9

Morning came, grey and sodden. The trees dripped heavily on the pavements, though the rain itself had stopped. Oppressed by the aqueous gloom which surrounded her, she switched on the red-shaded lamps that Ronnie had made out of old wine bottles. They glowed dimly and made no impression at all upon the room itself. In the even dimmer kitchen she made tea and toast, put it on a tray, brought it back up to her table by the window and sat down in Robert’s chair.

The house was so quiet. In the week since Edward died, all the other students had gone away, off to holiday jobs, to travel abroad, or back home to the country to help on the farm. It was a relief. The less goodbyes to say the better. All she wanted to do now was to slip away. Leave behind the remains of a life Edward’s death had taken from her.

She’d no appetite for her toast, but she was very thirsty. She sat drinking tea and trying to decide how best to fill the hours before Andrew came, when she would know for sure if she were right. She ran her eye around the room, paused at the large calendar produced by the engineering firm Uncle Jack now worked for. Bright with flags and bunting, the white-hulled ship had been an encouragement all through these last weeks. With a shock, she registered the red stars marking the days of her exams. Then it was May and now it was June.

She got up, tore off the weeks already consigned to history and stared at the pattern of squares revealed. Below the picture of a Viscount flying in a clear, blue sky, three entries were written in.

‘See Rector about wedding,’ she read aloud. ‘Pack up books for store. Move out into flat.’

She went on staring at the numbered squares, searching for the one that marked the day when Edward died, an unexceptional square, no different from its companions, the square after which her life had fallen to pieces, yet once more – just like the day Granda Scott slipped down beside his anvil and lay there in the silent forge till Jamsey came looking for him.

‘All things pass, however pleasant or unpleasant,’ she reminded herself, smiling a little, hearing the echo of Aunt Sarah’s voice; words which had proved their truth, time and time again.

She took a deep breath, got up and carried her breakfast tray back to the kitchen. She washed up, left everything tidy, went upstairs again and began to sort her books into piles, some to be sold in the Union shop, some to go to charity, and some to be stored against a future which was now entirely open.

It seemed to take a very long time but she kept at it, bagging up the ones for the Union shop and walking over with them. Books were not just inanimate objects. Books were your history. The wearying record of exams to be passed or the reminder of past joys and present loves. Stories that once opened new worlds. Poetry which stayed on in the mind. The books you acquired told you something about who you were, who you once had been.

 

It was early evening and she was standing by the window when Andrew appeared, unexpectedly early and on foot. For a moment, she hardly recognised him. She peered out and watched him stride along the damp pavement, his raincoat open over his dark suit, his face pale and shadowed. Only when he rang the bell did she collect herself and run downstairs to let him in.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said, as she held out her hand for his coat.

He stood in front of the gas fire while she hung the coat on the back of the door and came back to the fireplace to sit down. It wasn’t the first time he’d appeared in the dark suit the firm insisted upon, but tonight it was hard to bear. He looked as if he’d come straight out of the roomful of Richardsons in their funeral weeds. As out of place here in her room as she had felt when she donned Ginny’s black costume in a room full of patterned fabrics and much-loved soft toys.

‘Time has moved on while we’ve been away,’ she said matter-of-factly, doing her best to keep her voice steady, to speak of what was ordinary. ‘Mrs McGregor has a new tenant coming at the end of next week. She was lucky to get a summer let.’

But nothing was ordinary anymore. Anything they talked about raised questions that couldn’t be answered till she had the answer to the one big question.

‘Andrew, I think there’s something you have to tell me. I think I know, but I need you to tell me.’

The words struck a chord. They sounded so familiar. Surely she must have said them before. Suddenly, it came to her. The day they sat in the sunshine on Cannon Hill and he confessed he hated the job. The day they decided to go to Canada.

Andrew smiled bleakly and looked down at his very well-polished shoes.

‘Edward’s affairs are in rather a mess,’ he began, as if reluctant to have to speak Edward’s name. ‘There’s a massive bill for death duties still outstanding since Uncle Edward died and now there’ll be more, unless something can be arranged. The Lodge might have to go …’

He broke off as if he hoped he needn’t say more, but Clare was determined he should. She sat silent, waiting.

