The little grey church on the hill where Clare and Andrew had been married five years previously, to the month, was packed to capacity. Clare almost smiled as she and Andrew made their way to the front pews where Eddie Running had insisted they sit with Charlie’s immediate family. Charlie would be pleased. It looked as if the turnout for him was even bigger than for her grandfather.
She had been thinking of Robert’s funeral as they drove up Church Hill when they found, to their surprise, a man, black-suited and wearing a hard hat, directing cars to park in a field opposite the churchyard gates. As they bumped over rough stubble, she remembered the field from long ago. Every Easter, her mother and father had visited Granny and Granda. Together, they’d all walked up the lane alongside the orchard from the forge house to the top of the hill, so she could trundle her egg with all the other children from Church Hill.
A changed world, she thought, remembering the ponies and traps tethered by the churchyard wall in October 1954. She’d come home from her first term at Queens, on a lovely autumn morning, to find her grandfather in his coffin. Charlie was with him in the sitting-room reading aloud from the local paper.
Now Charlie had gone too, her last link with this small piece of land where she’d once known every flower and tree so that at any season she could find something to put in the old, green glass bottle that sat on their table in the long, low house with roses over the door.
Andrew had given up Drumsollen, accepting that one cannot take back what was not given, freely and willingly, at an earlier time. Now, she too would have to give up what had been good, the goodness that had sustained her after the loss of her parents.
She had tried to give back to Andrew what he had lost and to keep for herself what had been so good, but it was something that could not be done. They had tried and tried again and finally failed, but in the process had learnt a great deal, especially about themselves. Charlie had been part of that old world. Like Andrew’s dream of Drumsollen restored, she too would have to let go her last link with that world of her childhood and young womanhood.
There were friendly faces all around her, known people who nodded kindly as she walked down the aisle to the seats marked out for them with carefully placed hymn sheets. This place would remain forever in her heart. It might well always be called ‘home’, but she no longer had any tie to the land itself.
On June Thirty, they would leave Drumsollen. Where or how they would find a life and a future, she did not know. That it would not be here among the little hills of her childhood was certain. Nor indeed would it be amid the isles and lakes of Fermanagh, a county unknown to her until a year ago, a place whose beauty had touched her deeply.
They sat close together in the whispering hush of the church as the choir in their new red robes filed silently to their places. She felt Andrew make small, restless movements by her side and immediately her mind moved back to Friday evening.
‘Oh love, I am sorry,’ she’d said, getting up and opening her desk. One large, white envelope sat in front of the empty compartments. ‘This came this morning. I’m afraid I forgot all about it,’ she apologized, as she handed it to him.
‘Yes, I expect this is it,’ he said flatly, staring at his name, at the address, at the postmark. He made not the slightest attempt to open it.
‘What’s wrong, Andrew? What is going on?’
Instead of replying, he tore at the envelope, a tough, fabric lined one which only came apart after he’d applied considerable force. From the ragged opening, several sheets of heavy paper fell to the ground. He bent and scooped them up.
‘Here, look for yourself,’ he said, thrusting them at her. ‘Sign on the dotted line for a country estate and a guaranteed income for life. As much pasture for as many cows as you fancy. Gardens and gardeners, too, for your lovely lady wife. Jobs all round for good Protestant lads and lassies like our new neighbours the Brookes. Money in the bank and servants to do the work. All for one little signature.’ He paused. ‘Clare, I can’t do it, I simply can’t do it,’ he said, his face crumpling, anger and distress tearing him in opposite directions.
‘So what is your problem, Andrew? Who is asking you to do it?’
‘Oh do be reasonable, Clare,’ he almost shouted. ‘We’re broke. If you weren’t working your socks off, we wouldn’t have tuppence. I’ve made no money since I set up on my own, until this business in Fermanagh came up. My only clients are poor Catholics who couldn’t pay my bills even if I did send them. And, on a plate, I’m handed everything I say I’ve ever wanted. Some of the best land in Ulster. And lots of it. A place for children to grow up. Exactly what I’d have loved to have had myself. And I can’t do it. Not even for you,’ he ended, choking on his words as he dropped his head in his hands.
‘Good for you,’ she said quietly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, Good for you.’
‘And what exactly is good about it?’ he demanded angrily, jumping to his feet and glaring down at her.
