearth.
‘You’ve a good man out there, working for you,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the forge, where both anvils were going strongly, ‘but he’s a soft man, one not used to hardship or disappointment. How did he take the little one’s illness?’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ he said, shaking his head, as he took a cup of tea from her hand. ‘His father was the same. A lovely man, full of kindness and care. He and Sarah were as happy a couple as ever I’ve known, but without Sarah he’d have been lost. It can be hard on a woman to have that extra care, Mrs Hamilton. You must look to your own health and keep your strength up.’ He paused deliberately. ‘Your good neighbour Sophie Robinson might advise you better than I about women’s matters,’ he said, looking at her sharply to see if she caught his meaning.
When she nodded and smiled, he looked around the fresh, sun filled kitchen, his eye lingering on the red geraniums in the windows, the carefully arranged dishes and plates on the dresser, the bright fire and well swept hearth.
‘I knew this house before the Colvins emigrated,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It wasn’t in great shape then. You’ve done well in such a short time.’
‘We were in dire straits,’ she admitted, ‘but once I knew this place wasn’t damp, I thought I could make something of it until we can find somewhere better.’
He nodded.
‘Well, you might be fortunate there. I’m not well informed these days. I think nevertheless, I would not recommend it unless another move were very favourable to the whole family.’
Rose was surprised by the strength of his tone. Even more by the sheer relief she felt at his words. So much had happened, she realised how desperately she needed a quiet time. Even finding a house as nice as the one they’d left would make a demand she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to meet.
‘It is possible,’ he began slowly, ‘only my own theory, of course, drawn indeed from observation, but certainly not supported by experimental knowledge – it is possible little Sarah may have come in contact with tuberculosis, either someone with the disease, or someone who carries it. And goodness knows it’s common enough these days,’ he said, shaking his head sadly.
He paused, as if he were passing through his mind some of those cases which had been part of his observation.
‘If she has,’ he continued steadily, ‘this very alarming episode may have been her bodies reaction to the infection. That she has reacted so violently may protect her indefinitely from the disease, but it will also have cost. I advise you to take great care of her over the next few months. Don’t mollycoddle her. She should be out and about and play with other children quite normally, but do watch carefully for signs of fatigue. That is the chief danger. If she is at all tired, she must rest. And you must see that she eats well. Does she like milk?’
‘No, I’m afraid she doesn’t,’ said Rose uneasily. ‘Neither she nor Hannah will drink it, though both the boys drink their share and more, any time I have it to spare. I didn’t think it right to force her,’ she went on. ‘She’s not an awkward child.’
‘Quite right. Quite right,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘Children often know what’s best for them, so long as we don’t confuse them. But it’s a pity about the milk. If she doesn’t like cow’s milk, you might just try goat’s. But you’re right not to force her. Do you ever give her oranges?’ he asked cautiously.
‘At Christmas,’ she said honestly.
‘If you can manage it, a couple every week for the next six weeks. And I’ll make you up a bottle that will encourage her to eat more. She’s very light for her age, but then, I expect her mother was too,’ he said, grinning unexpectedly.
Rose laughed heartily.
‘When I first met John, he used to pick me up and set me down like a parcel. It put me at a great disadvantage when we had words.’
Doctor Lindsay laughed and stood up.
‘I could sit long enough by this welcoming hearth of yours, but there’s work to be done. I’ll call again and see the wee one when I bring the mare to be shod, so there’ll be no charge for that visit,’ he said firmly, as he pocketed the half crown she’d left ready on the kitchen table.
‘Good day, now, and take care of yourself as well. What would they all do without you?’ he said, nodding once again, as he made for the forge where he’d tethered his horse in the shoeing shop.
With Sarah and her beloved Ganny safely delivered to Sophie at the farm, Rose strode out gratefully. The fresh autumn morning, the tracery of spiders’ webs beaded with dew, the hedgerows bright with berries, lifted her spirits, bringing her an ease and a freedom she hadn’t felt for weeks.
The last time she’d been in Armagh was the fateful day when she’d taken delivery of the white envelope at Monroe’s. Two months ago now. With the children at home and so much to do to make the house workable, she’d had to rely on John’s visits to Armagh for necessities. He’d pay the rent and buy oranges for Sarah when he had to go to Turner’s for hardware for the forge. Sometimes, he had time to collect tea and sugar for her as well, but more often with the forge so busy she’d had to use what the baker’s cart provided. It gave her much less choice and was considerably more expensive.
