Sam’s story was quickly told. The previous Friday, Hannah had been on her way downstairs to the servants’ hall for the evening meal when she’d fallen. Not a bad fall, Cook had explained to Sam, for she was only a few steps from the bottom of the staircase when it happened, but there was just enough noise to bring Mr Smithers hurrying from his room. She was unconscious when they picked her up and at first everyone thought she’d hit her head. When the doctor arrived and found her still unconscious an hour later, however, he’d said ‘No’. The fall itself had caused no great injury. He was more concerned as to what had caused the fall.
Hannah had been put to bed in her own small room and throughout the night her friends took it in turns to sit with her. She never became conscious again, but died peacefully just before six in the morning.
Rose listened dry-eyed. She could see so vividly the narrow wooden staircase, the dim corridor leading to the servants’ hall, but she couldn’t yet grasp what had happened. She’d tramped up and down those stairs thousands of times herself and her mother many thousands of times more. She knew them so well, she’d never have tripped and fallen.
‘How did you find out, Sam?’ she asked, agitatedly, springing up from the chair by the kitchen table she’d dropped down into only minutes earlier.
She walked unsteadily across the room and sat close to him on the settle.
‘Sir Capel sent me a telegram in Dublin and I got the train down first thing on Saturday,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘The service was in the parish church where you and she used to go with the family. Every single person went from Currane Lodge. The church was so full they had to stand at the back.’
She saw the building again, so vividly, with its box pews, high pulpit and single stained glass window, a memorial to some previous Molyneux. For all of the years Hannah had been at Currane, she’d worshipped there and she’d gone with her every week. They’d sat side-by-side in their Sunday best clothes, their boots well polished, their stiff black skirts equally well-brushed, their best blouses starched and ironed. They’d sat with the family in the big pew below the pulpit, the only servants that weren’t Catholic, apart from Mr Smithers, who insisted he wasn’t anything and Sam, who had announced at fourteen he was an agnostic.
So often still on a Sunday morning, she’d thought of her mother as she and John walked up the lane to their much larger church, built by another Molyneux, a man, like his relative in Kerry, who’d also provided a chapel for his Catholic tenants. When she thought of her mother on a Sunday now, she’d have to think of the churchyard, not the church.
‘So you’re on speaking terms again with Sir Capel,’ she said suddenly.
‘Yes. He shook my hand when I arrived and asked me to forget the hard things he’d said when I joined the League. I dined with the family after the funeral and we drank port in his library. He said he still wished I’d come back to the estate. Even Lily was being nice to me,’ he added, with a wry smile.
‘Was she indeed, Sam?’
‘Yes,’ he said, stroking her hand. ‘Do you remember me breaking my heart over her ten or eleven years ago?’
‘Eleven now,’ she nodded. ‘And Ma was never able to come. I haven’t seen her since my wedding day,’ she went on, her thoughts following their own logic. ‘We made so many plans, but either I wasn’t well enough to travel or one of the children fell ill.’
‘But you wrote, Rose, and she knew everything about your life. Whenever I had letters from her or got down to see her, she was always full of what you were doing and how the children were. You were never out of her mind.’
‘And she was never out of mine. Time and again I imagined myself talking to her …’
She broke off as John’s tall figure stooped under the lintel and came across to where they sat. She got up and put her arms round him.
‘Did Sam tell you?’
‘No, but I guessed. Is it yer Ma?’ he said gently.
‘Aye. Sam’ll tell you while I make us tea. It’s a poor welcome, Sam, and you on the road since goodness knows when,’ she said, picking up the wheaten bread from the stand and carrying it to the table.
‘It’s only bread and jam, I’m afraid, but I’ve a bit of bacon and cabbage for tonight,’ she added, apologetically, as she put the lid on the teapot and they drew over to the table.
‘The bread smells great, Rose,’ Sam responded, as she cut thick slices of fresh wheaten and pushed the dish of butter in his direction. ‘Ma always said there was no bread as good as bread cooked over a hearth.’