‘You’ve always said you had difficulty making up your mind,’ she began steadily. ‘You said when you asked me to marry you, in bed in Drumsollen in April 1960, if I remember correctly, that you’d do your best, if I would help you with making up your mind. Those were the terms,’ she continued, managing to keep her voice a lot steadier than she was feeling. ‘Well, it seems you’ve made up your mind about something. That has to be good news.’
‘You mean you don’t mind?’ he demanded. ‘You’d give up all you’re being offered?’
‘I’m not giving up anything,’ she said firmly. ‘I have what I need. We do have one or two little local problems just at present, I’ll willingly admit. Doesn’t everyone? But we’ve managed well enough up until the present. So why should that suddenly change?’
She realized now that the minister had appeared, a young man new to the parish. He had not known Charlie very well, he admitted honestly, when he began his address, but he’d had the great good sense to talk to people who had known him all their lives. He proceeded to deliver a short synopsis of Charlie’s life, interspersed with stories which exactly caught the essence of the man. There was laughter and a nodding of heads and Clare heard the odd whispered, ‘That was yer man all right.’
To Clare’s great delight, the minister followed his tribute, not with the customary reminder of the shortness of life, the need for repentance and a proper attention to one’s own salvation, but instead with a request for celebration and thanksgiving. The congregation lifted up their voices in full and hearty response. Clare did shed tears, more of relief, than sadness. Charlie would have approved entirely of the whole proceedings.
To Clare’s amazement the party given for Charlie at Drumsollen after the funeral generated more business and bookings than many of the events she’d organized over the years with that aim in view. To begin with, the Canadian cousin for whom the funeral had been delayed decided to work through Charlie’s vast archive to make it easier for sending back to Canada. One look at Charlie’s bungalow, where he’d expected to live while doing the job, and he returned for two weeks at Drumsollen.
Clare’s main preoccupation now became the selling of Drumsollen. She talked to her Bank Manager and found it was possible to register a property quietly with an estate agent. No board on the roadside, nor advertising in local papers, and therefore, no need to share news of their going with anyone but June and Bronagh and close friends.
What it was supposed to do was open the possibility of the agent being able to put a client in touch with her should the description of Drumsollen appear to meet their needs. That was exactly what happened.
‘Good morning, Mrs Richardson,’ said an unfamiliar voice, when she answered the phone one sodden November morning. ‘My name is John Crawford and I represent Eventide Homes. I wonder if it would be possible for me to come and see you sometime next week.’
‘Eventide Homes,’ she repeated to Andrew that evening. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘Well I suppose it is a possibility,’ he said dubiously. ‘I’ve heard of several big houses being converted into nursing homes but I can’t see Drumsollen fitting the bill. Surely you’d need lifts with two floors.’
‘All things are possible if they have the capital,’ she pointed out. ‘That was our problem, wasn’t it? We might have made it work if we could have refurbished, with phones and TVs and en suites for every room.’
‘Are you sorry?’ he asked abruptly.
‘No, I’m not. I’m glad we tried, but there’s no turning back now, is there? I think, though, we need to make use of all we’ve learnt. And we’ve got to do our homework properly. Have you got any further with your researches?’
For weeks now, Andrew had been poring over editions of Farming News, sent by Aunt Joan, and the North Norfolk Property Guide sent by Mary and John. What he was trying to do was see what it would cost to buy enough land to make a start, assuming land was available which Phillida seemed to think was the case. His problem was that their capital was tied up in Drumsollen. He had no idea what its sale might raise or how much he’d have available for either land or stock.
‘Try not to worry, love,’ Clare said, when he’d explained his difficulty. ‘We might know better when this John Crawford comes next week. Which reminds me,’ she went on quickly. ‘We really need to lay the old entrance hall carpet down in Number One. We’ll have to shunt it around to see if we can get the damaged bit under the wardrobe.’
‘Why bother?’ he asked. ‘There are four other double rooms. We hardly ever have one double room in use, never mind four.’
‘Can’t give you an answer,’ she confessed. ‘Something about rightness. Not letting that business over the paraffin spoil a room. Especially when someone is coming to see the place. My magic, if you like,’ she confessed, laughing. ‘I’d like to put the room straight again.’
‘What about your-not-so-dear brother?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Does Granny Hamilton know where he’s living?’
‘She says he’s with one of my aunts who has no children. Apparently, he offered to do jobs in return for a bed. She doesn’t see much of him, but he takes her to the shops in that car of his a couple of times a week. He’s on the dole and not trying very hard to get off it.’
