Throughout the month of June the cart manufactory took from them the business of Lodge members just as John and Thomas had expected. Some of them still came to have their horses shod, but the stone circle for rimming the wheels remained cold. Amongst the men who used to sit so comfortably on the bench inside the door, exchanging the news, there was a wholly new sense of unease and constraint.
The weekly income dropped predictably and they reckoned it would drop further as soon as the manufactory was able to offer machine and tool repairs along with its work on carts and traps. At its best, the summer income would be little more than half what it had been when the two men started out together, some five years earlier.
During slack times in the previous years, Thomas and John had tried various ideas for keeping up their winter takings. They’d approached Turners and Hillocks, with the possibility of making implements for them. They were listened to most courteously, but it was made clear the price either firm could afford to offer for handmade tools would barely cover the costs of making them. They’d be in direct competition with machine made tools, they said, and machine made tools were cheaper and did the job just as well.
At the end of June, the decisive moment came. The partnership between Thomas Scott and John Hamilton was ended, as it had begun, in friendship and mutual respect. Their good neighbours found it hard to tell which of the men was more distressed, Thomas by the prospect of having to go on alone, or John, who now faced the daunting prospect of finding work elsewhere.
For Rose, the first week of July took on a nightmare quality. Each evening the Lambeg drums thundered out on the warm air, an unhappy reminder of the previous year’s bitter agitation. The vigour of Lodge members drumming so late into the night, underlined the hurt done to both men, the veiled threats now become a reality.
They lay awake, talking in whispers, light still in the sky as the longest evenings of the year began to shorten imperceptibly. She knew John dreaded the morning. She could guess only too well how he would feel walking past the forge, greeting Thomas as he went. Harder still to bear was what she knew he must feel walking into Armagh, a man looking for work.
He’d been so happy at the forge. Despite the periods of Thomas’s depression and withdrawal, and the troubles that had finally driven him out, he’d always been at ease there. He admitted he’d sometimes found the work repetitive but it had never troubled him. Only a month ago, he’d talked openly about it.
‘Ach sure when I’m making the fortieth horseshoe, I’m thinkin’ about what I read in the books ye bring me. That’s how I manage it. Figurin’ things out, an’ imaginin’ things. Wonderin’ how long it’ll be before we have horseless carriages and ploughing machines. Aye, an’ maybe flyin’ machines,’ he added with a smile.
‘Do you really think there’ll ever be flying machines, or are you just teasing me?’ she’d asked.
‘No, I’m perfectly serious,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure James and Sam will live to see road vehicles, even if I don’t. Think of it this way, Rose,’ he said, looking at her so directly she was almost startled by the brightness of his blue eyes. ‘It was 1825 when George Stephenson created Locomotion No. 1. An’ it was 1851 when the railway got to Armagh. Now its 1887 and there’s railways all over Ireland, with bigger engines and better power weight ratios. They’ve come on so fast ye could hardly believe it.’
Then he’d laughed unexpectedly.
‘Sure my father told me that some people thought that the railways would bring on the end of the world. They said the birds would die with the smoke and the cows lose their milk with fright. But sure nothing happened at all and now anybody can travel anywhere, if they’ve the price of a ticket, that is.’
‘Now there was a time, Rose, when people like Stephenson were experimentin’,’ he went on, warming to his story. ‘Ye see, ye hear nothin’ about all that until there’s somethin’ to try out. But the work’s goin’ on all the time. Some day we might look back and think “Sure had we but known it, So and So was inventing the steam plough or the steam thresher or the flying machine an’ now they’re as common as the train.”’
Although her main worry was the loss of the job and what they’d do for money if John couldn’t find work quickly, she couldn’t help being sad at the two men being separated just now, when they’d been getting on famously since Thomas recovered from his accident. There’d always been good fellowship between them, but it had become something deeper and created a light-heartedness which brought pleasure to even the hardest days. Tending her plants in the front flowerbeds, she’d hear them laugh. Now, poor Thomas had lost his friend and colleague through no fault of his own, just as he’d freed himself from the burden he’d long carried.