‘She’s a great han’ at the bakin’, Sam,’ said John, spreading his piece with damson jam. ‘She’s great han’s altogether,’ he added quietly. ‘Just like her Ma.’
Whether it was the softness of John’s tone, or the words themselves, or merely the passage of time since Sam had brought his news, but she felt tears spring to her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they wouldn’t stop. As they dropped like rain on her clean apron, she felt a pain rise in her throat. She put her head in her hands and cried as if her heart would break.
The tears brought some relief. Although she still couldn’t eat, she was grateful for the tea John poured her. When she was steadier, he gathered up little Sarah, who’d fallen asleep over her reading on their bed, and told her he’d take her over to Sophie and go on back to work. He’d tell Thomas the sad news himself.
What no one knew was that Mary-Anne had returned from Armagh just as the carter dropped Sam at the end of the lane. She’d slowed her step, seen and heard all that had passed, then waited her moment to pass the forge when no one would see her.
Through the long afternoon, she seldom left her window.
‘What time do the children get back at?’ Sam asked, as he watched her clear away the remains of their meal. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting my nephews and nieces.’
‘Shortly after half three. Sometimes I can’t believe how fast James and Sam get here. Hannah takes a bit longer.’
‘I’d have liked to bring them presents, but I just hadn’t time,’ he said apologetically.
‘But you’ve brought yourself. They’ll be very excited about that. They’re not used to presents. They never expect them, even at Christmas.’
‘Are times hard for you, Rose?’
‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘not compared to some. We’ve enough to eat and the children have shoes for Sunday. We’ve a little money in the bank from Sarah’s burial fund, but I’ve not been able to add anything to it since she died. The forge isn’t doing quite as well as it should.’
‘I wondered about that,’ he said sharply, casting his eyes round the room for the first time since he arrived. ‘Rose, we’ve not much time. I have to catch the last train to Dublin from Portadown at seven this evening, so I’ll have to be in Armagh for six,’ he said hurriedly, looking at his fob watch. ‘There are things I need to know from you and other news I want to give you. You can tell me what the Orangemen are up to and I’ll tell you what I can’t put in my letters. It’s hard on you with the shock of Ma’s death upon you, but she wouldn’t be well pleased with me if I didn’t think to our future.’
They sat side by side on the settle, the glow of turf at their feet, the light haze of smoke winding its way straight up into the broad canopy and on into the blue sky that arced above the low chimney. They spoke quickly and urgently about Sam’s immediate concerns, about Parnell’s plan to persuade Gladstone to bring in a Home Rule Bill in the summer, about the failure of the Land League to hold the support of the Protestant farmers in Ulster, who’d backed them in the early eighties and about the sectarianism growing again in Ulster after a period of calm and relative prosperity.
‘Are they really drilling, Rose?’
‘Oh yes. And it’s not just lodge members. They’re trying to draft in all Protestants.’
Sam shook his head.
‘We’ve tried to tell him, but there are times Parnell simply doesn’t listen. He still goes around saying it would only take a thousand RIC men to deal with the Orangemen if they give trouble, but if they do hold out against Home Rule it leaves three quarters of Ireland still a part of an empire instead of being its own country. That can’t be fair, can it?’
‘No, it can’t, Sam, I grant you, but do you really think life can be? Is there any way of creating a world in which one group doesn’t exploit others? Where no one imagines they’re superior because of birth or wealth, or what they think, or even how they worship?’
‘Yes, but then one has to ask, “Is it worth trying?”’
She studied her brother’s face closely. Apart from her parents, Sam was the first person she had ever loved. The creamy skin and the light freckles had changed little with the passage of time. At twenty-seven, his bright eyes and open look still made him seem younger than his years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, she thought of the child she’d held in her arms, in a turf cart, sheltered from the sleet by her mother’s shawl the day they were evicted and had to face the bitter chill of that April day. Twenty-five years ago, this very month.
