‘Well then, Clare, what do you think of North Norfolk?’ John asked, when they’d settled themselves in the sitting-room of their new home, in the small town of Holt where John had his electrical shop.
‘I think it’s quite wonderful,’ said Clare honestly. ‘I know people never want to go home after a holiday, but I really can’t bear the thought of leaving all this sea and sky and hedgerows full of poppies and white campion. There are so many things here I’ve never seen before. Like seals.’
‘And skate and chips too big for the plate,’ added Andrew lightly.
‘There you are, Mary. I told you she’d be a convert. Just as I was,’ John broke in. ‘Oh, it’s not that I don’t miss the green hills of home, like all exiles, but this is a very good place to be. It’s been kind to us, hasn’t it, love?’
‘Yes, it has,’ Mary nodded. ‘And all thanks to Joan and her little flat,’ she went on. ‘If it hadn’t been for her and that flat, we might have settled somewhere else in Norfolk. How do you like living in our first home, by the way?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.
‘Well,’ replied Clare, laughing, ‘we love the wildlife, the owl and the hedgehogs, and the wee birds that hop in and out through the kitchen window, but it must have been cold in winter. None of the windows or doors shut properly. Even in summer you can feel the draughts.’
John laughed heartily. ‘I read recently that more interlock vests were sold in Norfolk than in any other English county. It can be really cold in winter, but it’s much drier than dear old County Down and it is such a help to have it dry in my line of work.’
‘So, how goes your Grand Plan?’ Andrew asked after they heard about improvements to the shop. ‘Is your new garden meant to be a wildlife sanctuary or was it just neglected?’
‘Neglected,’ said Mary grinning. ‘Like everything else. The old lady who lived here nearly made her century, but nothing had been done for years. The kitchen had to come first,’ she explained, looking round at the discoloured wallpaper and paintwork. ‘I hate these curtains passionately,’ she added, breaking into a little laugh, ‘but it has to be one room at a time.’
‘You did say you’d got the holiday cottages up and running, but what about your boat, John?’ Andrew persisted.
‘Yes. They’re doing very well, I’m glad to say. And I have got a boat, but it’s rather more of the owl and the pussycat kind than what we had in mind.’
‘We had not thought either of our dear sons would want to go to university,’ Mary said, matter-of-factly. ‘They are both eminently practical. We thought technical or trade apprenticeship would be what they’d want. But no. Electrical engineering, says one, and, Maybe me too, says the other. They’re both doing very well at school. Sandy is waiting for his A-levels and Johnnie for his O-level results. Johnnie is two years younger but he jumped a year and gets good marks in Maths. I think his teacher will nudge him towards a Maths degree.’
‘So, change of plan for us,’ said John. ‘Little boat for fun and a bit of fishing off Blakeney Point, but the money’s gone into this house to give us all more space. And Mary and I are going to have a big holiday next year. Australia. Visit to Mum and Dad and meet our nephews and nieces,’ he explained. ‘Now what about you two and your Grand Plan?’ he asked, looking from one to the other.
To Clare’s great relief, Andrew laughed. ‘My dear wife says we have to be positive about our achievements,’ he began cheerfully. ‘So far, the only livestock I have raised are rather a lot of frogs in the pond we dug last October. It may not be commercially viable, but we do have a heron who seems to think we are a good idea and visits us quite regularly.’
John laughed in turn and raised his eyebrows. ‘We do think of you very often. We could hardly forget you with the amount of publicity you’re getting on the box. It must be bad for business,’ he said grimly.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Clare nodding. ‘But it’s not just the disturbances. We’ve discovered we can’t buy land because all the surrounding farmers are convinced they’ll be able to make a fortune selling their land for building houses or motorways. Drumsollen itself is just not viable, as you’ve probably guessed. Apart from the competition from the package tour industry, it seems nowadays people expect en suite bathrooms and a telephone and television in their own room, even in a guest house. We just can’t compete in that market.’
