The early spring was particularly lovely in that spring of 1886. After Sam’s visit and the news of her mother’s death, Rose moved through her daily routine with only half her mind on what she was doing, her head full of strange random thoughts and memories. She paused often to take in the loveliness of the day, only to find herself sitting or standing, minutes later, lost in her own thoughts.
When she went up the orchard for water she would pause by the well, make sure there was no sign of Mary-Anne, and sit down on the mossy slope nearby, careful not to crush any of the newly opened wood anemones that flourished in the dappled shade. Despite the sunlight pouring down upon her through the budded apple trees, she felt all her pleasure in the day drain away. Try as she might, she seemed powerless to prevent a painful restlessness welling up and obliterating the joy such moments of ease so often gave her. It happened so often, she began to think, joy and ease were features of the past.
Sitting by the well one morning towards the end of April, she closed her eyes in the sun’s warmth and saw herself walking out into the garden at Annacramp to see what had bloomed with the morning sun or pick flowers for their table. Often, she would carry one of the children in her arms, repeating for them the names of Sarah’s plants.
‘No, that’s not the way, Rose,’ she whispered to herself, alarmed at the wave of longing that swept over her.
She followed the flight of a huge bumble bee moving across the long, rich grass in front of her, its hum the only sound in the stillness. But the image of the garden at Annacramp wouldn’t leave her.
‘You can’t go back. It’s not good for you to think so,’ she went on berating herself. You can’t go back, you can’t.’
Even as she spoke, she knew she wasn’t longing for the past, nor wishing herself back where once she had been so happy. She was looking for something that had gone from her life.
‘Sarah and Ma?’ she said tentatively.
It was one thing to miss Sarah, who’d been so much part of her daily life for ten years, sharing her joys and sorrows, helping her and appreciating her, another to feel such loss for her mother so far away in Kerry. Dear as she was, how could her going call up so bitter an ache of loneliness, when she had a husband and children living she loved so dearly.
But perhaps it was not her mother in herself, rather it was all she stood for. She and Sarah were both rich in experience. Though Sarah appeared to have had the easier life, she’d always shared the lives of those around her, grieved for their losses, supported them in their anxieties and what she’d experienced, she’d pondered deeply in her quiet hours, just as her mother had done.
‘How do you know so much, Rose?’
She smiled to herself. So long ago now, the moment when Lady Anne reached out to a shy, awkward man who could only talk about horses.
It was so obvious really, once you thought about it. Her mother was her first teacher and Sarah had followed after. With them, she’d not learnt French, or English, or geography, but how to live. How to understand people. And now, for the first time in her life she was on her own. She would have to use all they had taught her to go on teaching herself.
She stood up and filled her buckets from the clear water. John had made a marker that showed the fluctuations of the water level. It seldom varied. Even in the driest weather, the shallow pool restored itself almost immediately. Mary-Anne’s fears for her water supply were unfounded. But then, as Hannah would have said, ‘It’s not about the water, it’s about meanness of spirit.’
She followed the new path they’d tramped along the side of the orchard and through the gap in the hedge she and John had enlarged one summer evening, after one of Mary-Anne’s early visits. It was just wide enough for her to pass through sideways with the buckets. Once through, she had only to cross the common and push open the unlatched new gate into her own back garden.
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ John had said, as they worked out what to do to keep out of Mary-Anne’s way. But keeping out of Mary-Anne’s sight had not avoided her displeasure. A mild word that, she thought, as the gate clicked shut behind her.
‘It’s hatred, Rose. That’s what it is. And hatred’s hard to bear,’ she said to herself, as she put down the buckets in the wash house and went back into the kitchen.
She crossed immediately to the open door and looked out. Sarah was sitting exactly where she’d left her in her own wooden chair, on a small grassy mound overlooking the stone circle where the cart wheels were rimmed. She was totally absorbed in what her father and Uncle Thomas were doing.