‘Sometimes I think I don’t understand anything, Sam,’ she began slowly. ‘I read the papers and talk to John and borrow books from the library. The more I read, the less I’m sure of anything,’ she said sadly. ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, but what matters to me is living and loving and hoping for better times for the children. It’s a weakness I’m sure. I can bear things for myself, but I cannot bear to think of those I love being ill, or hungry, or made homeless.’
‘That’s why I fight, Rose. I can’t bear it either. I have to fight against greed and exploitation, though you’re right, it’s not as simple as I thought it was. I’m in two minds about the way things are going, but I have to give it one more try. I’ve been commissioned to go to America in September for the League to take letters to our supporters there and to raise money. I’ll be gone for two months. Things may be clearer by the end of the year for both of us,’ he said, dropping his voice, as a shadow fell across the floor.
‘Hullo. You’re Uncle Sam, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed, young man. How did you know?’ said Sam, smiling as he stood up and offered his hand to his eldest nephew.
‘I’ve seen your photograph in the book Mr Blennerhasset sent of Ma and Da’s wedding. You were the best man. I didn’t know you had red hair same as mine.’
‘I told you he had, James,’ Rose protested.
‘Yes, you did, but I’d forgot,’ said James cheerfully, as he shook hands with the only one of his uncles he’d ever met.
While James went to fetch Sarah from the Robinsons, Sam and Hannah settled down to question their new-found uncle about Dublin. Hannah wanted to know where he lived, what it was like and whether he was allowed to have a kitten. How wide was the river in Dublin? How long had it taken him to get to Armagh? Sam’s questions were even more specific. He wanted to know what engine had pulled the train. Did it have a name? If he didn’t know, then did he remember its number?
When Uncle Sam admitted he didn’t know where to look for either, young Sam, not yet seven, surprised even his mother by telling him where he could find them next time he came to see them.
‘James and I are both hoping to be engine drivers when we grow up,’ he informed his uncle solemnly, as Rose began preparations for a very early meal.
With such a very short time before Sam had to go, she decided not to tell the children about their Granny Hannah’s death there and then. She thought she’d say he was going to America in September and had come to tell them, but in the end she offered no explanation for his sudden appearance. Happily, the children were so totally absorbed by the excitement of having a real live uncle over for supper, they required none.
When Sam rose to go and said his goodbyes to the children, the thought of saying her own goodbye, so suddenly, almost overwhelmed her. How could she let him go with so much unsaid?
‘James and Hannah,’ she said quickly, as inspiration came to her. ‘I want to walk to the station with Uncle Sam. Will you look after Sarah for me? I’ll only be about an hour and Da’s in the forge if you need him. All right?’
They assured her they’d be fine. Hannah fetched her shawl from the bedroom, while James took down one of Sarah’s story books. Sam picked up the bag he’d put down on the settle and extracted a heavy, awkwardly-shaped parcel of things he’d brought from Kerry and left it where he’d been sitting.
‘They’re grandchildren, Rose. All different and all lovely. They’d tempt a man to find a wife,’ he said cheerfully, as they strode down the lane after they’d looked in at the forge and spoken a few words to Thomas and John.
‘You know, Sam, it’s the first time my children have seen anyone from my family. Isn’t it sad the way we’re scattered to the four winds. And John’s side’s no better now we’ve lost his mother.’
‘He has brothers, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, two of them. But they never write. When Sarah died, John wrote to the last address he had for them, but there’s been no reply. Ma always said there are some who go away and try to pretend the past never happened.’
‘You can’t do that, Rose, can you? Your past shapes you whether you like it or not. And if it’s given you a bad hand you’ll not improve it much unless you know you have it.’
‘We didn’t do so bad, did we?’ she said, taking his arm.
Sam kissed her cheek.