‘So, change of plan?’ suggested John soberly.
‘That’s about it,’ said Andrew. ‘Any ideas for the redeployment of a financial genius who speaks fluent French and passable Italian and an unemployed farmer with legal skills?’
‘So that’s what they look like after twenty years or so,’ Clare said, as she stood gazing up at the flourishing buddleias in Phillida’s garden.
‘Yes, they are splendid, aren’t they? My favourite is that Emperor Purple,’ Joan said, pointing with her walking stick to a large bush so covered with long, flowering spikes that barely any foliage was visible. ‘But they all seem to be equally popular with the butterflies,’ she added, as she named the various species moving slowly over the blooms, brightly coloured wings fully open in the sunshine. ‘Clare dear, your husband seems engrossed in Phillida’s pond. Shall you and I leave them to it? I’m afraid my bad leg is being a bore. Do you mind fearfully if we go and sit down?’
‘No, of course not. Is there anything I can do?’ Clare asked, as they moved back along the garden path. ‘Do you carry tablets, or a rub that I can use?’
‘Tried them all. No use whatever. All IT wants is for me to sit down,’ she said crossly, as she negotiated the French window and picked an upright armchair by the hearth. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she announced with a sigh, as she sat back gratefully. ‘Actually, the heat doesn’t help at all and I did far too much in the garden yesterday when you went to see Mary and John. How are they both? Do tell all for I haven’t managed to see them for over a month. What’s the new house like? Good deal larger, I expect.’
Clare gave Joan a full account of the new house and told her how welcoming they’d been. She said how vigorous they’d been in encouraging them to come and live in Norfolk and have another shot at their Grand Plan.
‘We told them about our problem not being able to buy land, even if we could afford it now, and John assured us that green belt is respected here. He admitted there were always a few sharp deals going on with, what he called “back garden building”, especially in Blakeney and Cley, but he said developers would never get planning permission here beyond agreed village limits.’
‘I should think not,’ responded Joan fiercely. ‘Redevelop old property by all means, or establish a new village if needs must, but dropping houses like little boxes here, there and everywhere isn’t good for the land. Isn’t good for people either. At least the Parish Councils here recognize that,’ she added. ‘Well, they do now. Surprisingly, it’s the incomers who work hardest to keep a sense of community going. My father was one for a start. He came here from Manchester, had a holiday home in an old railway carriage, then moved down permanently in his mid-forties. He sat on the Parish Council till he died. Dear old Dad,’ she went on, her voice softening. ‘If it hadn’t been for that railway carriage, Bee and I would have been brought up in Manchester.’
‘And if it hadn’t been for keeping afloat in the Mediterranean, John Hamilton wouldn’t have been posted to Norfolk and met Mary and lived happily ever after,’ Clare said with a smile. ‘Thanks to your flat keeping them up here on the coast,’ she added. ‘That’s what they said to us yesterday.’
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Joan, looking pleased. ‘Perhaps you and Andrew should think hard about what they said. I do very much fear from what he told me about the discrimination against Catholics, that he’ll never be able to settle to the profession he’s been trained for. Entirely his uncle’s fault,’ she said sharply. ‘Adeline’s brother, you know. Terribly responsible and generous with it, but no imagination. Andrew is his mother’s son. Even as a little boy he watched every creature that moved,’ she said emphatically. ‘But when his parents were killed, all Christopher could think of was proper schooling and giving him a good start. Meant well, but he did get it wrong. Never asked the poor boy what he wanted. I’m afraid, my dear girl, you’re the only one can put it right,’ she ended abruptly. ‘Thank goodness he found you.’
‘I’m not sure this was such a good idea,’ Clare said, as she paused and leaned against the rough inner wall of the tower of St Nicholas, Blakeney.
‘Not far now, love. Joan assures me it’s worth it, though perhaps a cooler day might have helped.’
They saved their breath and kept going steadily up the steep stone steps and wooden ladders until they reached the small door leading out into the open air.
