By the time Rosie had hung out the washing next morning, she’d made up her mind what she was going to do. She’d gone through the week’s newspapers, found the advertisement for the job at McGredy’s and read it again. Naturally, it asked for the usual: Smart boy. Application in own handwriting.
Pedalling along the Portadown Road on Emily’s bicycle, the fullness of the better of her two dark skirts hooked carefully out of the way of the spokes, she told herself there could be no harm in trying. The worst that could happen was someone asking her if she was unable to read.
Finding the new rose field was certainly not difficult. Turning a corner on the main road, the sudden sweep of vibrant colour amid the green fields and tawny shapes of cut hayfields was quite startling in its brilliance. A small notice mounted on a white post pointed along a lane which skirted the lower borders of the rose field’s sloping site. It said simply: McGredy’s.
A short distance along the lane, she found an open five-barred gate and a rough track leading to a large wooden shed, its doors and windows wide open in the heat of the afternoon. Apart from the high-pitched hum of insects fumbling in the opening blooms, there was no sign of activity in any part of the field. She wheeled her bicycle up the dusty rutted track and parked it carefully to one side of the open door.
‘Yes?’
A small, wiry-looking man in blue dungarees sorting papers at a high desk under the window slid down from his stool and regarded her irritably.
‘I’ve come about the job.’
She smiled and tried to sound as if his reply were perfectly unexceptionable, though the signs were distinctly discouraging.
‘It’s not an office job, you know,’ he shot out, as he looked her up and down.
She wondered if it had been a mistake to put her hair up. It always made her look older and smarter. Or perhaps it was her better skirt with her favourite red blouse with its hint of orange that appeared to annoy him so much.
She assured him she hadn’t been expecting an office job. That she’d prefer to work with plants.
‘Have you ever pruned a rose?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Both.’
‘Autumn or spring?’ he snapped.
‘Both.’
He turned away and looked into the distance as if he were thoroughly disgusted with her answers. ‘And which was most successful?’
‘Neither, to be honest. If you pruned in the autumn to avoid wind shake you could be sure there’d be a quiet winter. On the other hand, if you left them to the spring and the season was early there was all that wasted growth.’
He put his hand to his belt and pulled out a pair of secateurs, rather like the good cowboy in a comic drawing on the baddie. He dropped them noisily on the desk.
‘Bring me in a long stemmed rose, about nine inches, that’ll bloom tomorrow.’
‘Colour?’
‘Same as your blouse,’ he snapped, turning back to his papers.
She took up the secateurs and stepped gratefully out of the wooden shed which had grown unbearably hot. A slight breeze just stirred the blooms, wafting the most intoxicating perfume on the air.
‘Oh well, it’s worth it for this,’ she announced to the nodding heads.
She walked across the field below the shed moving steadily from whites to yellows, fondant orange to cream, shades of pink to dark toned reds, strong flame reds and orange reds. Once or twice she recognised an old friend from Granny’s garden, but there were no climbers here and none of the old-fashioned florabunda roses she’d brought from her home at Salter’s Grange all those years ago.
Thinking of Granny encouraged her. She’d love this field, the colour, the smell. Only the regular rows would displease her, but that couldn’t be helped if you were growing roses for a living. Granny’s roses were her pleasure and a part of her history. There wasn’t a rose in her garden that hadn’t a story behind it. Whenever Rosie had helped her with her pruning, she’d told her where each plant had come from, when it had been bought and often what the buying had celebrated.
She paused, having found just the colour she needed, a wonderful orange red she’d never seen before. She touched the petals gently, as delighted by the rich colour as she’d been when she and Granny had found the fabric for her blouse. Margaret McGredy, it said, on the large painted post that marked each row. How lovely to have a rose named after you, something that would give pleasure to everyone who laid eyes on it. A celebration or a memorial perhaps for the wife, or mother of the rose grower himself. Like having a book dedicated to you.
She moved along the row looking for what she wanted. With the heat and the dryness the roses had bloomed early, showers of petals already lying on the dry earth shrivelled in the heat. Some of the best buds were on shorter stems and many glorious blooms were already past their best. She spread out the fingers of her left hand. From the tip of her thumb to the tip of her first finger was exactly five inches.
‘Rule of thumb,’ her father had said to each of them, when he’d measured their spans. ‘Useful when you’ve nothing better.’
At last, she found the bloom she wanted and measured its length. Ten inches. One finger joint’s length above where it sprang from the main stem of the bush, she cut it crisply and stood gazing at it in her hand, the outer petals just beginning to unfurl, the centre still tight rolled.