In the event, she need not have worried, for John found a job immediately. She couldn’t quite believe it when he arrived home at midday on the Tuesday of his first week of looking for work.
‘Well,’ she said, as he came in and sat down at the table, a look of relief on his face.
‘Well, we’ll not starve yet a while,’ he said soberly.
‘You’ve got something already?’
‘Yes, second place I tried,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Drumcairn Mill. Maintenance and repairs. Eight in the mornin’ till seven at night. A week’s annual holiday for the Twelfth. Good money and steady each week. Unless the demand for cotton drops or the management go bust, that is. Not very likely at the moment from what I heard. Every spindle going and a full order book.’
‘But what’ll you be doin’ John?
‘Oh, mendin’ boilers. Fixin’ the looms. Makin’ new parts, I expect, when they’re past fixin’. There’s a big workshop out at the back with anvils and suchlike. An’ they’ve a stable o’ horses for the drays that do the deliveries to the weavers. They’ll need to be shod. An’ the drays kep’ runnin’ forby.’
‘So you won’t be indoors all the time?’
‘I woulden think so.’
‘An’ when do you start?’
‘The morra,’ he said promptly. ‘That’s the whole point ye see. They’ve a man off sick and they’re desperate. They diden even ask me if I knew one end of a loom from another, though I did tell’em I’d worked in Doagh fifteen years ago.’
‘Oh John, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Rose asked, suddenly full of an unease she couldn’t explain.
‘Sure it’s a job, love. Haven’t we got to earn our keep?’
She had to admit that having a known amount of money coming in each week would be a great relief. She hadn’t really realised what a burden she’d found it trying to guess how much she needed to save in the summer months to get them through the winter and last winter she hadn’t managed it. Even with Hannah helping her with the seams and hems of the babies’ dresses and Sam and James fetching the water and doing the dishes to give her more time, it had still been a struggle to turn out enough to keep food on the table and fire on the hearth.
By Christmas, she’d even regretted renewing her subscription to the library. When it became due in October, things hadn’t looked too bad, but two months later the five shillings yearly subscription seemed like an extravagance she should not have allowed.
‘Well, it’ll be different this year,’ she promised herself, as she got ready to go into Armagh on a pleasant October morning, leaving the house tidy and empty behind her.
She still hadn’t got used to Sarah going to school, but Sarah behaved as if she’d never done anything else. She loved school and was already showing signs of being able to read far more quickly than any of the other children. With no reading book of her own, she couldn’t wait to try out her day’s work on Sam’s as soon as she got home.
‘Pity there are no children’s books,’ she thought, smiling a little at the idea of asking for fairy stories or animal tales at The Armagh Natural History and Philosophical Society, the actual name of the library. ‘When they’re a little older, I’ll can pay the extra two and sixpence and let them come with me. We could all read the magazines in the reading room together and go and look at the cases of birds eggs and the samples of rock when we got tired of sitting down.’
She wondered if she might try some volumes of poetry for Hannah, but the books John enjoyed puzzling over still seemed a bit difficult for James and most certainly were for Sam.
As she walked into Armagh, a train passed just where the line ran close to the road. As the train whistled and let off steam she looked up and saw a red-headed child wave its hand from a carriage window. She waved back, smiling, as the carriages rolled on, towards the complex of sidings and engine sheds at Armagh Station.
She tried to remember what ambitions her brother Sam had admitted to when he was as young as his two nephews. Going fishing with Old Tom seemed more to his taste than trains, but then he’d never seen a train. No, what Sam really loved was books. He’d had the run of Sir Capel’s library from the day the old man caught him sitting on the bottom step of a ladder, so engrossed he hadn’t even noticed him coming into the room.
Dear Sam. In a few weeks he’d be with them again and this time, he’d be able to stay two nights, for he had a whole week in Belfast. The thought of his coming filled her with excitement and anticipation. He’d have so much to tell about his four crossings of the Atlantic, his visits to New York and Boston and the small towns of up country Pennsylvania. His letters had been brief for him, but she knew there was much he preferred not to put down on paper lest it fall into the wrong hands.