‘She was right, wasn’t she?’ Andrew said, when he got his breath back enough to contemplate the wide vista laid out below them.
‘She usually is,’ replied Clare, still gasping, as she came to his side, grateful for a small breeze after the warm, dusty air filling the tower.
‘Bit higher than our Scrabo Tower,’ he said grinning, as they moved to the seaward side.
They stood silent, looking out over the marshes to the long shingle bank defending them from the sea beyond. Light glanced off the ridge they’d tramped along days before, pausing to examine the strange shapes of horned poppy and to watch the bees burrowing into the prolific blooms on the patches of sea-campion.
The light was strong and clear; only the horizon was smudged and shimmering as they scanned the whole length of coast and looked down at the villages, red roofed and compact, built above the flood line.
Clare felt Andrew move by her side and saw him raise his binoculars. She followed his gaze over the marshes, but there was no hen harrier, or cruising fulmar, no bird at all that she could see in the dazzle of light. Then she realized he was looking down on a herd of black and white Frisians, grazing peacefully on the short, rich turf of the reclaimed marsh that ran alongside the coast road.
‘Could you live here, do you think?’ he asked, his studied casualness giving him away completely.
Quite unexpectedly, another time and another place flooded into Clare’s mind. The tower of a chateau in Southern France, beside her a man she’d thought she loved. Christian Moreau. He’d brought her there, high above the spread of the family’s extensive vineyards, to show her his favourite view. The weekend visit to his parents had gone well and she knew he was about to ask her to marry him. Indeed, Robert had warned her he would propose to her. That was why he’d invited her. Christian was a very proper young man, of very good family, and would not speak without approval from his parents.
She had stood looking out over the rugged, dissected countryside, harsh, yet with its own kind of beauty. You would be happy here, he had said, taking her hand. That was the way Christian had always proceeded. He told her what she would think, what she would feel and even how happy she would be. Never once did he ask her. She had told him as tactfully as she could that it was indeed wonderful countryside but she could never be happy here, for she would always long for the little green hills of her home in Ireland.
Suddenly, she became aware that Andrew was looking down at her, waiting. She collected her thoughts, but she knew her answer, just as surely as the last time. ‘Yes, I’m sure I could live here,’ she said quietly, ‘but only if it was with you, my love.’
Clare was rather anxious that she might cry when they said ‘Goodbye’ to Joan. She had taken such a liking to the older woman, had appreciated her directness, her concern for Andrew, and her warmth towards herself. As she finished their packing very early on the Saturday of their departure, she realized that, though she had many good friends back in Ulster, there was no woman in her life with the long experience and wisdom of a Joan.
To her surprise, it was Joan who shed tears. Standing by her garden gate in the freshness of the early morning, she hugged them both after Andrew had closed the boot on their suitcases and rucksacks and the plastic bags in which Clare had packed the plants and cuttings Joan had given her.
‘Come back soon,’ she said, as she blew her nose. ‘And ring me tomorrow as soon as you arrive home. I’ll be expecting you,’ she added, as she turned away abruptly and left them to drive off down the twisty lane to the main road.
Despite the awkward cross-country stretch in the absence of any link between the M1 and M6 far enough north to be of any use to them, they made good time.
‘Different next weekend,’ said Andrew, as they swung west at last, heading for the East Lancs Highway and the Liverpool Ferry. ‘English schools haven’t broken up yet. Once you get families on the roads we’ve been using, it will be nose to tail. At least today, it kept moving.’
They made the ferry with time to spare and slept peacefully on one of the calmest crossings either of them had ever had. The early hour and the quiet of an overcast Sunday morning meant the streets of the city were deserted as they came up from the docks. It was cooler than on the other side of the Irish sea, the day without a breath of wind. As they drew away from the city Clare noted the leaves on the trees lining the motorway had darkened, the lightness and luxuriousness of early summer had now fully passed.