She’d missed her visits to town sadly. Missed the weekly books from the library, the changing fashions in the windows of the best shops, the familiar faces in the grocers and drapers shops, but most of all she’d missed wearing clothes other than her working skirt and her oldest blouse. She felt as if she’d not stopped dusting and brushing, scrubbing and sweeping, weeding and digging, since the day John pushed open the door into the abandoned house. For the first time in her life, her hands were so rough and dry they caught threads in her stockings when she put them on.
She’d had nothing to read but the newspapers, full of news that brought no comfort to anyone. No time to sew except for the usual collection of rips and tears, the backsides of James and Sam’s trousers after they’d been climbing or the knees of John’s when he’d been kneeling down to rim cartwheels on the stone circle.
Her only joy was clearing out the roots of the weeds around the front of the house and making two small flowerbeds under the windows. There, where she could keep a watchful eye on them while they were small, she planted out the first cuttings that had rooted from those she’d made from Sarah’s garden.
In the dusk of that last, long summer evening at Annacramp, weary from the effort of the day and clumsy with tiredness, she’d worked methodically along both borders and used every small flowerpot and empty tin can she could lay hands on. Determined not to abandon the most precious of Sarah’s plants when she ran out of containers, she’d cut much larger pieces from the most flourishing plants and put them in water in an old bucket with no handle, hoping she could take the cuttings later. They’d had to wait till after the doctor’s visit, but they’d taken no harm from the delay. The small fragments of Sarah’s sweet-smelling herbs and shrubs had put out vigorous roots in an old wooden box she’d found in the wash house and filled with soil from the overgrown garden. Although she knew many of the cuttings she’d made would take years to mature, she’d been delighted she would be able to recreate the best of the Annacramp garden.
As she walked up Railway Street and made her way through the noise and bustle of the Shambles, she blessed Sophie once again for being so willing to have Sarah.
‘Sure I miss having a child about the place,’ she’d said, smiling down at her. ‘All my grandsons are big lumps and the granddaughters are walking out or newly married, so it’ll be a day or two before there are any wee Robinsons. At least, we may hope so,’ she added wryly. ‘Let me keep the wee one when you go into Armagh or down to see Mary Wylie,’ she’d added sharply. ‘Every woman needs to get away outa the house once in a while and have a quiet word with a friend.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Hamilton, it’s good to see you again. You’ve not been in for a while. What can I do for you today?’
Rose smiled and returned the greeting, exchanged news with the pleasant young man who always served her in the drapers, then gave her attention to choosing material and trims for the baby’s dresses she made for a local outfitter. It would be good to have time to do fine work again. Indeed, it was very necessary she should make time. The expense of the move had absorbed all the extra money which came from the long hours worked at the forge in summer, money she always saved for the lean weeks of winter. She was already concerned she had so little to fall back on. The new rent might be less than the rent for the house at Annacramp, but they’d had to sell their cow and the chickens, because there was nowhere to put them. Instead of egg money coming in, there was now egg money going out to the farm each week. They had no milk or butter of their own, no potatoes or vegetables either, until next year’s crop.
‘Rose McGinley, well, well, this is fortunate indeed. Just the person I need.’
Still absorbed in her own thoughts while waiting for her purchases to be parcelled up, she turned towards the speaker, startled out of her reverie by a familiar voice she couldn’t immediately place.
‘Lady Ishbel,’ she said, dropping a neat curtsy out of long habit.
‘Indeed. A short ten years since we shared a carriage to Dublin with your good man trying to look like a groom rather than a bridegroom,’ she said cheerfully, laughing a little at her own joke. ‘Now, I need your help. My cousin asked me to match these threads for her and my eyes aren’t up to it. They all look the same to me. I gave up embroidery years ago. Haven’t the patience, never mind the eyes.’
Rose smiled to herself. Forthrightness was certainly one of Lady Ishbel’s characteristics. It didn’t always go down well, even with people of her own class, but she’d always preferred it to the sweetness with which some ladies behaved towards servants in public and the indifference and bad temper, they showed them when there was no one around to see how they behaved.
Lady Ishbel’s cousin had been rather meagre in providing samples of the embroidery silks she needed. More than once she’d to go to the door of the shop to decide between two very similar shades. Meantime, Lady Ishbel stalked up and down between the counters, throwing out questions about velvet and patterns. By the time Rose had finished most of the staff of the shop were engaged in seeing to her requirements.