She laughed at herself. ‘You’re as bad as the children,’ she said aloud.
In his brief visit last year, Uncle Sam had made such an impression on them, they were talking excitedly already about all they were going to ask him. He’d kept his word and a few weeks after his visit, a large parcel arrived for them. There were books on railways for James and Sam, ribbons and a little brooch for Hannah, and for Sarah, a frame with brightly coloured beads to help her with learning to count.
She walked on, enjoying the morning, till she came to Mill Row. She remembered the very first time she’d gone into town. She’d waved to some children playing in the dust and they’d stared at her unblinkingly. Though the doors of the tiny houses stood open, there was no one about. As she passed the mill itself, she heard the roar and clatter of the looms in the great four-storey building and thought what John had once told her about it.
‘Drumcairn and Gillis,’ he’d said. ‘Gillis was where the brothers worked till they got the money for America. Powerful noisy things looms, ye’ll hear them as ye go past on yer way inta town. The spinnin’s not so bad for noise, but the pouce fillin’ the air is worse than the roar of the looms, I’d be thinkin’. The brothers used to say the forge was dirty work, but sure that sort of dirt you can wash off.’
As she looked up at the rows of windows she wondered just where he was and what exactly he’d be doing. And whether, once again, he’d told her the half of it.
From the moment Sam arrived on Saturday afternoon to the time he left for the six o’clock train to Portadown on Sunday it seemed he’d always one more good story to tell. The children were insatiable. What was it like on a ship? Where did he sleep? Was it stormy? Was he frightened? Did he see any whales?
Rose laughed as she moved back and forth preparing a tasty stew for the evening meal. She’d always been proud of her brother. As a little boy she’d helped him with his lessons and been pleased when he’d turned out to be so able. Now she was just as delighted with Sam, the model uncle, impressed by his willingness to answer honestly whatever they asked, and equally ready to ask his own questions in return.
Not surprisingly, he found it easier to talk to the boys. She listened as he described the new railroads stretching right across America and the differences between the modest engines they’d seen in the maintenance sheds in Armagh and the very much larger ones that steamed across the continent. As she listened, it surprised her to discover just how much James and Sam knew already. She’d seen John, sitting at the table explaining things to them, making sketches for them at the back of the notebook where he made his own notes, but she’d hadn’t appreciated what a good teacher he must be.
What touched her particularly was the way Sam talked to Hannah and Sarah, making sure they had as much of his time and attention as the boys. He’d remembered what they’d said to him on his last visit and he did his best to find out what interested them now.
‘Now then, bedtime for all of you,’ she said firmly, as Sarah leant against Hannah with her eyes closed and James and Sam fell silent at last. ‘Uncle Sam will be here in the morning, if you haven’t worn him out completely.’
She lit the candle while they all went out to the privy and gave it to Hannah when they came back, one by one, shivering from the chill of the dark starry night.
‘I’ll come in five minutes to tuck you in,’ she said, as she swung out the crane and hung the kettle on its chain over the glowing fire.
‘Not a sound out of them,’ said Sam a little later, as he took his cup of tea from her hand.
‘Are ye surprised, Sam?’ said John laughing. ‘Sure, they’ve never stopped since ye arrived. I hope ye didn’t think ye were comin’ to get a rest from the big city.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, honestly. ‘I came to tell you all the things I didn’t feel I could put in a letter. The good and the bad.’
Rose saw a shadow pass over his face as he said ‘the bad’ and was immediately anxious. So often these days, even now life was so much easier than a year ago, she still found herself worrying over trifles, imagining misfortunes that might yet befall them.
‘America is extraordinary,’ he began. ‘It’s the best and the worst, full of opportunity, yet riddled with poverty and disease. You always hear about the good things when people write home, and I think I understand why they do it, but I’ve seen things in New York that upset me far more than when I was helping poor souls evicted from their cabins.’
They sat silent, surprised at the whole change in Sam’s tone and watched as he collected himself.