She walked back to the shed, and handed it to him silently. She watched him run his eyes along its length and inspected the diagonal cut she had made taking it from the bush. To her surprise, he’d provided a jam pot full of water on his desk. He placed the rose in it and screwed up his face.
‘Ever budded?’
‘No, not yet.’
He pushed past her and headed for the top corner of the field, the one area that lay in the heavy shadow of trees. Here, there were rows of spiky-looking briars, most of them tagged with what looked like tiny pieces of paper.
He dropped down on one knee, took a small box from his pocket, chose a long runner from the nearest plant, cut a notch and inserted a small fragment of green. With a deft movement, almost too fast for her to follow, he bound the join with a small strip of white fabric just like all the others.
She thought of Hugh and gave thanks for Lizzie’s account of his disaster. The secret was to get the living bud into the notch in such a way that it would bond. The tiny bandage was to hold it in place until it did.
He left the knife and the little box on the ground and stood up, signalling to her brusquely to do what he’d just done.
The box was filled with wet paper. There were three more buds. She dropped to her knees, sat back on her heels, examined the bud he’d inserted and picked up another of the long trailers. She looked carefully at the position on the briar he’d chosen, then made her own cut. She pushed in the first bud as quickly as she could before it dried out in the hot sun, but it seemed to wobble a little when she wrapped it in its bandage. The second was better. The third cut she made deeper still and that bud was quite steady when she bound it.
‘Let’s see yer hands.’
She stood up and held out her hands obediently, wondering what further strange tests he might devise for her.
‘Not a mark,’ he declared, as if he could not quite believe it. ‘But look at yer skirt.’
‘Its only dry soil,’ she responded. ‘It’ll brush.’
‘Ye don’t scrub many floors or carry many buckets with those hands.’
‘Depends what you call many,’ she came back at him. ‘It’s eight buckets a day in this weather. The floor’s only twice a week now, but it’s four or five in bad weather.’
He shook his head.
‘Women are no good at budding. They bend over and give themselves bad backs.’
He stared at her with a peculiar look she couldn’t read. Either he was making a deliberately provocative statement, in which case she would have to disagree, or it was the next step in her trial.
She was just about to speak when he turned his back on her and waved at a young man wearing dusty trousers and an open-necked shirt. He’d just entered the field and was already striding towards them. To her amazement, when the newcomer stopped beside them her taskmaster greeted him with a broad smile.
‘Them three,’ he said, as the younger man bent down and examined her work.
‘Good,’ the man said promptly. ‘Very good. Is this the smart boy, Billy?’ he asked, laughing as he stood up again and offered her his hand.
‘I’m Sam McGredy,’ he announced. ‘Pleased to meet you. And you are?’
‘Rose Hamilton,’ she replied politely. ‘But everyone calls me Rosie.’
He eyed Billy who was now scratching his head and grinning to himself.
‘I suppose Billy here has been giving you a bad time,’ he said, laughing again as he released her hand.
‘That’s all very well, Mr Sam. But if you’d had as many damn fools in here as I’ve had in the last week, you’d be pretty fed up yourself. Sure, there was a lad here on Friday last who lost the bud before ever he got it anywhere near the briar. An’ I thought I was gonna hafta bandage him up, he had that many scratches. Forby the one that was colour blind and the one that didn’t know what an inch was.’
‘And Rosie here has passed muster?’
‘Aye. She has an eye in her head, an’ great hands,’ he declared with ungrudging admiration.
Rosie could hardly believe her good fortune. Not only had she survived Billy’s obstacle course, but because of the happy chance of Mr Sam himself appearing unexpectedly, she’d been offered the job on the spot. She’d accepted immediately and said she’d be happy to begin the following Monday. Although it would be temporary for three months and the wages were somewhat less than Emily’s when she’d first started at Fruitfield two years ago, she cycled back towards Richhill feeling as if she’d just been left a very large legacy.
She thought of all the people who would be delighted by her good news. She could ride over to Milford tomorrow and tell Da and Bobby, Miss Wilson on Thursday and Granny at the weekend.
A woman should always look after her hands, Miss Wilson had impressed on all her charges.
She’d taught all her girls that they could still have the hands of a lady however hard they worked physically, so long as they took a little care. It wasn’t a question of vanity, she insisted. If you were caring for a child, or a sick person, or if you wanted to do fine embroidery, it made such a difference. But knowing the actual vanity of some of her girls, she’d added, ‘and if you want to wear silk stockings’. Rosie smiled to herself, knowing how pleased her friend would be when she heard that Billy thought she’d never carried a bucket or scrubbed a floor.
Her grandmother had agreed thoroughly with Miss Wilson’s advice about hand care.
