The colour was wonderful – a deep, rich plum – but Sarah couldn’t be sure what the fabric was. Not linen, or wool and certainly not velvet which would not wear well. She stood in John Wilson’s shop in English Street and stroked the rich fabric, totally absorbed with its intense colour and the possibility of making from it one of the new dresses she so badly needed.
After her first whole month as Sir George’s assistant she knew a great deal about many things previously unknown to her, but what she did not know was how she was going to find the time and energy to make the two extra dresses Sir George had suggested she would need.
‘Nice bit o’ cloth, Sarah, an’ good value inta the bargain.’
‘Hello, Lily, I haven’t seen you for ages,’ Sarah said, smiling warmly at the small figure who had so often amused both her and Mary-Anne by the welcoming fireside at the foot of the hill.
‘I’m afraid my new job keeps me busy,’ Sarah added apologetically. ‘I have to catch up with Mary-Anne in the evenings so she comes up and tells me the news while I bake or give myself a clean collar for the morning. How are you, Lily?’
‘Oh, busy as usual,’ Lily grinned, twisting her face in a wry smile. ‘There’s anither lock o’ girls settin’ up for Australia an’ I’ve the bonnets to do as per usual.’
Sarah laughed.
‘Yes, I thought you’d be busy. I have to copy up the minutes for the Workhouse Committee for a contact of Sir George so I thought about you when I saw that. And, of course, Wilson’s as well for the dresses.’
‘Aye, ye’d know all about it. An’ yer man,’ she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘makes a nice wee bit out of it wi’ the stuff fer dresses, an’ shawls forby. Oh aye, they set thim girls up well. Shure I suppose it’s cheaper than havin’ to feed thim fer years if they’ve bin deserted. Shure most of thim has nether far’er nor mor’er.’
Sarah nodded her agreement, but did not say that at the last count there were fifty-three illegitimate children in the workhouse, as well as a number whose fathers had deserted them, knowing their mothers would have no option but to go to the workhouse. The Guardians were pursuing the fathers but without much success.
‘That’s a good price,’ repeated Jilly, fingering the material. ‘I’d say yer man has bought out the stock from some puir soul goin’ broke. He’ll make a bob or two on it, that’s for sure.’
Sarah detected a note of hostility towards John Wilson, of whom she herself had never heard a bad word, so she changed the subject by asking Lily’s advice.
‘Do you think it would make up well?’
‘Aye, I’m sure it wou’d. Are ye makin’ it yerself?’ she asked sharply.
‘Well I’d like to, but if I can’t, I’ve been told there’s a good dressmaker at Castle Dillon.’
‘Aye, but ye’d hafta pay her,’ she said dismissively.
Sarah agreed that she would and was glad when John Wilson himself appeared at their side, looking amiable and asking if he could be of any assistance. To Sarah’s surprise Lily disappeared so quickly she had no time to say goodbye to her.
‘I’m admiring this lovely fabric, Mr Wilson. I hadn’t got as far as the price tag yet,’ she said laughing.
He nodded agreeably, told her the name of the mix of fibres, of which she had never heard and then added promptly: ‘We might, of course, make a special discount for a regular customer like yourself.’
Sarah smiled to herself. It was true, she visited the shop often on a Saturday if she came to town to buy groceries. But when she looked at fabric, mostly it was to see what she could buy for herself, or for Mary-Anne, to turn into garments they could sell in the market.
Since the late summer, they had both worked hard to build up stock ahead of next Thursday, when the first of her promised days off coincided with the cloth market held in a market yard at the back of the Scotch Street shops.
She made up her mind. The colour was lovely and she was now reassured that the fabric was robust enough for everyday wear.
‘Well that always helps, Mr Wilson,’ she said, as he took a pencil from behind his ear and made a scribble on the sales ticket.
‘Glad to be of service,’ he replied, signalling the young assistant to measure and cut as required and make up a parcel in strong brown paper.
As there was no sign of Lily anywhere, Sarah set off for the Charlemont Arms Hotel in English Street where she’d been able to leave Daisy and the trap, her other shopping already loaded earlier, to give her the chance to move freely in the crowded streets and to look rather than buy.
She was just about to turn down the side entrance to the stables behind the new inn when she heard her name. Surprised, she turned quickly and saw Jonathan Hancock hurrying towards her.
‘Greetings, Friend Sarah,’ he said smiling, and using the conventional greeting between Quakers.
She paused only a moment before returning it. He knew perfectly well since their first meeting that she was out of unity with the Quakers, but in no way out of love with the principles she’d learnt from her grandmother.
‘I got such a surprise when I got your letter on behalf of Sir George,’ he said, reaching out to take her parcel. ‘It’s almost lunchtime,’ he went on quickly. ‘Will you eat with me, please? There are so many things I want to ask you and the dining room here is quiet.’
She could think of no good reason why she should not, so they went together into the new dining room with its raftered ceiling and open fire.