‘Clare, I know you’ll be so disappointed, but I can’t possibly go to Canada in the circumstances. We might be able to manage it, given a year or two, but not now.’

She nodded silently. As she had known in her heart, the Prince was not going to carry her off to live happily ever after.

‘Yes, I am disappointed, Andrew.’

To her amazement, she heard the words shape themselves quite fluently, as if they had been so long practised she couldn’t possibly stumble.

‘I could face making a life with you in Canada, whatever hardship that might bring, but I can’t do it here. If you won’t come with me, I can’t marry you. I’m sure you’ll be disappointed too, Andrew, that I can’t stay to help.’

There. It was spoken. No more blows to fall.

‘But, Clare …’

‘But what?’ she said wearily, smitten by the look of despair on his face as he turned towards her.

‘We don’t have to throw it all up, surely, all that we’ve had. Don’t you love me any more?’

‘Yes, probably I do, but that’s not the really important question. Not now. You’ve said “yes” to a life I can’t share. Canada, yes, however tough, but not the Richardson circus. Ronnie’s right. He said we should get out of Ulster. Get out into the fresh air. But you want to go back into the old, tight airless box, don’t you?’

‘It’s not like that. Clare. It’s not like that at all. You’ve got it all wrong,’ he retorted, stung by her words. ‘I’ve no more time for that crowd than you have. But there are things that have to be seen to. Do you want Helen and Ginny to be homeless, like you were? Do you think it’s any easier being chucked out of a “gentleman’s residence” than out of the house by the forge? Have you thought about June and John Wiley, if Drumsollen goes. Elsie and Olive Clark and the other folk at Caledon, if The Lodge goes? Or are you only thinking of yourself?’

‘Sometimes one has to think only of one’s self, Andrew. Especially when other people let you down. When they make you promises they feel free to break. Is there a hierarchy of promises in your code? Who comes at the top? Who gets priority? Not the wee blacksmith’s granddaughter from the Grange, I’m sure,’ she ended, unable to control the bitterness in her voice.

‘Clare, you’re not thinking straight,’ he said harshly. ‘What about your promise to me? Our engagement? Have I changed into someone you can’t love, because I accept obligations that no one else can deal with? Must you always come first, no matter what’s at issue?’

‘No, not always, Andrew. I’m not as selfish as you’re trying to make me out. But there’s a limit to what anyone can cope with and I’ve reached it. No more waiting. No more hoping. No more struggling. No more depending on anyone else. I’ve had enough of being let down. I want a life that’s not made out of someone else’s expectations. It’s a life I want to share with you. But if I can’t have it with you, then I’ll have to make it on my own.’

By the time she gasped out the last words, her whole body was shaking with fury.

‘Then there’s no more to be said.’

He stood up, walked across the room and unhooked his raincoat from the back of the door. For a moment, she thought he would go without another word. She wondered if she would have the strength not to run after him. But he turned and came back to the fireplace and stood looking down at her. ‘I think something’s wrong between us, Clare, and it needs sorting out, but this isn’t the way to do it.’

‘Will you go to Canada with me?’ she said, as lightly as if she were saying, ‘Shall we have a day out tomorrow?’

‘No, Clare, I won’t. I’m not free to go to Canada or anywhere else.’

She put her hand to her mouth and moistened her engagement ring. It was such a good fit that it took her a few moments to twist it off. She held it out to him.

‘I’m sorry, Andrew. It was such a lovely dream.’

‘No it wasn’t,’ he said, sharply. ‘We were friends for five years and lovers for a year now. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘I could ask you the same.’

‘Put your ring back on, Clare, and let’s see what we can do to make things better,’ he said quietly, his eyes on the tiny glinting stones that were catching the light from the fire, his hands firmly in his pockets.

‘Will you take me to Canada?’

He stood, looking at her in amazement, and then his face crumpled into despair.

‘I can’t do what you want, Clare,’ he said, his voice choking on the words. ‘I just can’t.’

She looked up at him, his face drawn, his eyes dark-circled, and wondered if this was really happening. She decided it was. That she’d always known it would.

‘And I can’t do what you want either,’ she said firmly, standing up and holding out the ring towards him.