‘At least we missed The Twelfth,’ said Andrew easily, as they drove under the bunting and the massed flags in Portadown and turned off for Loughgall on their usual route home, past the old forge house, Robinsons’ farm, Charlie Running’s bungalow and so to Drumsollen.
‘Back or front?’ Andrew asked, as she closed the gates and got into the car again. ‘Which would be easier?’
‘Back,’ she said. ‘Most of the stuff in the boot is heading for the washing machine.’
As they rounded the final curve on their own driveway, Andrew braked sharply. For a moment, neither of them registered quite what had happened, but when they got out and walked towards the steps it became only too obvious. On the pale stonework either side of the front door, in the matching spaces between door itself and the adjacent window, someone with a well-loaded brush had painted matching slogans in huge letters.
‘Taigs out,’ it said, in red on one side. ‘Brits out,’ it said on the other in black.
They were still standing transfixed when they heard a car drive up behind them.
‘Ach, I’m sorry I didn’t get here afore you,’ said Charlie, as he jumped out and came towards them. ‘I didn’t think you’d be home this early, but I saw you go past. John Wylie told me last night what had happened. He’ll be here himself any minute now. I phoned him,’ he added awkwardly. ‘I only got it in last week. That’s the first time I’ve used it.’
‘When did it happen, Charlie?’ asked Clare.
‘We think it might have been the night of The Twelfth or maybe the night before. John came up to check around on the thirteenth and found the paint was dry. Otherwise he’d have started in on it then. He’s been trying to get industrial solvents, but of course, everywhere was still closed for the week. I don’t know whether he’s managed anything or not,’ he went on, pricking up his ear, as he caught the sound of an engine. ‘Sure here he is. We’ll soon find out.’
‘Ach, what a welcome home for the pair of you,’ John said, shaking their hands. ‘I’m heart sorry I didn’t get here before it was dry. I’d have had it away before you saw it.’
‘That’s good of you, John, but maybe we need to know there’s somebody out there wants rid of us,’ said Andrew, his eyes moving back to where the red paint had dripped down from step to step like a rivulet of blood.
Clare looked at him quickly, saw he’d gone pale and realized that she herself was feeling shaky. How silly, she said to herself briskly. It’s only paint. We’ll get it off.
‘Did you have breakfast on the boat?’ Charlie asked suddenly, as he looked from one to the other.
‘No,’ replied Clare. ‘Just a cup of tea. We wanted to get home. But I think we could all do with some refreshments. Tea or coffee?’ she asked, knowing that if she didn’t get him moving, Andrew would go on staring at the gleaming paint as if someone had put a spell upon him.
They agreed nothing could be done today. Only a high powered solvent with steel wool was likely to make any impression now the paint had hardened. Even then it might take a light sanding to remove any residual staining.
John had already asked Robinsons’ for a day off to come and help. Charlie said he was sorry he couldn’t join them, but he was having a wee problem with his chest. Doctor’s orders. No dust, says he. No heavy work. And cut out the smoking. He hadn’t managed that but he’d been trying to cut down.
‘Is there any way we could cover it up temporarily?’ asked Clare, as they sat round the kitchen table.
‘Aye, I thought of that,’ said John, ‘but it’s two such awkward places. We can’t very well drill the stone to put in hooks for dust sheets. Are you expecting guests?’
‘No. There’s no booking till Thursday as far as I remember,’ Clare replied. ‘I was thinking more of Bronagh.’
‘Aye well, she’s a sensible wee girl. There’s many a worse thing she knows about I’m sure,’ Charlie declared. ‘She’ll not take it amiss.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll have to leave you now for I’ve visitors this afternoon and I don’t think there’s room for them to sit down,’ he explained, making them all laugh. ‘If you need me, just give me a ring,’ he added airily, presenting Clare with a small, printed card. ‘I’ll hope to see you Wednesday, Clare. If you can’t make it, just ring that number.’