‘Did you go to Sir George to ask for employment?’ he asked, his eyes bright, a small smile playing round his lips.
‘No, I went to ask him to forgive me my rent for six months to see if I could earn a living and keep my husband’s forge going.’
She saw the smile disappear as he registered that she must have been bereaved, but he paused only for a moment, and then went on.
‘And you ended up as his “woman of business”. How on earth did you manage that?’
She laughed and told him the whole story, watching with amusement the changing expressions on his very mobile face. He seemed younger than when they’d last met, but then, on that occasion, he’d been waiting to see Sir George for a long time, just as she had, but unlike her that very long morning, he’d probably had the journey by coach and ship from Yorkshire somewhere in the previous days.
Suddenly, she remembered the hand-delivered letter which had brought an end to their first conversation in Sir George’s library and the envelope of the same kind that appeared on a silver tray as she was about to leave after her exhausting first day in the study. She’d been so tired she’d not had the energy to open it. When she did apply the engraved, silver paper knife next morning, she found it was his courteous request to Sir George that they might speak about the Armagh Workhouse of which Sir George was now Chairman of the Guardian’s Committee.
Replying on behalf of Sir George, who said, somewhat to her surprise, that he would do all in his power to assist him ‘in such an admirable project’, was one of the very first tasks she’d undertaken at the handsome desk assigned to her, the one Sir George himself resolutely refused to use.
She’d wondered at the time exactly what the ‘admirable project’ was. Clearly Sir George had heard of it, but she assumed she’d just have to wait for a further exchange of letters to find out. Now, here she was, able to ask Jonathan himself any question she wanted.
They talked easily and at length while Jonathan explained how he’d been commissioned by their Yearly Meeting to join a group making a survey of the causes of poverty in Ireland. They had begun their work in 1838 during a period of famine. Now, in 1845, they felt that many of the causes of famine then were still present and not fully understood, even though the building of workhouses had been a step towards helping the poorest of the poor.
She understood now why Sir George had been so positive in his response. However irritable he might be about the paperwork which he so disliked and the people who regularly called upon him for both his time and his money, he was, as she had guessed after their first meeting, a kind-hearted man who was generous to both servants and tenants.
‘But why did you come to Armagh, Jonathan, or is it not just Armagh that you visit?’ she asked.
‘No, not just Armagh,’ he said, pausing visibly to collect himself. ‘I was already visiting Armagh regularly to see my wife, so they thought I might be able to extend those visits for the benefit of the ongoing work.’
‘Your wife?’ Sarah repeated, taken aback as she tried to make sense of the situation.
‘My wife lives at The Retreat. She’s been there for many years and no longer knows who I am.’
Sarah felt relief sweep over her. His behaviour had been so easy towards her, proper and yet very warm that, for a moment, she just couldn’t take in the fact that he could be married. As everyone knew, The Retreat was an alternative to the Armagh and District Lunatic Asylum, if you were wealthy enough to afford its charges.
‘And had she been taken ill that day we met and you had to leave immediately?’ she asked gently, remembering his distress and his hasty parting words when he said he hoped they would meet again.
‘Yes, you could say that,’ he replied soberly. ‘At times she has violent phases. I had visited her in the morning and she seemed quite stable, but as soon as I left there was a dramatic change. They thought I might be able to help.’
‘And were you?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. If anything, my presence made things worse. They asked me to leave and were sorry they’d sent for me,’ he said wryly.
‘And has she been at The Retreat for long?’ she asked cautiously, seeing how little he wanted to have to speak about it.
‘Since the second year of our marriage,’ he began, collecting himself. ‘Her family are landowners in Richhill. They said it would be more homely for her to be in care here, rather than in Yorkshire. I felt they wanted to be near her, so I agreed. She’s been there ten years.’
‘And you’ve been visiting all that time?’
‘Yes, I have,’ he admitted wearily. ‘To be honest, having work to do for the Yearly Meeting when I come makes it easier for me. I’ve cousins in Lurgan and Lisburn, and another one in Donegal. I’ll be visiting them all while I’m over to seek their help with information from their own localities. Then I’ll be writing reports for the Yearly Meeting.’
‘But what about your own work?’ Sarah asked promptly. ‘You said you were a manufacturer.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ he agreed with a slight smile. ‘But if you can have absentee landlords then you can have absentee manufacturers,’ he said lightly. ‘I am privileged; I have good people, many of them fellow Friends working for me. The business is a large one and has always been diversified. Even in these hard times the productive ones can subsidise the weak ones, so no one is thrown out of work. We try to find ways of adapting.’
‘Like getting your women workers to turn to making cheap clothing from fabric you can’t sell?’
‘How did you hear about that?’ he asked, looking totally amazed.
‘I didn’t. But when I was trying to think of a way of making a living for myself and keeping the forge going, it came to me as an idea. My brother, Charles, runs a workshop in Lurgan for the elderly couple who brought him up when our parents died. He’s in the process of trying to sell up, but he gave me cloth when I told him what I was planning to do. He said it was a good idea, but he was so short of capital that he couldn’t do it himself. He’s thinking of going to America, but he hasn’t even got the money for his fare. I’ve started saving up for him.’