‘No, we didn’t. We might be dead and gone, perished in Derryveagh, or in Letterkenny workhouse, or buried at sea from the Abysinnia. But we’re not. We’re walking into Armagh on a lovely April evening, full of your good dinner. Ma would be pleased to see the pair of us.’
Rose nodded, afraid the tears might catch her again just when she had no wish to be sad. In the small piece of time they now had left to them before they reached the station, she wanted them to be happy.
‘Rose, there’s something I must ask you. I’m sure I ought to know, but I don’t. When I was sitting in the church last week, I suddenly thought. ‘Why Kerry?’ I know what happened when Adair put us out and the Rosses in Ramelton gave us their barn and fed us. But how did we come to Kerry, Ma and you and me?’
Rose laughed again, amused at the thought of the years that lay between herself and this lively young man.
‘Well, you were only a baby when it happened,’ she began. ‘After the news came about Da, the Rosses heard through their church that the Stewarts needed a housemaid. So it made sense for Mary to apply. In own handwriting, as all the advertisements say,’ she continued with a smile. ‘So she was called to interview. But Ma wasn’t sure whether she’d be happy or not living-in. So she went with her. She told Mary that if they offered her the job she was to say that her mother wished to speak to the housekeeper before she could say yes.’
‘That sounds like Ma.’
‘Well, Mary was offered the job and Ma is called to the housekeeper’s room where she proceeds to ask her questions about the situation. By the time she’d finished, the housekeeper has a few questions of her own. When she hears mother came from Ardtur and is now widowed, she asks if she’d like her to find a situation for her as well. So mother says “yes” and Mary Laverty, I think that was her name, sets about finding her a position.’
‘There was a Lady something visiting the Stewarts who knew another Lady something who was a cousin of Lady Caroline. And Lady Caroline needed an assistant housekeeper who could sew. That’s how we ended up in Kerry.’
‘Ah, God be with you Kerry, Where in childhood I was merry,’ he sang cheerfully, as they passed the gates of the Richardson estate and came within sight of the spinning mill at Drumcairn.
‘There hasn’t been any trouble at Currane Lodge, has there? Not like poor Lady Anne in Sligo,’ she said, her thoughts moving back to the peaceful times that now seemed so far away.
‘No, no trouble at all. Don’t forget they still have Old Thomas and my friend Tom.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, those two were both founder members of the League in that area. They’d make sure the Molyneux were never on anybody’s list. While Sir Capel lives, there’ll not be trouble at Currane, but his successor might be a different matter.’
‘And does he keep well?’
‘Fairly well. Cook says he has gout and gets pains in the chest if he rides out about the estate.’
Rose sighed. Ma had gone and with her the link to the family they’d known so well. When Sir Capel died, the family itself would have to go. He had no heir and Sam, whom he’d cared for and educated, with the thought he might adopted him or marry him to one of his daughters, had abandoned him for the sake of a cause. Poor man.
They reached the level crossing and Rose waved to the signal man. They’d been exchanging greetings for years now, though only once had they met face to face.
‘How does wee Sam know so much about engines?’
‘That’s his father fault,’ said Rose grinning. ‘John loves anything that moves by itself. I’m becoming an expert myself on pistons and steam pressure. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon he takes them in to the station to see what might be there, waiting to go out, or being turned round. My friend, Mary Wylie, has an uncle who works in the engine shed so they sometimes get climbing up into the cab. There’s no stopping them talking when they come home,’ she said, beaming as they walked through the station gates.
‘I’ll see if I can find a book or two for them, now I know what they’re keen on. What’ll I send Hannah and Sarah?’
‘Oh Sam, don’t trouble. It’s cost you dear to come up today and I doubt if you’re very well paid.’
‘Too true, Rose. And only proper. But I’ve no wife, or child, so I can spare a bit. There’ll be a parcel for them in a week or two,’ he said warmly, as he took out a tiny square of cardboard and the ticket collector waved them both on to the platform.