‘Most obliged, my dear. You always were good with a needle and had an eye for dress. Just like your mother. Is she well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Rose, beaming. ‘How kind of you to ask. She still hopes to visit us one day, but we’ve been unfortunate so far with children’s illness. And it is such a long way.’
‘Further than I can face these days. Never did like bouncing along over bad roads. They get worse, or my bones get worse,’ she said abruptly, as they made their way out into English Street. ‘Bad news about Harrington, isn’t it?’
Rose felt the blood drain from her face.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ Lady Ishbel asked, catching sight of her expression. ‘Lady Anne writes to you, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes, she does, but I haven’t had a letter for several weeks.’
‘Damned Land Leaguers took a shot at him while he was out on the estate. Missed him, thank God, but his horse threw him and he’s broken a leg. Could be worse. The tenants are withholding rents and he’s having to borrow from the bank to pay his people. Your friend is in a bad way I hear, trying to keep things going with no money to do it with.’
Lady Ishbel waved her umbrella at her carriage parked in the open space in front of the Post Office.
‘Must be going. Supposed to be in Richhill for lunch with the Richardsons. Can I drop you anywhere further up the town?’
‘No, thank you very much. I’m on my way to Russell Street to pay the rent.’
‘Hah,’ she said. ‘How old-fashioned of you. I suppose if the Land Leaguers don’t hound us out, Sir Capel will be ostracised by the Orangemen because he won’t join their cause. Good day to you.’
Without a backward glance, she stepped up into her carriage, said a sharp word to the groom and settled herself for the drive to Richhill Castle.
‘Poor Lady Anne,’ Rose said aloud. ‘And she’s worked so hard. They both have. It’s not fair, it’s just not fair,’ she added to herself.
She had to wipe tears from her eyes before she tucked her parcel of fabric firmly under her arm and marched past her favourite dress shop without even noticing the elegant gown displayed in the window.
‘Hallo, Rose, how are ye?’ Peggy Wylie asked.
She came from behind her desk to take the rent money, her usual smile replaced by a look of real concern.
‘Amn’t I the sorry one to hear the bad news I gave you the last time you were in. How are you managing at all?’
Rose smiled and made an effort to respond to Peggy’s kind enquiries. Although she knew her only slightly, it was clear she was just as soft-hearted and good-natured as her sister Mary. She did her best to reassure her about the house and told her it was nice to be so near to John while he was working.
‘An’ what about wee Sarah? That was an awful fright you had. Mary told me all about it.’
‘She’s fine. I look at her sometimes and think I imagined it all, she looks so well,’ Rose replied honestly, ‘though we have to be careful with her still, Dr Lindsay says.’
‘Isn’t that just the way,’ Peggy replied, smiling at last, ‘sure one never knows the day with wee ones, what they pick up. D’ye remember how bad William was with his chest when he first went to school and now there’s no stoppin’ him?’
Rose laughed. If there was a way of doing something which would cause damage to the object or William himself then William would find it.
‘Another week or two, Rose, and you won’t see me here,’ said Peggy, dropping her voice and looking over her shoulder to see who might be still in the outer office.
‘Won’t I? Have you got a new job then?’
‘Well, in a manner of speakin’,’ she replied, smiling shyly. ‘I’m getting married the beginnin’ of October.’
For the first time since she’d come into the office, she saw the light return to Peggy’s lovely brown eyes. The effect was amazing. Her unexceptional features were transformed, just like Lady Anne, when Lord Harrington first appeared at Currane Lodge.
‘Oh Peggy, what splendid news. Do I know the lucky man?’ she said warmly, delighted to have such good news to take home to John.
‘No, he’s a big secret,’ she said, laughing. ‘I met him in Belfast when I went for my holiday to my uncle and aunt on the Donegall Road. He’s a Catholic, so we decided we’d be married in Belfast in the registry office to save any fuss, but Mary an’ Billy are comin’ down for the day. She’ll maybe be askin’ you to keep the we’ans,’ she added wryly.
‘Well, I’m always happy to have them, but I’ll be even happier that day. Will you live in Belfast?’
‘Looks like it. Kevin works in the shipyards. He’s a boilermaker, so there’s no work for him here, more’s the pity. But the pay’s good. He says we can come up on the train on Sundays for the day whenever I want. So I’ll not miss the country too much.’