For a moment he looked at her blankly, then he turned on his heel and walked to the door.

‘Keep it, or throw it away. No one else will ever wear it. You know where to find me if you change your mind.’

The door shut behind him. She heard his feet running down the stairs and the bang of the front door. She didn’t go to the window. She just sat on in the growing darkness, weeping, wondering if she would ever see him again.

 

The week that followed was a busy one. She made a long list of all she had to do and worked her way steadily down it. Each day, she made a point of writing some letters, packing some of the books she wanted to keep, making some more arrangements. The variation was designed to keep her mind alert, but despite all her efforts she felt her progress was painfully slow. She was tired all the time, couldn’t shake herself from sleep in the mornings, found she was only wide awake during the small hours of the night.

The first thing she did was go and see Harry. She had to tell him why she couldn’t come back to work in the gallery as she’d promised.

He’d been so kind, looked so sad when she told him about Andrew. He listened so attentively when she explained what she was planning to do. When she came to the end, there was a moment’s silence, then he said: ‘What would you like me to do with the rings, then?’

She was flustered and confused by his words. The only ring she could think of was her engagement ring.

‘What rings, Harry? I haven’t got any rings.’

‘Oh yes you have,’ he replied gently. ‘Don’t you remember? The ones you found when you cleared out the forge house.’

She shook her head and laughed at herself.

‘I’m all through myself, Harry. I knew there was something I had to ask you about.’

She’d hadn’t really forgotten them, the two gold rings she’d found under the old settle when she and Jack had pulled it out from the wall. They’d lain secure in Harry’s safe for the last four years. Now she knew exactly what she was going to do with them.

‘I thought for a minute you must mean this one,’ she said awkwardly, as she fished out the small box from her handbag and gave it to him. ‘Would you give it to Andrew when you see him?’

He nodded abruptly and put it in his pocket.

‘I wondered if you could offer me a price for the gold rings, Harry,’ she began shyly. ‘They’re not quite your sort of thing, but they’re fairly old, aren’t they?’

‘Hold on a minute an’ I’ll tell you,’ he said quickly, as he pulled out files from his desk drawer. ‘I sent them to old Fienstein at Kaitcer’s ages ago and I kept meaning to tell you what he said. He’s the man for marks on gold.’

He scuffled through a whole folder of papers, pulled out a single sheet, muttered about Troy weight and then read aloud. ‘Two rings, both clearly marked from the same source. We suggest a date of 1790.’

‘As old as that?’ she said, surprised. ‘Things were very troubled in Armagh in the nineties. That’s when the United Irishmen were active. I always wondered if they’d been lost, or whether that was their hiding place and the owners never came back. We’ll probably never know.’

‘The antique business is full of mysteries, Clare. Sometimes I can hardly credit what turns up in places you’d never expect,’ he said abstractedly. ‘Would a hundred pounds do?’

‘A hundred?’ she gasped. ‘They’re never worth that, Harry,’ she protested, shocked he should make such an excessive offer.

‘No, they’re not,’ he agreed. ‘Not yet. But you need the money now. If you want them in a year or two, you can pay me back. If you don’t, I’ll bide my time and sell them at a profit. In this trade, it’s just a matter of biding one’s time. You know that as well as I do.’

Yes, she did. She’d been very willing to learn, and Harry was a good teacher. One of the first things he’d taught her was the way fashion ebbed and flowed continuously. The successful dealer was the one who could predict the way the tide was running or spread his activities wide enough to cover whichever way it ran.

Harry was very good at the job, but even he made mistakes. ‘If you don’t make mistakes, you don’t make anything,’ he often said, philosophically. ‘It’s all part of life.’

Jessie wasn’t at all philosophical when Clare went up to Braeside later that day to tell her all that had happened. She was even more distressed and upset than Clare had expected.

‘Yer mad, Clare. Absolutely mad. Sure Andrew’s dying about you,’ she protested. ‘What are ye thinkin’ about? Sure Canada isn’t the be all an’ end all of things? Isn’t Andrew more important than that? Could ye not wait a year or two an’ then go?’