‘Oh yes, Rosie, dear, she’s quite right. When times were very hard and I was sewing babies’ dresses, I couldn’t buy creams at the chemists, but there was always goose grease and oatmeal. They didn’t smell very nice, but they did the job. A far cry from these pretty bottles Hannah sends me, aren’t they?’
Thinking of Granny and the pretty bottles which now found their way to her own bedroom, Rosie almost missed seeing a small, compact figure with a watering can waving to her from the roadside.
‘Mrs Braithwaite,’ she called, slowing down and cycling across the empty road. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, laughing merrily. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’
Rosie laughed too and shook her head as she parked her bicycle carefully against the new wall and stood beside it. ‘I’ve just got my first job.’
‘Oh Rosie, how marvellous. Oh, your da will be pleased,’ she said, dropping her empty watering can and hugging her. ‘I know he’s been concerned about you and Bobby. Well, about all of you, of course, but particularly you and Bobby.’
‘I’ve got more good news for you.’
‘What?’
‘Bobby’s going to be Da’s helper. Jack’s had a promotion.’
‘Ohhh.’
Mary Braithwaite clasped her hands together, her dark brown eyes sparkling, her mouth open.
‘Isn’t that just lovely news? I was feeling a little bit sad today. It’s my husband’s anniversary, you see. I know one mustn’t look back, but this is a real gift. Both of you. Sam will be so delighted. I might even cycle over to Milford and congratulate Bobby and Jack. I haven’t been just recently. It does seem to be going so well now, doesn’t it?’
They sat down together on the wall and talked as if they’d been friends for a long time, the conversation moving from the big load to the plants now occupying the niches left for them in the garden wall, to the colour of Rosie’s blouse and the tasks she’d been set by Billy at the rose field.
Rosie went to her bicycle basket and took out the single bloom of Margaret McGredy Billy had presented to her when she was leaving. He’d wrapped it carefully in wet cloth and laid it gently across the width of the woven carrier. The older woman examined it carefully and held it against the sleeve of her blouse, agreeing it was an extraordinarily good match.
Still talking, long after Rosie had said she didn’t have time for a cup of tea, they admitted they could have had a cup of tea three times over.
‘You’ll be passing every day on your way home from work now. Come in for a chat if you feel like it. I’m seldom far away. And I’d love to see you.’
If it hadn’t been for Mary remembering to ask how Emily was settling in, Rosie would have been pedalling up the slope of the hill well before they heard the sound of the oncoming motor, but once they heard it, it made sense to wait and let it pass by. It came over the brow of the hill, slowed as it came towards them and stopped.
It was Uncle Henry. Rosie’s heart sank as he got out of his recently-acquired model T Ford and came towards them, beaming graciously.
‘Hallo, Rosie. Has the bike packed up?’
‘Mrs Braithwaite, this is Uncle Henry who lives in Richhill,’ she began, wishing that she could dissolve into thin air. ‘Uncle Henry, this is Mrs Braithwaite, who was so kind to all the people on the big load, when it got stuck over there,’ she continued, waving a hand towards the hollow beyond the bonnet of the car.
‘How do you do, Mrs Braithwaite,’ he said, in his most ingratiating tones. ‘I’ve heard so much about the big load from Rosie and my sister Martha. My goodness, what adventures there have been,’ he went on, throwing out his hands and oozing charm.
It was Uncle Henry at his memorable worst. She watched him deploy what he considered his most irresistible manner to cover his minute observation of Mrs Braithwaite herself.
He made a number of comments about the weather, the prettiness of the garden, his journey to Portadown to collect provisions and the unreliability of the young man he had left in charge of his shop, before he finally decided he’d no excuse to remain longer, by which time, no doubt, he’d stored away as much as there was to be gained from the happy chance of his encounter.
He disappeared down the hill in a cloud of unpleasant exhaust fumes.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Braithwaite, Uncle Henry is the most dreadful gossip in all of Richhill.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Not a nice man at all, even if he is a relative of yours. He has a way of looking at a woman that is not appropriate.’
Rosie nodded, grateful to find her friend’s warm and lively manner was not simply her habitual way of dealing with everyone.
‘I make sure I’m never left alone with him.’
‘A bachelor?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded crisply and then smiled.
‘He has a very good opinion of himself, Rosie, but it doesn’t take much to see through him. Don’t worry about him gossiping. I’ve known worse than him and I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, if you understand me.’
Rosie did understand. It wasn’t just the letting slip of her father’s name, or the fact that she’d been to visit him, it was her warmth towards herself, the uncomplicated easiness of their talk. Surprised at herself, she concluded that this woman loved her father and she’d be very surprised if her father didn’t love her.