As she came out into Russell Street, she knew she still had no heart for window-gazing, for all her pleasure in Peggy’s new-found happiness. Lady Ishbel news had cast such a dark shadow over the day, it was all she could do to keep her mind on the things she still had to do. She felt so downcast she almost decided to leave the library, but then she remembered there was a book John particularly wanted.
‘Oh how fortunate,’ she said, as she carried her books to the desk. ‘I’ve been wanting to read Mrs Gaskell’s last novel, but it’s always out.’
‘Very popular, Mrs Hamilton. We could do with extra copies. And this is for your husband?’
‘Yes, I hope it’s not as heavy as it looks.’
She slipped the volume of Wives and Daughters into her shopping basket, then rearranged her parcels to accommodate Portable Engines and their Applications.
‘Can you manage? Or shall I hold it for you till next week?’
‘No, I’ll manage. My husband has so missed his reading over the summer. It’s been a busy time.’
She was sure it was worth the effort of carrying it home for the book would give John such pleasure, but it made her return journey far from pleasant, with the weight of her shopping. To her own surprise she had to sit down and rest several times on the way. She had to admit she was tired, but what wearied her the more was the constant echo of Lady Ishbel’s words. Bad news about Harrington, isn’t it? By the time she reached home she felt completely exhausted.
‘Shoo, shoo,’ she cried, as she came up to her own front door.
She set down her basket, dropped her parcels on a grassy hillock, waved her arms furiously and chased the fat hens who’d been scratching in her newly-made flower beds, back towards the common. They raced off, flapping their wings and protesting, leaving behind a mess of scattered earth and the exposed fragments of her precious cuttings.
Tears streamed down her face and splashed onto the light fabric of her blouse as she closed the front door behind her and stood in the empty room, the fire smouldered on the hearth, the windows closed to keep out the smell of retting fibre from the nearby flax hole, the clock ticking its way to the point where the children would arrive home from school, hungry and full of their own concerns.
‘Rose, stop it. Stop it. You can’t cry over your wee cuttings when Harrington might have been killed. Stop it.’
There was a sudden rap on the door. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She no longer had to wonder who it was. She took a deep breath and opened it.
‘Missus Hamilton, I’ll thank you not to chase my hens. After the fright you gave them, it’s enough to put them off laying. See that it doesn’t happen again.’
Mary-Anne Scott turned on her heel in her usual manner after delivering one of her familiar reprimands. But this time was once too often. Rose was quick enough to stop her.
‘Missus Scott, I’ll stop chasing your hens when you ensure that they do not trespass on what small piece of land you can’t actually lay claim to, nor cause damage to our property.’
‘Property? What property?’ she retorted, following Rose’s pointing finger. ‘A few weeds. You call that “property”?’
‘A collection of cuttings from my mother-inlaw’s garden. Of great value to my husband and myself. Keep your hens in the Robinson’s orchard or on everyone’s common, but keep them out of our garden,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion, as she closed the door firmly in her face.
Standing in her own kitchen, staring at an apron and a towel, hung on separate hooks on the back of the door she had just closed so firmly, she felt a sudden aching sense of loss. It was quite different from the feelings she’d had in the last month or two, whenever she’d remembered a particularly happy thing about the old house, or how much easier it was to manage with more space. This was a more personal loss, something she couldn’t explain.
For the first time since she’d left Kerry, she felt she no longer had a whole, bright new world beyond her door. It was not just a matter of having a garden where she could work with pleasure, a field for the cow and the chickens, a place where the children could play freely. Weary from her long walk, her face still damp with tears of utter distress and frustration, she sat down at the kitchen table to try and compose herself.
She sat staring at the new dresser, her eyes moving round the plates and cups, the striped mugs, the collection of teapots and jugs, the photograph of their wedding Mr Blennerhassett had sent and Sarah insisted on framing, the small souvenirs that had been precious to her, the small jars and vases she herself had collected to put her flowers in.
As she had promised to do the night before they left Annacramp, she’d gathered up their home and tried to recreate it in this very different house. She thought she had succeeded. Everyone who visited said how well the place looked, especially Mary Wylie. She’d been amazed at its transformation, the first time she came, the day Mary-Anne had been so angry with the children for speaking to little Robert and using the path down the side of her house to go into the orchard.
