‘Oh Lizzie, what a lovely big room.’

‘Aye, it’s nice isn’t it? Bit of luck I had there. It’s really for two, but Auntie Maggie is gettin’ fed up with boarders, so I’m the last. She’s goin’ to make this a sittin’ room when I finish.’

Rosie put down her suitcase and hurried across to the tall bay windows that looked out upon the quiet, tree-lined avenue. A short walk from Queen’s University, the elms that gave their name to Lizzie’s address were in full leaf, but still kept the softness of early June before the month’s growth strengthened the leaves and took away their delicate translucence.

‘I though of stayin’ up this weekend to keep ye company, but Hugh would go baldy if I diden come home on Friday night. He misses me terribly. Mind you, I miss him too, but it’s not as bad when you’re busy an’ we’ve these exams at the end of the month. Not that they matter all that much. I don’t need the bit of paper, I just need what they taught me.’

‘Any progress on the shop?’

‘Aye, Da’s been great. He’s bought a house in Richhill that’s in a bad way and has started doin’ it up. He’s going to rent it to us for the shop. He says we can use the upstairs for storage, but I’m thinkin’ if we got married we could live up there. Ye couldn’t swing a cat the bedrooms are so small, but we could manage. It’s just across the square from yer Uncle Henry …’

She stopped, a wicked smile on her face. ‘He knows there’s to be a shop but we didn’t let on what kind an’ he thought maybe there’ll be competition. He’s been tryin’ every way to find out what we’re planning. But it was him give us the idea.’

‘What idea, Lizzie? I can’t imagine Uncle Henry giving anybody anything for free.’

Lizzie laughed and threw herself down on the large sofa fitted comfortably into the width of the bay window.

‘We were helpin’ Da the weekend before last an’ we sees the Ford go off. An’ a while later he comes back with a pile of newspapers under his arm. “That’s it,” says I. “Newspapers, magazines, confectionery and bits and pieces you can’t get over the road at yer man’s, like buttons and elastic.” Imagine goin’ to Armagh or Portadown for a bit of knicker elastic.’

Rosie laughed and hugged her friend.

‘Oh Lizzie dear, I’m so glad it’s all going so well. I saw your ma and da out for a walk the other evening when I was coming home and your ma was looking just great. I got a big smile, but I didn’t stop because it was nearly eight o’clock and I was starving.’

‘Did ye get any supper?’

‘Would you believe it, I did? And not dried out in the oven either. A soup plate over a saucepan of water and a lid over that. I don’t know what’s been going on, but something’s brought her round. Long may it last,’ she added, dropping down on the sofa beside her.

‘So what’s happenin’ tomorrow?’ Lizzie asked.

Rosie laughed, opened her handbag and took out a small sheaf of papers held together with a large clip. She read the first few items from the list on top of the pile.

‘Collect postcards from the printers. Collect the blouse that had to be altered. Go to the newspaper offices with details for their feature page …’ Rosie then stopped and explained, ‘We can’t get in to the City Hall till seven on Sunday morning, but we have to have everything else done by then, for it’ll take the whole of Sunday to set up the stand. It has to be absolutely perfect for the roses arriving at seven on Monday. We open at nine-thirty.’

‘That’ll keep you outa mischief. Has Brian Singleton asked you out again?’

‘Yes, he has.’

‘An’ why don’t you go? He’s nice-lookin’. D’ye not fancy him?’

‘I like him as a friend.’

‘What ye mean is ye don’t fancy him.’

The weekend was warm and dry. Rosie was grateful that Lizzie had gone home as usual on Friday evening leaving her the large, quiet room. She had so much on her mind, she was finding it difficult to sleep, but a telephone call to Billy late on Saturday afternoon was reassuring. All the bushes they’d earmarked together would have blooms at the stage they needed for picking in the very early hours of Monday morning, plus enough buds coming on to provide replacements for later in the week.

Billy was not much impressed with the BBC’s new weather forecasting service which Mr Sam’s secretary posted on the information board each day, but his mother’s corns were grand. They’d never let him down yet. They always gave trouble before rain and heavy rain was the last thing they needed.