She laughed. The other children would be sorry they’d missed it, seeing a wheel rimmed was one of the things they most enjoyed and Sarah was sure to talk about it all afternoon. She was just going to turn away and pick up her sewing when she saw Thomas pause and greet someone, a woman, certainly, for he’d touched his cap. A moment later, Rose gave a little cry of delight. It was Mary Wylie.
‘Mary, how lovely to see you. Will you have a cup of tea.’
‘No, Rose dear, I can’t stop. Ma’s got wee Edward an’ he’s teethin’ an’ I have to go inta Armagh. I only called for a minute or two. Couldn’t bear to go past an’ not get a look at ye. How are ye?’ she said, with a sharp look at her, as she dropped down on the settle.
‘Not bad,’ said Rose honestly, touched by the real concern in the simple question.
‘Has she been back?’
Rose shook her head and Mary pursed her lips.
‘I’ve trouble forgivin’ that woman anythin’,’ she said, shaking her head slowly, ‘but comin’ at ye when she knew ye’d just lost yer mother … I can’t believe the badness of it. She must have known. Thomas would have told her. She knew he came to see you, an’ she’d never have let him near ye if it weren’t a bereavement. I think that woman’s jealousy forby everythin’ else.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Ach aye, there’s some people made that way. They always see others with somethin’ they think they should have. You wouldn’t understan’ for it’s not in your nature.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. I’ve never known ye grudge anyone their good fortune. Sure, look at Lady Anne. Do you ever grudge her the money, or the big house, or the dresses, an’ you just as clever as she was, an’ probably better lookin’?’
To Rose’s amazement she found herself blushing. Lady Anne was no great beauty, but she’d never given it a thought.
‘Well no, but the poor girl has her own troubles,’ she said quickly. ‘She was in a bad way over her husband. He might have been killed, Mary.’
‘There ye are. That’s what I mean. You only think of the person themselves. But the likes of Mary-Anne looks at you an’ thinks about herself. An’ then she thinks of what she wants an’ whether or not ye’re any use to her. Maybe she’ll leave ye in peace now you’ve spoke up. I don’t know how you stuck it so long. Are ye sure yer not lettin’ her get in on ye?’
‘I couldn’t swear to it, Mary, but I’m trying. I’m not in best form, I know, but I don’t think it’s Mary-Anne. I still keep going for the notepaper to write to Ma, but I suppose that’s not surprising.’
‘No, not a bit. An’ ye were close to her for so long. It’s not as if there were half a dozen young ones roun’ her. There was only you an’ wee Sam.’
‘Which reminds me, Mary. I’ve something to show you and a wee present for you. D’you remember Sam brought me some stuff of Ma’s? I hadn’t even looked at it when you came up to see me. And I forgot all about it when I came down to you. Hold on a minute,’ she said, hurrying into the bedroom.
She returned a few moments later with a half finished blouse in one hand and a length of fabric in the other.
‘Look,’ she said, holding out the blouse, a fine, dark plum-coloured silk which shimmered in the light. ‘She was making it for me when she died,’ she said, sadly. ‘Sam knew it was for me by the size, but what he didn’t notice was this. Look, Mary.’
‘Ach, a lovely wee brooch,’ she said, unpinning it from the hem of the garment and turning it over in her large, red hands.
‘It belonged to my great-grandmother,’ explained Rose, ‘but my mother never wore it. The day we were put out at Ardtur, she gave it to me to wear under my shift, in case any of Adair’s men might see it and steal it. I haven’t laid eyes on it since.’
‘It has the date on the back. Did ye know that?’ said Mary, peering at the tarnished metal. ‘J. M. it says, 1745. That’s a queer while ago,’ she added, her eyes bright. ‘There’s maybe a story there, did we but know it.’