She did her best to explain, but she soon saw that nothing she could say would make any difference. It was as if Jessie couldn’t get beyond the fact that it had all gone wrong. She was so distraught, in the end, Clare had to put aside her own distress and use all her energy to try and comfort her. As the tears subsided and Jessie grew calmer, Clare did begin to wonder if perhaps being pregnant had made her more emotional. She’d not been well in the last weeks and not able to go to the gallery at all on some days. Harry had said she’d been very distressed about Edward despite the fact she’d never even met him.

Walking back down the drive to the Malone Road, the carefully pruned shrubberies already showing the signs of Harry’s work, Clare knew she was very upset herself about the visit she’d just made. Unconsciously, she’d expected understanding and comfort from her oldest friend, but all she’d had was distress and sharp criticism of the most painful decision she’d ever had to make.

As she strode out gratefully along the Malone Road on her way back to Elmwood, she remembered that she and Andrew were to have been godparents to Jessie’s child. Jessie hadn’t mentioned it. She wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry.

It was such a sad parting, Clare decided not to say any more personal goodbyes. When she found herself wide awake at three o’clock in the morning, she spent the time writing notes to friends and the few relatives who might just be aware of her absence.

She wasn’t surprised, though, when Mrs McGregor invited her in for a cup of tea the next time they met on the stairs. She’d been such a good friend all through Clare’s time at Queen’s. She’d always wanted to make certain Clare was all right. When Andrew failed to turn up on her doorstep as usual, Clare knew she’d guess something was wrong. Having settled them in her comfortable, well-scrubbed kitchen she listened to Clare’s brief, well-rehearsed explanation. She nodded sadly.

‘If it’s to be, Clare, it’s to be. These things has a way o’ bein’ taken out o’ our han’s. There’s maybe someone else waitin’ out there fer ye. Or ye may find yer path crosses wi’ Andrew again. Dinnae fret yersel. Ye did what seemed right to you, an’ that’s all any o’ us can do. Tell me anythin’ ye need, or any help I can be t’ you. An’ make sure ye let me know how ye fare.

‘I’ll miss ye,’ she added, abruptly, as Clare stood up, leaving her rent book and keys and a small, prettily wrapped parcel on the kitchen table.

 

A week after Edward’s funeral, Clare took out her one suitcase and began to pack it. She took only her very best clothes, leaving the rest, with her bed linen and kitchen equipment, for Mrs McGregor to use in her charity work. In the zip pocket of the leather travel bag Jessie and Harry had given her for her twenty-first birthday, she placed a folder of documents from which she could construct a curriculum vitae. In another pocket, she put all the money she could lay her hands on. The small remnants of her last grant cheque, a few pounds from the sale of her books and the savings from her Post Office account. It didn’t amount to very much, once you took away Harry’s hundred pounds.

She realised she was doing the very opposite of what Granny Hamilton had done at her age. Granny had saved up the money for her ticket to Canada then bought a wedding dress when Granda suddenly stepped into her life. Clare had saved up for her wedding dress and now she’d used the money to buy her escape.

With her case packed and the house quiet, she sorted out small change and went down to the phone. She made three phone calls. To the Secretary’s office at Queen’s, to say that she would like to receive her degree in absentia. To Keith Harvey, to ask him if he would have her results for her, if she phoned him the following week. To a taxi firm, to order a cab for seven thirty to take her to the Liverpool boat.

When she’d made her calls, she couldn’t face going back up to the emptiness of the clean and tidy room. She was impatient to be on her way, but there were hours still to be lived through before the boat sailed. She took up her travel bag with the paperbacks she’d chosen for the journey and headed for Botanic Avenue.

She had lunch at a window table in Queen’s Espresso. One last coffee from the bright coloured cups she’d loved so much. Then she walked back up to Botanic Gardens.

Through the long, sunny afternoon she revisited all the familiar paths, watched the children play, walked through the tropical ravine, and sat and read, or just sat, taking in the sunlight, the smell of flowers, her eyes closed, her mind empty.

As the heat of the afternoon began to fade, she went back to her room and waited, by the window, one last time, till the solid shape of the large black taxi appeared, just as it had for Ronnie, six long years ago. Her suitcase already waiting in the hall, she picked up her jacket and bag and ran lightly down the stairs. She was glad to be on her way at last.