By early evening on Sunday the work of constructing and furnishing the stand was finished and the City Hall’s own staff were wanting to lock up and go home. It had been a long, long day from a very early start. There’d been wearing hours when they could do little but watch while carpenters, carpet layers, or electricians finished their section of the work, making sure it was exactly as planned, but it had been worth it. The finished result was just what they wanted.

‘It really does look good,’ declared Brian Singleton, stepping back and narrowing his eyes.

Everyone agreed, collected their belongings and headed towards the back exit.

‘Can I give you a lift home, Rosie?’

‘Thanks, Brian, that’s very kind, but I’m staying in Belfast with a friend tonight, so I can be down on time in the morning.’

‘I could drop you there,’ he persisted.

‘Actually, I need the walk. I’ve had a bit too much of sawdust and the smell of glue and paint all day.’

Sitting alone in Lizzie’s room some time later, a large pot of tea on a tray beside her, she did wonder quite why she was continuing to say no to such a nice young man as Brian. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him. She did. He was a reliable colleague on the job and good company when the job was done. As she emptied the second mug of tea, she decided that she’d think about Brian seriously when the trade fair was over and she felt her mind was her own again.

After all these busy weeks, it was strange to find herself on her own in Belfast on a pleasant summer evening with no work to do. She was too tired to go for a walk and certainly too tired to paint, even if she’d had her box and brushes with her. She lay on the sofa and fell asleep briefly. Waking up, she was so comfortable, and so reluctant to move, she lay and watched the light fade as the sun moved west. Voices of couples walking past below floated in through the open windows.

In a week, it would all be over. Mr Sam’s secretary had reminded her she was now entitled to a week’s annual holiday with pay, plus some extra days in lieu of overtime. After all the intense work and effort, it would be so good to have time to herself again. She’d go and see Granny.

Since those winter days just before Christmas her visits had all been too short. In the last couple of weeks, she’d not been able to go at all, though she had spoken to her on the telephone, a strange and frustrating experience. The connection was so perfect they might as well have been in the same room, but the context of the general office in the Portadown showroom meant her call could only be brief and rather impersonal.

Suddenly and unexpectedly Rosie found herself thinking of J. Slater Hamilton, the tall man she’d met on her first visit to the City Hall. Mr Sam had been most impressed when she’d produced his card and relayed his offer of help should it be needed. ‘Secretary to the Minister for Trade and Industry. A Cabinet Minister, no less,’ he’d said. ‘A very useful contact.’

They’d had no need to take up his offer of help, as it turned out, but she’d found herself puzzling over their conversation more than once. In fact, she’d been so puzzled she’d mentioned it to her grandmother on one of her visits back in April.

‘We don’t have a distant relative called Slater Hamilton, do we, Granny?

‘Why, dear? Have you met a possible one?’

‘Hmm. Nice man. He was at the City Hall, one of the government people sponsoring the whole thing. He knew Richhill and Pearson’s and Fruitfield and Rountree’s. Though, of course, he said it was his job to know everything like that.’

‘Well, you’d have to be pretty knowledgeable these days with the state of business so depressed. The new government has no money to invest and neither has Westminster. Uncle Alex says we’re heading for real depression if something doesn’t change soon.’

She paused and thought for a moment.

‘What did your Slater Hamilton look like?’

Rosie described him as best she could. She’d even mentioned that he’d looked familiar, but she couldn’t think where she’d seen him before, especially as she thought he’d been abroad.

‘He certainly didn’t get that suntan in Belfast last winter.’

‘Red hair?’

‘Well, yes, but it was a bit thin on top. And it was receding, like Da. He was quite old, probably forty or more. Maybe even fifty.’

Rose laughed heartily and shook her head.

‘Oh Rosie, my love, you do make me laugh sometimes. Not at you. At myself. Forty seems so young when one gets to seventy. But it must seem so ancient when you’re just about to be eighteen.’

They hadn’t said any more about him, but in May, Rosie remembered to bring his business card to show to her. She’d put her spectacles on, looked at it closely and asked if she thought she would see him again in the week of the trade fair. She’d said she probably would and put the card back in her handbag.

Rosie sat up and decided she was hungry after all. The idea of scrambling some eggs in Lizzie’s little kitchen was suddenly very appealing.