‘Yes, I’m sure there is indeed,’ said Rose, as she looked for herself. ‘J. M. is probably James Mackay. Or maybe it’s Jane Mackay …’
‘Rose dear, I must go, much as I’d like to stay. But I must tell you what I came for. I have good news. Peggy and Kevin was up on Sunday on the train, looking powerful well. Peggy has one on the way. July or thereabouts, she says. And Kevin is as pleased as Punch, as the sayin’ is.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, Mary. Isn’t it great to have good news. I’ll start a wee dress for her one of these days,’ she said firmly. as she picked up the length of material she’d set down beside them. ‘And this is for you,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make it up yourself, I’m doing so much for Leeman’s, these days, but the minute I saw it I thought of you. Blue’s your colour.’
‘Rose, you can’t give me this,’ said Mary, startled, as she stared at the folded length of blue fabric.
‘I just have.’ Rose laughed and gave her friend a little kiss. ‘I’ve not got much to give away these days, but that had your name on it from the minute I opened Sam’s parcel. I’m just sorry I can’t make it up for you.’
She walked to the door with her and stood watching as she set off down the lane with a cheery wave to Sarah and a word to Thomas and John.
‘Give thanks, Rose,’ she said to herself, as she stepped back into her kitchen and picked up her sewing. ‘You may have lost your wise women, but at least you’ve a kind friend who’s no fool. Mary’s not great at thinking things out, but she’ll never let you down.’
The apple blossom that May was lovelier than anything she had ever seen before. Even the three very elderly trees just beyond their garden wall were laden with blossom. For a week or more, their delicate perfume blended with the perfume from the orchard and flowed through the open doors and windows of the house. The insects were busy, the bees drunk with nectar. Though the night skies were clear, there was no frost. As the days passed and there was still no wind, the blossom fell like snow in summer. Minute green fruit appeared in great quantity promising a rich harvest.
But the spring weeks that brought more work to the forge and the first signs of growth in their newly cultivated garden, also brought growth of a different kind. As the days lengthened and the news that the Home Rule Bill was to come before parliament, senior men from the lodge made a further visit to the forge. The drilling now was out in the open.
Thomas thought the outdoor drilling might only be because of the good weather, but John was less sure. His guess was that there were now too many to accommodate in the small Orange Hall in the middle of Robinson’s bog. From what the lodge men had said, he felt there was a growing confidence that no one would lift a finger to stop them, were they now to parade openly in the streets of the city.
Sometimes on fine evenings when the children were in bed, Rose and John would sit on the bench under the young pear tree at the gable wall of the shoeing shed. From there they could hear any sound from the children’s rooms while still enjoying the fading light and the antics of Robinson’s calves in the small field in front of them.
There was seldom any movement on the road beyond this late in the evening, except maybe an empty cart coming back from market, or a neighbour leading home a new cow, pulling awkwardly at its temporary rope halter. But more than once as the evenings lengthened towards midsummer, the sound of tramping feet reached them. They moved out of sight into the shoeing shed until the marching column passed.
‘What do you think will happen, John? Will it go through, do you think?’
He shook his head sadly and studied the toe caps of his working boots.
‘There’ll be trouble over it. That’s the only thing that I’m sure of. Whether it were to go through or not, there’s been so much bad feeling stirred up it’ll come out some way or ’nother. Ye’ve only to read the reports in the paper. It’s all very well saying it’s just talk, but people talk themselves into badness. An’ it’s been goin’ on for months now.’
‘Sam says there’ll be trouble in Belfast either way. But what about here, John?’
‘Ye can’t tell. One o’ the men came to us las’ week I’ve knowed since we were at school together. A right kind of a man, ye’d think, if ye met him in the ordinary way, the sort who’d always help a neighbour out. But he was talking big, about what they was goin’ to do. You’d think he’d taken on the whole of Italy, he was that hot about the Pope. ‘An sure wasn’t his gran’mother a Catholic from over Moy way. She used to visit m’ mother an’ swop wee plants wi’ her.’
He paused and watched the swooping flight of the swallows over the field of calves.
‘They were a lot harder to talk to than the las’ time,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Did you not tell me the half of it, John?’
He laughed wryly and looked sheepish.
‘Well you’d better tell me the whole of it now,’ she said, with a lightness she certainly didn’t feel.