‘And speaking of a parcel, Rose. What I left you is some of Ma’s stuff. There wasn’t much. I gave her clothes to Cook. I hope that was right, for they were good friends. But there was a blouse she was making and I knew by the size it must be for you and some nice pieces of material. And buttons. Thread, too. So I parcelled it up for you in case it would be useful. There was a good shawl and I sent that to Mary. Did I do right?’
‘You’ve done wonderfully, Sam. I’m so very glad to have seen you, even if it was bad news that brought you. I hope we’ll meet again soon,’ she said, as a distant whistle told her the train was approaching. She looked down the platform and watched the gates of the level crossing swing out and clack into place.
‘I’ve been over there on the road so often when the gates have closed in front of me, but I’ve never stood here looking out at them before.’
‘Maybe, if things go well with us, we could make use of the trains. Sometimes there’s cheap day returns. They’re half the price. That’s why I couldn’t stay the night. But maybe next time.’
The train was approaching. She could see it coming under the bridge on the other side of the Loughgall Road. Now it was on the level crossing. Smoke and clouds of steam swirled around them as the brakes squealed and carriage doors flew open as it came to a halt beside them. There were no more hours, or minutes, only seconds.
Sam put his arms round her, kissed her cheeks and hugged her.
‘Take care, Rose. Take care. Write very soon,’ he said, and was gone.
Even before he’d thrown his empty bag up in the rack, the train had creaked, moved silently for a few seconds, then pulled forward more quickly, gathering speed as the huge clock above the platform jerked from six o’clock to one minute past. A further cloud of smoke and steam enveloped her. By the time it cleared, the guard’s van was already growing small in the distance and Sam was looking out at the countryside through which they’d walked together only half an hour previously.
Rose slept badly that night, her dreams haunted by questions she couldn’t answer and people who turned out to be not the people she thought they were. She saw herself climbing a mountain with a bleeding foot and woke up trying to remember the name of the boy who’d carried her part of the way back home. She felt clumsy and confused and had to take a headache powder when the children went off to school.
She sat down with her sewing as soon as she’d cleared away the remains of breakfast and washed up the porridge bowls. Even the sound of little Sarah’s voice reading to Ganny seemed to make her head ache. It had been an effort to get the children off to school without snapping at them, but she had a strict rule that she never took out her temper on them when she herself felt bad.
The head had begun to ease when she heard a slight scuffling sound and looked up sharply. An awkward-looking youth stood on the threshold, gathering himself to knock the open door. He dropped his hand, then mumbled indistinctly as she put her sewing down and came over to him.
‘Thomas sez t’ tell ye, the pair of them is gone over t’ Robinson’s,’ he began, jerking his shoulder in the direction of the farm. ‘The big cart is stuck in the sheugh and the wheels is jammed. He said t’ tell ye if anyone comes wi’ a horse, they’ll be a while. They’re beyond in the back lane if they’re wantin’.’
She nodded encouragingly as the lad turned away and strode off past the empty forge towards the Robinson’s. She went and drank a cup of water from the pail in the wash house and sat down again to her sewing. She’d hardly put her needle back in the seam when a shadow fell across the floor and she looked up to see Mary-Anne standing at the door, her knuckles poised for her familiar tattoo on the door.
She got to her feet quickly enough to prevent further action and stood waiting for what was to come. To her surprise Mary-Anne’s tone was more reasonable than usual.
‘Missus Hamilton, I understood that when you were put out of your last house you came here as a temporary measure until you found something suited to you. I’d like to know when you intend moving on for I see no signs of it at the moment.’
The cheek of the woman. Somehow she found her apparent reasonableness far more insulting than her habitual rudeness.
‘No, indeed you don’t, Missus Scott. We’re quite well settled thank you,’ she said coolly. ‘Sir Capel has been most kind in mending our roof and replacing the windows. We have no intention of moving.’