Although the trams were already running, the city itself was still quiet when she set out for the City Hall on a lovely summer morning, the sky almost a perfect blue except for little white clouds over the Cave Hill and Black Mountain. The hill slopes were ablaze with gorse, reminding her of the rather different blaze of colour she was hoping to create when the lorry arrived from the rose field. Part of her felt anxious, another part felt confident they’d taken account of every eventuality, but she knew she wouldn’t feel better till she had buckets of roses at her feet and blooms in her hands and knew neither the pickers nor the weather had let her and Billy down.

Everything went exactly to plan, down to the last printed label, the name of each rose encircled by garlands made up of tiny, painted portraits of the rose itself. To her great delight the blouses worn by the girls who would be at work on the stand all through the week looked quite stunning.

When she’d discussed the question of dress for the week with them, their response was immediate.

‘Sure we always wear the same, black skirts and white blouses.’

She’d been horrified at the though of white blouses, almost the worst colour for any girl to wear next to her face, especially as these girls were not professional models, skilled at make-up, but the girls who ordinarily worked in the fields, or the showroom and therefore knew something about roses.

She’d argued for colour and it had been accepted. When she met the girls chosen for the trade fair, she’d put forward the idea that each girl should choose a rose and match her blouse to it.

Not surprisingly, there’d been problems, even before a suitable dressmaker had been found. Some girls had chosen colours that didn’t suit their complexions and she’d discovered how tactful she could be. In the end, they’d worked out a colour for each girl, the blouses echoed the blooms against which the girls would move. As for the skirts, there was nothing wrong with black, because the outfit was completed by a moss green overall embroidered with the McGredy crest. Some of the men had been uneasy about wearing pale pink shirts instead of white, but again, worn with black trousers and moss green blazers the same shade as the girls’ overalls, they’d had to admit they did look very smart.

A few minutes after nine o’clock, staring at the finished effect of staff and blooms and wondering if there was anything more she needed to do before the doors opened in half an hour’s time, she turned to find Slater Hamilton on his way to work, a bulging briefcase in his hand.

‘Well, are you pleased? You ought to be.’

‘Yes, truly I am. Though I think I’m more relieved than pleased at the moment. When I’ll be really pleased is when I see full order books after all the hard work.’

‘Some American buyers are scheduled for today. I may see you again later,’ he said, turning away.

‘Just a moment. Mary, would you bring me Patience, please.’

He stopped, somewhat taken aback, as she spoke to a rather plump, round-faced country girl wearing a pale, pastel-pink blouse under her green overall.

‘You are our first visitor,’ Rosie explained.

She took the rose Mary passed over to her, a small spray of foliage already in place and handed it to him.

‘It may fit your lapel. If not, I have a pocketful of pins.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, tucking it into the lapel of his elegant grey suit. ‘That will be most helpful for my day’s work.’

Within minutes of the doors opening, the vast marble hall was full of people. She was kept busy answering questions, providing buttonholes for the gentlemen and postcards for purchasers. A glance across at Brian Singleton, his head bent over a clipboard suggested that orders were flowing in already.

There was little respite from the stream of interested viewers until halfway through the afternoon. A member of the City Hall staff appeared suddenly and cordoned off the stand with dazzling white ropes suspended from highly-polished brass supports. Moments later, the Americans, including a very influential rose-breeder from California, appeared, escorted by Slater Hamilton and two of his dark-suited colleagues.

When they were followed by three photographers, who grouped and regrouped the Americans, their hosts and Mr Sam, Rosie moved behind one of the display stands and slipped off her shoes for a blissful ten minutes. Fortunately, she’d just put them on again when Mr Sam asked for her. He wanted a photograph with all his staff and he insisted she stand beside him.

‘Your boss obviously thinks very highly of you,’ Slater Hamilton observed, as he and his colleagues waited politely for the Americans to finish their conversation with Brian Singleton and Mr Sam.

‘He’s given me a wonderful opportunity. A year ago, I was keeping house for my family with no prospect at all of a job.’

‘And you found this job yourself?’

‘Well, not this job exactly. I started in the rose fields …’

There was a movement in the small knot of people to their right and visitors surged towards them as the cordon of white rope was removed.

‘We must continue this conversation …’

He strode off to catch up with the small party as it continued on its way to the next point on their itinerary.