‘Mrs Braithwaite, I would like to come and see you sometimes …’
‘Rosie dear, please don’t call me Mrs Braithwaite. Call me Mary. Unless your Uncle Henry’s around. We’ll both know exactly what we’re thinking if you call me Mrs Braithwaite then.’
‘I’ve so enjoyed our talk … Mary. Goodness knows what time it is. I’m not sure there’ll be any supper tonight until I get home and make it, but there’ll have to be some changes before I start work next Monday.’
‘Good luck, Rosie. Can I tell your Da the good news if I happen to get over before you do?’
Rosie nodded as she wheeled her bicycle to the side of the road and hitched up her skirt.
‘He’ll be glad to see you, Mary,’ she said, smiling at her new friend, as she pushed off across the empty road to cycle the two miles home. ‘He really will.’
When she arrived back at the farm a little after five, the kitchen was empty and the stove almost out. Hastily, she did her best to revive it. No doubt the cows did need milking, but couldn’t her mother give a little thought to the family and at least keep up enough fire for cooking supper, even though she had no intention of doing it herself. She knew Jack and Dolly needed their meal and Charlie would come in ravenous after a long day having had only his sandwich for lunch.
She’d just persuaded the fire not to go out and was putting small pieces of coal on top of the crackling sticks when she heard a step behind her.
‘Hallo, Charlie,’ she said without looking up.
When there was no reply she turned round. Her mother was standing staring at her, her hands on her hips.
‘So, ye did come back after all?’
Rosie’s heart sank as she registered the familiar phrase.
‘The Mackay’s must be well sick of you up there every day, running after Lizzie. Has she no work to do either?’
‘I wasn’t up at Lizzie’s,’ she replied doing her best to remain calm. ‘What would you like me to cook for supper?’
‘Suit yerself.’
Rosie collected a bowl full of potatoes from the sack in the corner of the room, put on her apron, poured water from the bucket into the tin basin and proceeded to wash them.
‘I suppose it was yer idea to get yer father to sell my cows.’
‘The idea never occurred to me. If Da had to raise a lot of money then the cows wouldn’t make much.’
‘Hello, Ma. Hello, Rosie.’
Charlie appeared in the doorway and cast a glance round the kitchen. With no sign of a tablecloth and not even a pot on the stove, he knew supper was some time away.
‘Can I give you a hand to drive the cows up into the orchard, Ma, seeing Bobby’s not here?’
She looked at him as if he had suddenly lost hold of his senses.
‘Sure what would I want them in the orchard for?’
‘Tomorrow’s the last day of the month, Ma. The lease runs from July the first, that’s Wednesday. It’ll be Mr Lamb’s land then.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ she said angrily. ‘I wasn’t consulted about my cows, nor the land they graze on. Your father needn’t think he can sell them over my head. I won’t have it. I’m goin’ to see my brother Henry an’ ask his advice. Ye can help yer sister make the supper if yer so keen to be useful.’
She turned on her heel and marched out, every line of her body rigid with fury. Rosie looked after her, then across at her brother.
‘What are we going to do, Charlie? Da’s done his best. He said she could keep one cow in the orchard if she wanted to, but the land had to go. She knows that.’
‘Aye, but she’ll not admit it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We’ll have to leave it to Da. Don’t worry, Rosie. He’ll be back soon an’ he’ll have an answer.’
She knew he meant to comfort her, but she was far too worried to be comforted. Faced with her mother’s behaviour the wonderful sense of delight she’d shared with Mary Braithwaite simply evaporated. It was as if her father had said not a word about the land having to go nor about herself and Bobby being free to find jobs for themselves.
In her present mood, she felt there was no point telling her about her job at McGredy’s. At best, she’d ignore her and then accuse her of never having told her. At worst, she’d fly off at her. Rosie felt she couldn’t sustain yet one more outburst of violent temper.
At the same time, the matter of the cows was becoming more serious. If the animals were not moved, her father would be in breach of the lease. Mr Lamb would certainly not make difficulties while her father was still away, but if Martha went on tending them without Bobby to help, who was going to run the house and put food on the table after next Monday? For the moment, the only thing she could do was carry on as best she could. It wasn’t something she could discuss with Miss Wilson and sadly, just when she most needed her, Lizzie had gone with her mother for a week’s holiday in Newcastle.