‘I joined the Land League to help people who had little to eat and no land of their own and no one to speak up for them. Yet those people, poor as they were, had fresh air and neighbours in the same boat. The same people now, in New York, live in one room in a tenement, bound to long hours of hard labour which they were never used to, just to pay the rent. They earn so little, once the rent is paid, they can’t afford to buy the food they need.’
He paused and sighed, his face grown lined and grim.
‘The death rate from consumption is higher among Irish immigrants than among any other group, even those living in the same filthy tenements, a family to a room.’
‘An’ they’re no better off, after all their hardship?’ asked John, his eyes wide, his brow furrowed with concentration.
‘Not one bit better, and more likely to die in a year or two, hungry and homesick, than they might have been where they were,’ he said sadly.
‘So you don’t recommend America, Sam?’ said John quietly, shuffling his boots on the edge of the hearth.
‘Oh I do, yes, I do,’ he said nodding vigorously. ‘But that’s the contradiction of it. Go up country, away from the cities, into the Alleghenies or deeper into Pennsylvania, and you’re in a different world. Great country, rivers and woods, small settlements, good land for cultivation and grants still available. It’s a paradise compared to the city, sheer heaven for any poor people who can get that far. Plenty of work on the land, or in the settlements, a good climate and rich crops. But that’s not where you’ll find many Irish. Most of them arrive with nothing, and end up with nothing. More’s the pity,’ he said, picking up his teacup and drinking thirstily.
They sat silent, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. It was Rose who spoke first.
‘As always, Sam, it’s those who need help the most that get the least.’
‘Aye, and it’s the ones in most need that are most tempted by the advertising. You’ve only to read what the shipping offices put in their windows or in the newspapers. Three meals a day. Sounds wonderful if you’re only used to one. But it’s a different story when they’re onboard. I had men tell me about the rotten meat they threw overboard, the weevils that fell out of the biscuits when you broke them. Half-starved people went on starving at sea. Some of them died as soon as they arrived. And that’s still been going on through the 70s and 80s. Even the poorest of the poor can be exploited by men who have ships to fill,’ he said bitterly.
She looked at her brother closely. She read his distress and his need to share it, but she couldn’t understand why he was now painting such a dark picture, when he’d shown such enthusiasm when talking to the children.
‘I’m going back myself in the springtime to Pennsylvania,’ he said slowly, naming a small town, with such a strange name that Rose didn’t quite catch it. ‘I met a girl when I stayed there, both times I went.’ He paused and looked sheepish. ‘There’s a job waiting for me. Her father’s a government surveyor and they’re crying out for trained men. As soon as I arrive, we’re going to be married.’
He stopped abruptly and looked from one to the other, almost as if he expected them to protest. When there was only a gentle nodding of heads, he went on.
‘To tell you the truth, I feel guilty,’ he said unhappily. ‘Guilty for leaving the movement. Guilty for going away when there’s work to be done here. I was passionate about the Land League, you know that Rose, don’t you? But I’ve seen all sorts of corruption set in. People join up now for what they can get for themselves. And I don’t think Home Rule will solve anything even were it to come. There are too many people who are too selfish, too greedy, too full of their own way of thinking …’
He broke off, overcome with emotion. John looked across at Rose, not knowing what to do. She dropped her eyes, which told him to stay where he was, though she knew he was acutely uncomfortable. Expressing his own feelings was hard enough for him, but sharing someone else’s he found almost impossible.
‘Sam, there’s no point feeling guilty,’ Rose began. ‘What good is that going to do anyone? If you go and make a successful life out there, that could put you in a position to do more than you ever imagined for those in need. You’ve tried so hard, I know you have. But sometimes the way we choose first isn’t really the right way for us. Had you thought of that?’
‘No, I hadn’t. I’d always imagined that if you looked at the facts and you didn’t think what you saw was fair, you ought to try to change them. That’s just simple logic.’