An hour later, a stiff white envelope was delivered to Rosie containing a single sheet. She read the brief message twice.

She didn’t need to study the signature, she simply looked at the piece of paper and the messenger who stood waiting. She was free tonight. She might be free every night, but she couldn’t be sure. If a problem occurred she might need to go up to the rose fields herself so that she and Billy could sort it out together.

She took a pencil from her pocket, turned over the sheet of paper and scribbled a message. As Granda would have said, ‘Sure there’s no time like the present.’

‘It was good of you to come. From what I could see you were on your feet all day. I’m surprised you’re able to look so fresh.’

Rosie smiled at him and sat down gratefully, her back aching gently. She hadn’t looked fresh when she’d arrived back in Lizzie’s lovely room, but a bath and a whole pot of tea had done wonders. So had Granda’s dress, the red one he’d bought for her in Kerry. She’d brought it with her, just in case, as she’d had no opportunity to wear it again since his funeral.

‘When I first started in the rose fields, I was exhausted by lunchtime, but I got used to it quite quickly. And the last weeks have been so busy, I think I must be getting fitter. Actually, I did have an hour’s rest this evening. When we closed, there was nothing that needed to be done. Later in the week, there’ll have to be replacements.’

‘You mean in your arrangements?’

‘Yes, the centre of the big side panels are done with rosebuds set in damp moss. They’ll start to bloom with the heat and spoil the design.’

‘And can you just put fresh ones in?’

‘Yes, that bit’s quite easy. The difficult bit is picking buds at the right moment back in the fields, so they’ll be ready for me next day, but my friend Billy has been doing this many, many years.’

‘How long will this one last?’

He nodded down at the buttonhole she had given him that morning.

‘You’ve had that in water?’

‘Yes, while I was working in my office, but I wore it for several hours when I was conducting visitors.’

‘Two, maybe three days, if you keep resting it. I’ll give you a new one when it fades.’

He paused, scanned the menu rapidly, consulted her and ordered their main course.

‘You chose Patience. Was that significant?’

She laughed.

‘We have great hopes for Patience at the National Rose Show, but I picked it to go with your suit.’

The large dining room was quiet on a Monday evening, the sound of cutlery and china absorbed by the heavy velvet curtains and the thick carpet. The meal was served promptly and Rosie discovered how hungry she was. They ate in companionable silence, until coffee arrived and he poured for them both.

‘To continue where we left off …’

He asked most carefully about her job, how exactly she’d found it, how her brothers and sisters and friends had tried to find employment. She answered his questions freely and told him as much as she could, especially about each member of her own family, and about Lizzie and Hugh and their plan to open a shop in Richhill.

‘You’ve been most helpful, Rose, if I may call you Rose.’

She nodded and smiled.

‘We have some very difficult problems ahead of us. Young people like yourself not able to get further training or apprenticeships. Talented ones like your sister Emily leaving, because wages are so very low. What you’ve provided me with is a case study, if you like, but I suspect when I make further enquiries I shall find what you’ve told me repeated all over the province. I’ve no idea what’s to be done, but finding out the existing situation is a good place to start, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

She paused and then ventured to ask him about his own family and whether or not they’d been able to help him with his research.

‘I’ve just one son, at university in England,’ he replied, as openly as she had done to his own questions. ‘His future is quite secure. He wants to do engineering and fortunately I can afford to support him till he’s qualified.’

He paused, looking round the almost empty dining room as if looking for someone he knew. As her own mind filled with questions, she wondered if he was going to say something more.

‘I’m out of touch in some ways, because I’ve been abroad for many years. In Australia. I’ve followed the political situation here, but I only came back last year when the new government began to find its feet. I have one or two friends in office now who think my experience overseas in various industries might be useful here.’

‘So you came back because of the job?’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself.’

She waited, a sense of tension growing as she sipped her coffee and tried to be patient.

‘Have you ever heard of Annacramp?’

She laughed.

‘Of course, I’ve heard of Annacramp. When I was little I thought everyone in the world knew about Annacramp because Uncle Alex met Great Uncle Sam in Canada, in some strange place called German Township, and that’s what they started to talk about. That was why Uncle Alex came to Ireland to look for his family. He was an orphan, you see, but when Great Uncle Sam mentioned the name, it must have rung a bell. So he set out to find the Hamiltons with nothing but the name of a townland and his own name.’