‘So yer not moving, aren’t you?’ Mary-Anne spat out. ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she went on, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I let my husband talk me in to havin’ you and your family here against my better judgement,’ she went on furiously. ‘An’ I’ve put up with it nine months now, using our water and making free of our land an’ showing no respect for the property. It’s one thing havin’ a man workin’ at the forge who’s foolish enough not to support his own people, but it’s another matter having you and your family, forby your followers from Kerry, comin’ to spy out the land, I suppose, for the other side,’ she said, pouring out the words with such venom she had to pause for breath.
‘I take it you are referring to my brother who came yesterday,’ said Rose, in an icy tone.
‘A right red-headed Fenian whoever he was, standin’ at the end of the lane sayin’ his piece to yer man from Blundell’s Grange, gettin’ his information, or passin’ it on, no doubt. What good woud he be up to an’ not willin’ or able to speak the Queen’s English?’
The pain in her head vibrated like the sound of a heavy hammer in the forge and she felt a tightness in her chest as if her heart were going to burst. How dare she? How dare this woman speak of Sam like this? How dare she treat her as some lower form of life, to be tolerated for a time and then moved on as no doubt she moved on tinkers or gypsies?
‘Missus Scott, first I’m going to tell you why my brother Sam has red hair, and then I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do unless you go away and leave me and my children in peace.’
She spoke so softly, she realised Mary-Anne was having to pay close attention in order to hear her, but she couldn’t have spoken louder if she’d wanted to. Her chest was so tight with anger and tension she had barely breath enough to get the words out.
‘My brother Sam has red hair, as has my son James, because their grandfather had red hair. He was a Scot, a Covenanter, as bitter and as hard as you are, a real, good Christian, reading his Bible and cursing those who weren’t like he was. And do you know what happened him? Well, I’ll tell you. He died, like everybody dies. And you’ll die to. And just like him, there’ll be no one to mourn you, not even your own children.’
‘I beg your pardon, Missus Hamilton …’ said Mary-Anne, her face flushing a hectic crimson.
‘I haven’t finished,’ snapped Rose, sharply. ‘If you don’t leave us alone, I shall tell Thomas exactly what you’ve been doing. I’ll tell the Robinsons you’ve tried to deny us spring water from their orchard and I’ll ask Sir Capel to give us a plan of this property with your boundaries marked on,’ she went on, taking a quick, gasping breath. ‘We pay our rent, we are good tenants and he is happy for us to be here. We owe you thanks for nothing, not even the practice of the Second Commandment. Now go away and don’t come back,’ she ended, raising her voice for the first time, as she closed the door firmly in Mary-Anne’s startled face.
She closed her eyes and leant against the door, shaking with the effort of control she’d made and wondering whether she should put in place the wooden bar they seldom bothered to use except on very windy nights.
‘Not nice lady,’ said Sarah, her eyes round, her arm firmly enclosing Ganny. ‘Don’t like her, Ma,’ she went on, her voice wavering.
Rose gathered the little girl in her arms and walked her up and down dropping little pecking kisses on her cheeks till the child responded with a big hug that almost throttled her.
‘She’s gone now, Sarah. We’ll forget all about her. Would you like a wee, tiny drop of Ma’s tea with sugar in it if I make some?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said excitedly. ‘And Ganny too. She always liked her cup of tea.’
‘You read her a little story while I go and fill the kettle.’
Rose just managed it to the wash house before she burst into tears. She wept, leaning against the cold north wall so that little Sarah wouldn’t hear her. She wept tears of fury that life should be made so much harder than it need be by the nursed resentment of a bitter woman. She wept tears of sorrow that the one person who would understand about the loss of her mother, dear Sarah, was herself gone before. And she wept tears of anxiety, the nameless fears of the night returning in the broad light of day, growing into a sense of menace that the future was about to ask of her a strength she would not be able to find.