‘He’s terrible pleased about his phone,’ said John a little later, as he too got up to go. ‘I’m all for it, but June’s still worried that the girls will run up the bill ringing their friends. But we’ll see. We’ll see,’ he repeated, as Clare walked out to the car with him, averting her eyes as best she could from the messages left to welcome them home.
Andrew was sitting just where she’d left him, his half-eaten bowl of cornflakes pushed to one side, his head in his hands.
‘Clare, why don’t we just get back in the car and go? Go anywhere out of this benighted country. I’ll get a job, any job, and we’ll not have to watch what we do, or watch what we say and give offence by merely existing. What about it?’ he said fiercely.
‘Fine. Good idea in principle. Just one or two small problems,’ she said, hurriedly collecting herself. ‘There’s June and Bronagh and Thelma for a start. Left without an income. And John too, though it’s a lesser matter. And we do have the odd friend who might be just a bit upset. Jessie and Harry for starters, and Charlie for another. Apart from that, what’s to stop us?’ she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘What are we going to do, Clare? This is the last straw for me. It’s bad enough we can’t employ Bronagh without raising up that old nastiness, but I’m not exactly immune to being called “a Brit”, as if the Richardsons hadn’t been in Ireland for centuries. Wouldn’t you be upset? Aren’t you upset?’
‘Yes, I am. But I’m afraid I may be partly responsible for this.’
‘What? But how could you be?’
‘Well, you remember my dear brother came looking for a job,’ she began steadily. ‘What he wanted was cars to play with. I told him we only had one car and we did our own fetching and carrying. No, let me finish, I’m not imagining things,’ she said firmly, as he started to protest.
‘I’ve been doing the sandwich run with Bronagh. I drive, she drops. But then I asked her if she’d like to learn to drive and she said, Yes, I would. I told you I didn’t think we’d ever need Jessie’s car, my car if you like, at the weekends because one of us always had to be here. When you agreed with me, I started lending it to Bronagh. Brendan came on the bus on Friday night, took Bronagh and car home and returned Bronagh and car on Monday morning. Before we went away she told me he’s a great teacher and she’ll soon be able to go solo. She’s been practising in Armagh with him so she can do the sandwich run in case I’m ever ill or not be available,’ she went on, taking a deep breath.
‘So what you are saying,’ Andrew interrupted, ‘is that your brother, who hangs about Armagh and Richhill, may have seen two cars at Drumsollen. Then he sees you driving round with a Taig, as he no doubt calls them, and two more Taigs, driving in and out of Drumsollen in the second car without you.’
‘I think that’s just what has happened,’ she admitted. ‘He’s always been vindictive when he can’t get his own way. I don’t think he’s got a job. Uncle Jack said he isn’t living with them and no one knows anything about him.’
‘Don’t you think we should tell the police?’ he suggested, sounding more like himself.
‘I don’t think there’s much point,’ she replied honestly. ‘We’ve no evidence it was him and the police have more urgent matters on their hands. Besides, the fewer people who know what’s happened, the better. It would be the worst kind of publicity.’
‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right. I just wasn’t thinking.’
‘You were very upset,’ she said gently. ‘And it was more of a shock for you. It only took me seconds to work out what had happened.’
‘Clare, I think I have a confession to make,’ he said bleakly.
‘They do say it’s good for the soul.’
‘I can’t quite believe it, but suddenly I know I could walk away from Drumsollen. All my life, I’ve longed to be here, to live here, to make a home and a family here, but now I just want to go.’ He paused and looked even more desolate. ‘Clare, how am I going to manage to keep going now I know how I feel?’
She sighed and thought of the North Sea and the light over the Norfolk coast. And Joan. And Mary and John.
‘Perhaps, my love, the only way for both of us is to make a private pact, here and now, that yes, we will go, and then get back to work so that we face up to the problems one by one and don’t do anything we might regret. What do you think about that?’
‘It’s a deal, pardner,’ he said, smiling sheepishly for the first time since they had arrived home.