‘Did she say anything about his choice of companions?’
‘No, I don’t think Granny knows anything about that, but then she never did pay much attention to William. It was Granda Hamilton who did his best with him. Granny just says he’s no good and never was. Which is probably true, I’m afraid. Eddie Running says he’s had a word with him and put the fear of God in him. Told him he’d be locked up for a long time if he was ever caught again with the UVF. It might keep him out of trouble. It might not. Eddie says there’s nothing I can do, he’s unlikely to bother us again but there were his companions, so we need to be sharp on security just to be on the safe side.’
‘I remember a world where no one needed to lock their door,’ said Andrew sadly.
‘And before that, there was a world in which many people were so poor they’d no need to shut doors because there was nothing for anyone to steal,’ she came back at him.
‘Point taken, my beloved,’ he said, laughing. ‘You may not have been trained to jump through the hoops of legal logic, but you certainly don’t let anyone get away with a version of the past that leaves out the nasty bits. You do go for the real thing.’
‘Thank you, my love. Now that I take as a real compliment.’
John Crawford turned out to be a graduate from Queens in his early twenties who owned up to the fact that he was fairly new to the job. He was, however, very sharp and Clare watched him scan every corner of every room as she took him round, as if he were making an inventory without benefit of pencil and paper. He was very pleasant when they came into the kitchen and he met June and Bronagh preparing for the sandwich round. He complimented them on the wonderful smells which had permeated the lower floor during the hour of his visit. Once back in Headquarters, he sat talking over coffee as if he had the whole day at his disposal.
‘We do have three other properties already in the province, Clare, if I may call you Clare,’ he said smiling, as she nodded and passed him a sample of June’s morning’s work. ‘I still find it surprising that the relatives of elderly people who need care appear to be more concerned with the décor of our premises than they are by the provision of bathrooms or of lifting equipment,’ he said steadily. ‘You might not think that your beautiful chandelier or the polished wood staircase was a factor in the equation, but I can assure you it is. In fact, I can tell you now, I shall be recommending a visit by one of our Directors.’
‘My goodness,’ said Clare, surprised. ‘But surely stairs like ours are the last thing you need with elderly people?’
‘Practically, I have to agree with you, but we’ve discovered many relatives are pleased to see stairs. They don’t want to be reminded of disability. What we have to do is to provide lifts in inconspicuous places. We have a standard building design which would work perfectly well here at Drumsollen. A two storey extension, roughly at right angles to the kitchen, where the garage and stable are at present. It would run out into that meadow area with the long grass as far as the edge of the property. All the essential medical and care services would be available there, keeping the public rooms free of equipment, apart from wheelchairs,’ he said matter-of-factly, before pausing to help himself to another piece of cake.
‘I have two questions I need to put to you,’ he went on, pausing to munch enthusiastically. ‘Firstly, there is the question of furniture and fittings, and the special nature of the pictures. I presume these are of a family nature. Does that mean that you would wish to remove them? I ask, because in the case of two of our other premises, we were able to offer a price to include everything in the property, including pictures and furniture. In fact, everything right down to kitchen equipment and bed linen, which would be immediately redeployable, as you can imagine.’
‘You do surprise me,’ said Clare, honestly, thinking of Archbishop Ussher and wondering what Andrew would have to say about selling off his remaining ancestors. ‘I’ll certainly be able to give you an answer quite quickly. Would tomorrow do?’
‘Excellent,’ he responded, nodding vigorously. ‘Now the other matter is timing. We are in a position to make an offer right away, but we could not complete the sale, were it to take place, till the middle of next year. Purely a question of cash flow,’ he said airily. ‘We would prefer our new premises to be in next year’s budget. What is your own time scale for departure?’
‘Well, that looks as if it would suit us both very well,’ he replied, when she mentioned June the thirtieth. ‘I really do feel most positive about Drumsollen, but naturally I have to go up the line on this one. Can I phone you tomorrow when you’ve spoken with your husband?’
‘You will be pleased to hear that Drumsollen may become the fourth lot of premises for Eventide homes,’ Clare reported, as they drew up to the fire on a wild, December night with the wind gusting down the chimney, making the logs crackle and spark in the grate.
‘So, I was wrong. There is a possibility.’