‘And what was his name?’

‘Why, Hamilton, of course. Alex Hamilton,’ she went on, laughing at herself for not making it plain to him. ‘I’m sorry, it’s one of those family stories you hear so often you forget to put in the details. Uncle Alex was an orphan, sent to Canada when he was only a little boy. He worked on farms from the time he was nine. He met Sam at some sort of trade union meeting. Sam was like Aunt Sarah, always thinking what could be done to help working people. Anyway, the two of them got talking, Sam made some remark about Alex’s good Ulster name and the next thing Alex was saving up to come to Annacramp.’

‘And did he come?’

‘Oh yes, he did. Someone in Annacramp sent him to Thomas Scott’s forge in Salter’s Grange, and Thomas sent him on to Granda and Granny at Ballydown to see if Granda could get him a job in one of the mills. When Granda saw him he said he was the very image of his father and that was that. He’s been Uncle Alex as long as I remember. He and Granda worked together. And last year, when he and Emily had their little boy, they called him John. So there’s still a John Hamilton at Ballydown.’

He’d listened to the story with a smile on his face, but at the mention of Ballydown the smile faded. He dropped his eyes and studied the pattern on the damask tablecloth as if trying to memorise it.

‘Would that all such family stories ended so happily.’

‘Do you know Ballydown?

‘Yes.’

‘And Annacramp?’

‘Yes.’

‘And J is for James?’

‘Yes.’

There was a moment of complete silence. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’ he asked politely.

She took a deep breath as if the decision was more than she could manage. ‘Yes, please.’

‘How did you guess?’

‘Last year when Bobby and I were carrying buckets of water for the cows, he told me I didn’t have the Hamilton shoulders. He said it was lucky because I was a girl. And when I told you just now about Alex I suddenly remembered what Bobby had said. You have the Hamilton shoulders and your forehead is just like Da’s, if it wasn’t for the colour of your hair.’

‘Great Uncle Sam,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Granny’s red-headed little brother. Is he still with us?’ She shook her head.

‘He was killed by a stray bullet in Dublin in 1916. He was trying to help one of our cousins escape from the College of Surgeons.’

‘And the cousin?’

‘Brendan Doherty,’ she nodded. ‘He survived. Went to America. He and his cousin, Sean McGinley, have both been very kind to Emily.’

‘I had no idea how I was going to tell you, but you’ve saved me the trouble. The question now is what to do. Would that I could arrive like Alex and be welcomed, but I don’t deserve that. I behaved appallingly. I turned my back on my family for the most selfish of reasons when my parents had been extremely generous to me. Unlike your brothers, I had an apprenticeship and went into management. I was rather successful in business. Less successful in my private life. My wife died soon after our son was born, but by then any feeling we’d had for each other had gone. My son was brought up by her family, the Slaters, with whom I went into business for a time, hence my name. I’m about to resume James, regardless of what might happen here.’

‘What age were you then?’

‘When?’

‘When you rejected your family?’

‘Nineteen. Twenty, perhaps.’

‘But that is a long time ago, isn’t it?’

For some reason, the only thing Rosie could think of was seedlings. Billy said that after you’d grown enough spindly ones that had to be thrown away, you’d be able to spot a grower when it was no bigger than your thumb. She pushed the thought out of mind, because she couldn’t see what on earth it had to do with the matter in hand.

‘Yes, it is a long time ago. But surely that makes matters worse and not better?’

She wondered what he could have been like in his twenties, but she could make no connection between the confident and considerate man that sat opposite her and the young man who’d rejected his family.

‘But why? I think Da would be delighted to have you back.’

‘And could forgive me for the hurt I caused? Especially to your granny, whom he always loved so dearly.’

‘Da’s a Quaker now. They’re very good on forgiveness.’

A small smile touched his lips.

‘And your grandmother?’

For a few moments she hesitated. She went back over the evening she’d shown Granny James’s business card. At the time, she’d said nothing, but there’d been a sudden moment of quiet before they moved on to speak of other things. That was what was significant now.

‘Uncle James, I showed Granny your business card early last month. I think she’s worked it out already. She’s just waiting till the time seems right.’