They paused as a skinny girl in a black dress came and took their empty plates away. Sarah smiled encouragingly at her, thinking of Annie back at Castle Dillon, wondering if this girl too was an orphan who had been found a place where she’d ‘hafta mine her manners’.
‘There are so many in such need,’ Sarah said sadly, without quite thinking about it, as he offered her the menu to choose a dessert.
‘Does it sometimes burden you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, promptly. ‘Here am I with a lovely lunch and apple crumble as a treat, when many hard-working people will be lucky if they get a bowl of porridge tonight.’ She paused and then went on, ‘Even as a little girl, I worried about other people. My grandmother tried to help me because I got so upset when I saw great need and couldn’t do anything about it. She used to say: “Do what you can, do it in love and be sure that it will be more than you ever imagined.”’
‘Did she indeed?’ he replied immediately. ‘That was one of my mother’s sayings too. Do you know where it comes from?’
‘No. I’ve often wondered. I know it’s not the Bible. Could it be Shakespeare?’ she asked, as the thought struck her.
‘I don’t know Shakespeare well enough. There are plays like Coriolanus I’ve never even read,’ he said honestly. ‘But it doesn’t really matter where it comes from, does it? If something helps you on your way you just give thanks and use it, don’t you?’
Although Sarah was always glad to see Mary-Anne, she was grateful she didn’t come up the hill that Saturday evening. When Scottie came to collect bread and a small casserole she’d made the previous day with a meal for herself, she did confess to him how tired she felt. He’d delighted her by the way he came back at her with a big grin and said that his news could keep as it was all good.
It was not so much that she was physically tired, though she would admit that as well. It was more that she had so much on her mind after the hours she had spent in the Charlemont Arms. She just needed to be by herself in the quiet to let the events of the day settle.
She moved slowly but made a beginning on the jobs left over from the morning. Then she brought out an old winter dress to wear on Sunday while her best dress was being ironed and freshened for Monday. She became aware that all the time she was working she kept thinking of ‘Do what you can … do it in love …’
Like a catchy tune, or a well-loved verse of poetry, it repeated and repeated in her head, even when she finally got into bed and stretched out her weary body, ready for sleep.
It was such a long time since she’d had a conversation of any length with a man. She tried in vain to think who there had ever been in her life, besides her own dear John, to whom she could speak as freely as she had today with Jonathan. Women, yes. Her dear friend Helen, and now Mary-Anne, but that was something different.
She could say anything she wanted to John, any thought that passed through her mind. He would always respond. In the dark of the night, she could see the concentration on his brow, a slight movement of his lips, as if he were repeating her words, his total focus on her face. But John had not been educated beyond the local school and the age of twelve. He wrote a good hand and read his few books, but he was often so tired from the hard physical labour of the forge that he had little time or energy for broadening his mind, alert as it might be.
The ache of longing for his presence came upon her, as it had so often in the long months since April. It had been a lovely spring day when he went to Armagh for supplies for the forge and now, tomorrow, Sunday, was the first of November. The dark of winter would rule for at least three months and perhaps far more.
She shuddered at the thought, as if she was being asked to face those months without warm clothing or a bite to eat. But now, she reminded herself against this bleak prospect, there was someone else to whom she could talk. Not often and usually only by letter, but there was someone with whom she could share words and thoughts, if nothing more. It was a gift, totally unexpected, but still to be cherished.
There were other gifts too and in the quiet of a dim, misty Sunday morning, Sarah stood at her ironing board and gave thanks. Sam Keenan had now fully recovered from his pneumonia and tomorrow there would be two hammers echoing from the forge as she left for work.
Scottie had not only shot up in height during the summer but he seemed to have grown up disproportionately as well. To Sarah’s great surprise, he told her that he now kept in touch with Ben, who had made his way to Peterborough, Ontario, where he was working with a farmer anxious to promote mechanisation on his farm.
Sarah had received some dollars from Ben many months back to be given to Scottie, but now it seemed he sent them direct whenever he could. He’d also introduced Scottie to the former teacher in Loughgall he’d visited so often himself. It now seemed a new friendship had been established and Scottie had an older man to support and encourage him, as well as having the support of Sarah herself.
A gleam of sunlight penetrated the dim, low-ceilinged kitchen, catching the pile of papers she’d been sorting, among them her jotter and bank book. The still open page now showed the first deposit from her monthly salary cheque. The balance was still very low with winter to come but when she wrote to her brother this afternoon she would ask him for some more fabric and tell him that this time she would like to pay him for the previous lot as well. She would also tell him that, all being well, she could send him the price of his ticket. He’d need the money before the ice melted so as to get a passage once the St Lawrence Seaway was free of ice next May, if by then he still wanted to go.