‘Yes, I agree. But sometimes logic doesn’t work for individuals. You must hold to the good that you did,’ she said, looking at him directly. ‘There are many people have cause to be grateful for what Davitt achieved and you must take credit for your part in that. But maybe now you’re called on to tread a different path.’
‘It may be so,’ he said quietly, with a long look at both of them. ‘But I can’t stop feeling somehow I’m abandoning my fellow men. Running away to make myself comfortable.’
‘Yer not doing that at all, man dear,’ said John abruptly. ‘Sure you’re an educated man and who knows what’s in ye yet. Sure ye might be inventin’ some great idea. Ach, I’m not thinkin’ of steam ships and flyin’ machines an’ suchlike, that we were talkin’ about earlier. I’m thinkin’ of the likes of Tom Paine and Keir Hardie that have tried to make life better for ordinary workin’ people. Sure who knows where ye’ll go inside yer head when yer not so close to the problem?’
‘John’s right, Sam. Sometimes one has to get away from a problem to see it more clearly. You might manage far more for Ireland in America than you ever could in Dublin.’
‘I think that hope might reconcile me a bit. I’ll sleep on it and tell you tomorrow,’ he said, standing up. ‘I hate to admit it, but suddenly I’m so tired I could sleep on a wooden shelf,’ he added, yawning hugely.
‘Well, I’m glad to say we can offer you a little better than that,’ she said, as John went into the bedroom and returned with a borrowed mattress and she reached for a bundle of blankets she’d thrown over the arm of the settle to air in the heat of the fire.
‘I’ll only be an hour, John. Is that all right,’ Rose said, as Sam put on his coat and closed up his bag.
‘As long as you like, love. But are you sure you don’t mind comin’ back in the dark?’
‘Not a bit. I know the road like the back of my hand, as the saying is. Anyway the moon’s nearly full. It’ll be well up by the time Sam’s on the train.’
The goodbyes were said. Sam kissed Sarah and Hannah, who had gone very quiet, then shook hands with the boys in a very grown-up way. He hugged John and said nothing at all.
‘Good luck, Sam,’ John said, as he left them at the end of the lane, having lit their way through the scattered debris in front of the forge.
The night was still, the sky pierced with myriads of stars. Their breath rose on the cold air.
‘A bit different from last time,’ he said, falling into step beside her in the middle of the deserted road.
‘Very different, indeed, Sam,’ she said, remembering the pleasant summer evening when they’d last walked to the six o’clock train.
‘Do you remember Ma ever saying to you that we like to think change comes gradually, building up quietly to the point where we recognise that something is different. But it’s not like that at all. Sometimes life can change in a moment,’ she said, as they strode out.
‘Yes, she did say that to me. But I didn’t grasp it at the time. It’s true, nevertheless. It happened to me one night in a club in Dublin when I first heard Davitt speak. Then it happened again at a barn dance in Pennsylvania. I’d only gone because it would have seemed rude not to when I’d had such generous hospitality.’
‘And you met Eva?’
‘Yes,’ he said, laughing. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Well, it wasn’t very hard. Something had to have happened very quickly to have you going back to get married. It wasn’t much different with me and John.’
‘He’s a good man, Rose. I think I understand him better now than I did a year ago. Maybe I’ve changed.’
‘I think you have. But then, I think he has too. A lot has happened.’
They walked on steadily, their journey punctuated with the tiny lights from the few cottages on their way. They talked of Sam’s wife to be, American born, from a family of Bavarian immigrants, most of whom still spoke only German. And they talked about the long future, hoping they would meet again. They promised each other they’d take up their old way of writing now there’d be nothing of which they might not speak freely.
‘Do you think John is happy in the new job, Rose?’ Sam asked as they passed Drumcairn, the solid black mass of the mill outlined against the starry sky.
‘I’m not sure, Sam. I’m biding my time. Even if he’s happy enough, I’m not sure I am. It could just be that in the end, we’ll follow where someone we trust has led. You’d give us advice, wouldn’t you?’
‘Rose dear, I’d give a lot more than advice if I thought I could have my big sister on the same continent. You’d only have to say the word.’