‘I thought maybe it was a threat with nothing to it, and maybe so it will be, but your man from Cabragh said there was people had approached him about buying the cart manufactory and gettin’ it goin’ again. That was meant as one in the eye for us for “not bein’ loyal” as they call it. I don’t know who owns that land, for Alex was just a tenant, but if it’s only money that’s needed then yer man has it, or could raise it if he wanted to. An’ ye know what that wou’d mean.’
‘I do, love,’ she said steadily. ‘I know perfectly well what that would mean. But we’ll not worry till we have to. We’ll meet it should it come.’
A few days later a groom from Sir Capel’s estate came to the forge and told them the old man was failing. The doctor had been sent for. By the end of the same week, they were getting out their Sunday clothes to go and pay their respects as he was laid to rest in the family vault, a few yards from the Scott grave and a short walk from the Hamilton one.
Rose was overcome with anxiety lest they’d be turned out again and this time they really did have nowhere to go. For days she told herself not to be so silly. Was it likely that Sir Capel’s successor would want their poor cottage for a relative? Would he want to get rid of the Scotts and the Hamiltons to make more room for sheep, like Adair of Glenveagh? She tried to laugh at herself, but all to no avail. She shared her fears with John, who did his best to comfort her, but the sense of menace would not leave her. Only when a greater storm broke did she realise it was coming from somewhere quite different.
Riots started in Belfast even before the Home Rule Bill came before Parliament. According to Kevin Donaghy, Mary’s new brother-in-law, the whole outbreak had begun with jeers and taunting in the shipyards. A Catholic had said something to a Protestant during their lunch break about the days of the Ascendancy being over.
The story got around and was added to in the telling. Kevin said he’d heard later that the Catholic was supposed to have said that a Protestant wouldn’t be able to earn so much as a loaf of bread when Dublin was in charge. The following day, a gang of Protestants attacked the Catholic workman and his friends in the dinner hour, beating them up and chasing them for their lives. Some tried to escape by jumping into the docks. The first death was a lad who couldn’t swim and was drowned.
But that was only the beginning. Day after day, there was news of more riots and more deaths. Even when the Home Rule Bill was defeated, it did nothing to cool tempers. Protestants lit celebratory bonfires and Catholics set their chimneys on fire as a protest. Smoke hung like a pall over the city as pent up energy erupted into a violence that grew by what it fed on.
Rose almost came to dread John’s coming home. There was little that happened in Belfast during the night that didn’t reach the forge by late morning. What was in the morning papers, or reached Armagh with the railway workers would come by way of the carters and the postmen. The latest news always reached the forge by the end of the working day. And the news was always bad. John was weighed down by it in the telling as much as she was in the hearing.
Nor was it an easy time for the forge. It had always been a meeting place and a clearing house for the news of the locality, but the old easy feeling had gone. No longer did people talk about the weather, the state of the crops, the health or otherwise of their neighbours. Now it was only the latest riot and which side had done what.
Both John and Thomas knew that men of the lodge were coming to the forge to hear what was being said, so they said as little as possible themselves. But it put a strain on their relationship with each other and with their neighbours.
But worse was to come. One August morning Mary Wylie appeared tear-stained and distraught.
‘Rose dear, I’m on my way to Belfast,’ she gasped, out of breath on a morning already hot and windless. ‘I can only stop a minit. I can hardly bear to tell you what’s happened.’
‘Mary dear, sit down. Let me get you a glass of spring water. Now, tell me. Please.’
‘Last night,’ she said, drinking gratefully in large gulps, ‘there was trouble in the Donegall Road. Some Catholics went for an Orange Band that was leading a Sunday School excursion back home. Some wee lad got hit with a stone, and Kevin went out to help,’ she went on, tears streaming down her face. ‘Someone hit Kevin on the back of the head as he was bendin’ over him. We don’t know whether it was a Catholic or a Protestant,’ she said, sobbing. ‘It doesn’t make any difference now. Kevin’s dead, Rose, an’ Peggy’s wee baby due any time.’