She sighed. You could make a home, but you couldn’t keep the door shut. You couldn’t protect the children from the threat of Mary-Anne’s outbursts or the unease that spread out from her hostility, the feeling that so often hung over them like the smell from the flax hole when it was in use. She knew that every move they made, every coming or going of friends, or children, was observed. Whether she was sweeping the front of her own house for the second time in the day, feeding her hens, or cleaning her windows, she knew that Mary-Anne was always on the look out for something to complain about.
She’d forbidden her own children to speak to their new neighbours and hers had guessed as much. Then one day, James had come home in distress and confirmed it. High up in one of the trees behind the forge, he’d overheard her scolding little Robert and repeated every word.
‘You just play there behind the forge where I can see you through the window, an’ don’t you dare go near yer wuman from Kerry an’ her childer. You just keep to yer own ground. Have nothing to do with that wuman whatever.’
‘Yer wuman from Kerry,’ Rose repeated to herself, trying to mimic the harsh timbre of Mary-Anne’s voice. ‘What does she mean?’
Yes, there was dislike, hatred even, but she could think of no reason why her being from the other end of Ireland could have any meaning. But it did have meaning for Mary-Anne. Whatever that meaning was, she knew it was beyond any power she herself might have to make it any different.
She stood up, propped open the door, and fetched a bowl of water from the wash house. When the children came home from school, they found her down on her knees at the front of the house rescuing the small fragments that had survived the vigorous scratchings of Mary-Anne’s hens.
‘Ach dear, that’s bad news indeed for poor Lady Anne. What’ll she do, d’ye think?’ John said, as he took his mug of tea from her hand, late that same evening. ‘I mind ye once said to me that big people has to mind their money just as much as we do, though one wouldn’t think it. How’ll she manage, if there’s no money comin’ in and him not able to change his line of work?’
‘I really don’t know,’ replied Rose, smoothing the work on her knee and rethreading her needle. ‘He’ll have some money from property in England, but that won’t go far with nineteen house servants, never mind outside staff. And he has to travel to and from London and keep a coach. All big expenses. I don’t know what the Land League is thinking off and him so strong a supporter of Parnell.’
John drank his tea and looked down into the glowing embers in the hearth. She waited, wondered if he’d ask whether Sam could tell them more, or even help. But what he said next put all thought of Lady Anne’s troubles quite out of mind.
‘I made a start on yer new crane today. There was a piece of metal just the right length. It was Thomas pointed it out and reminded me,’ he said warmly. ‘Not that I’d forgotten, but you know how busy it’s been. I didn’t feel I could start when we have so much waiting. He paused and looked across at her. ‘Maybe I’ll get it finished sooner than I’d thought.’
There was something about his whole manner that alarmed her. As if he were slowly acknowledging some anxiety, but could not bring himself to speak of it openly.
‘And why might that be, John?’ she asked, looking him straight in the face.
‘We had visitors at the forge today,’ he began, reluctantly.
‘Yes.’
‘A cousin of Mary-Anne’s from Battlehill and a big farmer from over Cabragh way.’
He shook his head as if he couldn’t go on, then it all came out in a rush.
‘They wanted Thomas and me to join the lodge and start drillin’ with them. They say there’s bound to be trouble over the Home Rule Bill an’ we hafta be ready.’
Rose dropped her sewing on her knee.
‘And what did you say?’
‘Ach sure we both tried to say we’d think about it an’ put them off that way, but they weren’t takin’ that for an answer. So when it came to the heels of the hunt, we had to say ‘No’. That was not our way. Thomas is no more a man than I am for that sort of thing. That’s why he niver joined the lodge in the first place.’
‘An’ how did they take that?’ she asked, knowing he wouldn’t volunteer the information.
‘Not well. They argued and persuaded for a bit an’ whin they seen there was no shiftin’ us, they made to go. Then they came back to say it was a pity a good forge should go down the hill for want of business, but wasn’t there as good ones in Ballyleny and Drumsill.’
‘So you think they’ll take work away,’ she said steadily.
‘I know they will,’ he replied flatly. ‘Yer man from Cabragh is a regular, four horses and the machines to go with them, forby a pony and trap. But it’s not just that, it’s what he’ll put about the place and take after him. It’s not good, Rose,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘I don’t know why all this bad luck has come upon us. I don’t know at all.’