The only good moments in the very unpleasant week that followed she spent in the barn painting a sequence of pictures to record, day by day, the unfurling of her precious rosebud. Margaret McGredy took two days to open fully, putting out a mass of orange-red petals whose richness and texture delighted her. On the fourth day, stepping into the barn after her visit to Miss Wilson, she found a heap of soft petals lying on the workbench. They were just beginning to shrivel in the continuing heat, their fragrance scenting the warm air.
Tomorrow, she’d be going over to Rathdrum for the last of her two-night visits. Once a working girl, she’d only be able to go when she had a half day on Saturday, just like Sammy coming home from Armagh. She could wait no longer. She’d got to tell her mother tonight that she’d be at work from Monday morning, leaving with her father, Charlie and Bobby somewhere after seven.
She managed to get out her story uninterrupted, despite the sour look on her mother’s face.
‘Oh, that’s news indeed. Well, at least you’ll be able to pay somethin’ towards your keep. You’ll find it a queer change not being able to run around with your cronies and go visitin’ up in Richhill.’
‘Yes, it will be a change, Ma. I’ll not be here to do the washing and cleaning and cooking.’
‘Sure ye can cook when ye get home. Doesn’t many a girl do that? Ye know I’ve the milking to do. I haven’t time for that.’
‘And what about the washing and cleaning?’
‘What about it? Can’t ye do the washing Sunday instead of Monday. I have to work seven days a week. Who do you think you are to come home and be waited on?’
‘What about Emily? You didn’t expect her to do housework in the evenings?’
‘Emily paid her way from the day she left school. You’ve never earned a penny. Just remember what you cost me when you were runnin’ up to Miss Wilson, readin’ poetry and paintin’ wee pictures. Maybe ye fancy gettin’ a man wi’ money like your aunts did. Well, let me tell you, I’m not such a fool as you think. An’ while you’re in this house, you’ll work for your keep.’
‘As well as paying for it, Ma?’
‘An’ why shoulden you? You’ve lived off my back an’ outa my purse since you left school …’
‘Out of whose purse, Martha?’
Rosie could hardly believe her eyes. Her father and Bobby stood in the doorway, blocking the light, before they came into the room and sat down. Martha had been shouting so loudly she’d had been totally oblivious to the usual sounds in the yard.
‘Out of whose purse, Martha?’
He repeated his question quietly and without emphasis.
‘Out of my purse,’ she shot back at him, her tone only barely modified.
‘Judging by what you said on Sunday, Martha, about leasing some land for your cows, it would seem that your purse has been fuller than the needs of our family. You’ve saved quite a bit from what I give you and from what you’ve taken from our children. Even from Bobby and now Rosie, were I to permit it.’
‘And why shouldn’t they pay for their keep?’
‘Because, Martha, I have always provided for their keep, as your savings demonstrate. Our children have been very generous with you, paying you out of the little they earn, or, working without any payment and very little thanks.’
Martha opened her mouth to interrupt, her face screwed up with fury, but Rosie saw her father lift his hand.
‘I haven’t finished, Martha. I have something to say to you and you will oblige me by listening. It is then for you to decide what you want to do.’
Rosie decided her legs might give way if she didn’t sit down. She pulled out a chair and placed herself beside Bobby.
‘You have a choice to make. You can sell the cattle, add the money to your savings and take over the proper running of this house. Alternatively, you can rent land, hire a man to help you and keep your milk money for your own use as you’ve done since Uncle Joe died. In that case, I will ask our neighbours to find our family a pleasant, cheerful woman as a housekeeper. I shall have to deduct her wages from what you normally get for your purse. The money for groceries you will receive as usual.’ He stood up.
‘I hope I’ve made myself plain, Martha. We did agree some eleven years ago that we had a family to raise. That you would do your work and I would do mine. I told you then that if we couldn’t agree, I would have to make other arrangements for the wellbeing of our sons and daughters. That decision still holds good.’
He stood up and glanced across at Bobby who was as distressed as she was herself by their mother’s hostile expression.
‘Bobby and I will go and bring the cattle into the orchard. That will give you time to make up your mind what you want to do.’
He paused and then continued.
‘As for expecting Rosie to cook and clean after a day’s work at her new job, I think you owe her an apology.’
He turned and went out into the yard without another word, gratefully followed by Bobby. A moment later, her mother stumped out after them and left Rosie to herself.
She had a headache and felt slightly sick as she pulled out the casserole to stir it, add a little seasoning and get the vegetables going.
Suddenly she had an image of herself on the loveliest of August mornings, the day after Granda’s funeral, spinning along the road from Banbridge and hearing her Auntie Sarah saying how her da would act when the right moment for action arrived. She’d also said that when he made up his mind he would be absolutely clear about what had to happen and he would be unshifting in his resolve.