‘Rather better than that,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Your man was quite enthusiastic. His timescale is a perfect match with our own plans. We just have a problem concerning your ancestors,’ she continued lightly. ‘Apparently, at the expensive end of the care market ancestors are welcome. He wants to know how you’d feel about yours staying where they are and their value being reflected in the purchase price.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Andrew, looking amazed. ‘The answer is Yes. We’d only have been asking Harry to get rid of them anyway. What else did he say?’
Clare gave a full account of John Crawford’s visit and expressed her cautious optimism that they might actually have an offer once they’d agreed on what he’d called lock, stock and barrel, a curious phrase, she thought, but familiar enough from her childhood.
‘Then I’d really be able to go shopping,’ he said with a grin. ‘There are farms coming on the market in Norfolk. Not often, and not where we’d most like to be, but now at least I would know how much money we have to go shopping. That’s a start.’
The offer came with the first Christmas cards and was the subject of much excitement. Even after deducting the remaining mortgage on Drumsollen and allowing for moving expenses, it looked like a very nice, round figure, as Andrew called it. There were enthusiastic phone calls to Aunt Joan, who was delighted things were now working out for them after all their hard work, and to Mary and John who promptly invited them to spend next Christmas with them.
‘Of course we’ll miss you,’ Harry said, after Clare had spoken to both on the phone, ‘but you won’t be so totally tied down that you can’t get home for a holiday now and then. You know you’ll be welcome and the apartment’s there up on the coast if you fancy a bit of sea air as well.’
The run up to Christmas was busy, much busier than the previous year, but as Clare said, ‘Things never come when you need them most.’ Happily, the extra income paid some extra bills and provided a larger Christmas bonus for June and Bronagh.
‘Nobody deserves it more,’ Clare said, when she passed over the small envelopes. ‘The only thing I’ll really miss when we go is having you both to talk to. The phone and letters isn’t the same thing at all,’ she added, thinking longingly of Louise, and Marie-Claude, and Robert, far away in France and of Helen and Ginny and other friends, nearer at hand, but not visited for such a long time.
January blew in with unexpected gales and some very unwelcome bills for the replacing of slates on the most exposed part of the roof. Andrew continued his search for land in North Norfolk, but gradually accepted that there wasn’t much point. Nobody would chose to sell up at this time of year, barring emergencies.
Clare was concerned that he seemed so dispirited, with very little work coming in to his office, not even the unpaid work he was willing to do for applicants for Legal Aid. He was sadly disappointed over the failure of the efforts he and Charles had made through the Society of Labour Lawyers to get some focus on the question of Civil Liberties in Northern Ireland.
When the Campaign for Democracy in Ulster had been started he had been in such good spirits. He’d made her laugh by telling her about the launch of the movement. A public house in Streatham did not seem exactly the most appropriate place to go into the history books, but that, he said, was where the Irish Trade Unionists and the Labour Party members got together.
They had some good people too, he went on, an MP for one of the Manchester constituencies, a lawyer called Paul Rose who’d been called to the bar. They were trying to secure a Royal Commission to look into the running of the Stormont Government and investigate allegations of discrimination.
It was clear by February 1966 that despite the bright hope of June 1965, when the CDU was launched publicly at a meeting in the House of Commons, the campaign was confined to London and Manchester. More disappointing still was that the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had made clear he intended to take the same line on Ulster as his predecessors and avoid doing anything that might rock the boat.
‘I just sit in my office and read about pedigree cattle. Anything to avoid the local papers and the rantings and ravings of the Unionist councillors should anyone have the temerity to suggest anything as radical as equal rights,’ Andrew said bitterly. ‘I can’t wait to get away. Why don’t we just look for a little house in Holt and I’ll get a job, any old job, just so long as I can do something useful. I could take up maintaining gardens for old people, or drive them into Norwich to do their shopping. With all that money from Eventide we wouldn’t starve for quite a while, would we?’
Just at the point when Clare was beginning to think it was, in fact, the only thing to do, something quite unexpected happened. Phillida’s cowman, who had been with her for fifty years, suddenly decided to retire. Phillida was at her wits end to find someone to replace him. Then, on top of that, one morning early, she came out of the house, walked round the side of the water butt and fell on an invisible skim of ice, where it had overflowed after rain in the night that had frozen by dawn.
She had broken her hip, lain on the icy path till her daily help arrived and was now in hospital. Joan though she had a touch of pneumonia, but when she visited before the hip operation, Phillida insisted her horrible cough was only the result of bad temper as she lay on the path cursing, because she couldn’t get up.