Rainbow's End (52 page)

‘Excellent, excellent,’ Mr Locke said, beaming. ‘Well, Mrs Docherty? I think that ferry and train fares for you and the twins, plus full board in an hotel for a fortnight, ought to be sufficient, don’t you? And money for those left behind, of course. Because all being well – and I’m sure it will be – the firm of Donovan and McCready, the Irish solicitors who instructed me, will see that you have monies to cover all your other expenses, including what you might call pocket-money, once you reach Ennis.’

‘That sounds very fair, sir,’ Ada said cautiously. ‘But I’ve a dacent job I don’t want to lose and there’s them in me fambly what wouldn’t go off to Ireland and live on a farm, not if it were ever so. They’ve jobs, you see, what can’t be left . . . an’ the older boys are away, married . . . to say nothin’ of me man, not home yet. He’s in the Navy, he’s no farmer.’

‘I do understand, Mrs Docherty,’ Mr Locke said earnestly. ‘What I want you to do now is to go away and discuss with your family, in particular these twins and the younger children, what you wish to do. Then, in a couple of days if you can come back to me and tell me of your decision I will arrange for the purchase of ferry tickets and so on. Will that suit?’

‘That ’ud be grand, sir,’ Ada said thankfully. ‘Me daughter Ellen’s just come home from France, wi’ the young gentleman she means to marry . . . I’d like to get that sorted out afore mekin’ a decision about leavin’ the Pool, even for a couple o’ weeks.’

‘That’s sensible. I’m sure that Messrs Donovan and McCready, having waited so long already, won’t object to a trifle more delay,’ Mr Locke said cheerfully. ‘Well, I’ll bid you a very good afternoon and shall look forward to hearing your decision as to when you’ll leave – not
if
, Mrs Docherty, but
when
– in the next few days.’

He saw them down the stairs and along the corridor, then out of the door and down to the corner, nodding very pleasantly to them before he returned to his offices.

For a moment the three of them just stood there, staring at each other, then Deirdre broke the silence. ‘Well I’m damned!’ she said explosively. ‘I can’t believe it happened – it’s like a bleedin’ dream come true, our Mam! Cor, I can’t wait to see their faces when we tell ’em where we’ve been an’ what’s acomin’ to us.’

It was a lucky thing that the party had been planned for that evening, since it gave Ada the chance to talk to her whole family and to make a decision.

‘It’s a grand chance for the kids, Mam, an’ for you,’ Dick assured her as soon as they had been regaled with the story of the advertisement and its consequences. ‘Things ain’t goin’ to be easy for anyone, not now the war’s over an’ all the troops are comin’ home. Jobs’ll be that hard to find – and to keep – that you’d be mad not to go over, see what’s what. But us older ones . . . we’ve gorrour own lives to lead. Wives, in-laws . . . we wouldn’t want to leave England.’

‘Well, I’m norrall that keen on farm-livin’ meself,’ Ada admitted, keeping her voice down. ‘I’m Everton born an’ bred, I don’t see meself tekin’ kindly to bogs an’ sheep an’ . . . an’ pigs. Lerralone no neighbours comin’ in for a screw o’ tea when they run short, or a handful o’ currants. Then there’s your Auntie Anne – she’s been real good to me, I know the business now like the palm of me’ and, an’ if she goes before me, I’ll ‘herit the cake shop, she’s showed me her will. But the twins is more’n keen, they’re afire to go, an’ I sounded out Ellen an’ her young feller as soon as we got back from the s’licitors, an’ she an’ her Liam said they’d go as me proxy, so to speak, if that were what I wanted.’

Ozzie, who had been listening, frowned. ‘But won’t they need all the ’elp they can get, Mam?’ he asked. ‘I thought as ’ow these Irish farms was fambly affairs, that a man relied on ‘is sons to work for ’im. That’s ‘ow I allus understood it, anyroad.’

‘I dunno about that, but Bill’s been runnin’ the place wi’ workers an’ a manager for years, apparently,’ Ada said. ‘Anyway, the important thing is to go over an’ see what’s what. I ‘splained about not bein’ able to sell till the twins are twenty-one, didn’t I?’

‘You did. An’ I can see the sense of it,’ Dick allowed. ‘It ’ud be ’ard on the little feller if he were keen to farm an’ you sold up afore he were old enough to start workin’. But you’ll go fust-off, won’t you, Mam? Though you’ll have to either tek the littl’uns or get Ellen to look after’em, I suppose. Unless you’d trust ’em to one of us?’

But after a day or so to think it over Ada decided what she would rather do, and put it to her family at teatime, as Ellen and Liam, the twins and the two small boys sat round the table, eating meat pie and mashed potatoes. ‘I want you an’ Ellen to go in me place, Liam,’ she explained. ‘You’ve said you want to take our Ellen home to see your fambly – well, you can kill two birds wi’ one stone that way – you can have a day or two wi’ your mam an’ then you can go on to the solicitors in Ennis.’

‘But what about you, Mam?’ Deirdre demanded rather thickly. She had just loaded her mouth with meat pie. ‘You want to see the place, an’ talk to the solicitors, don’t you? They’ll read the will an’ ‘splain wharrit all means, Mr Locke said so.’

‘Oh aye, but Ellen will tell me everythin’ when she comes back,’ Ada said soothingly. ‘You don’t mind tekin’ Ellen instead of me, do you, queen?’

‘No, course not . . . but Mam . . . don’t you want to come?’ Deirdre asked, considerably astonished. She would not have missed the chance for a fortune she realised. ‘An’ think of seein’ the farm, the little lambs, pigs . . . the fields . . . oh, Mam!’

‘I know, queen,’ Ada said rather guiltily. ‘But the fact is, I don’t know as I’d ever take to farmin’ . . . not meself, like. But if the rest of you can manage wi’out me . . . well, for a whiles, say . . . then I’m best ’ere, keepin’ me job warm an’ seein’ as the younger ones go on wi’ their eddication.’

‘Oh, but Mam . . .’ Deirdre began, only to be drawn to one side by Ellen.

‘Look, Dee, if you think you couldn’t manage wi’ only Liam an’ me to help, then say so,’ Ellen said. ‘But don’t push Mam too hard, norrat first. She’ll come round when things are more settled, but right now, she’s scared o’ the whole idea. We’ll go over there, just the four of us, and sort things out. Then we’ll be able to tell Mam she’s nothin’ to fear and perhaps persuade her to come over for a holiday, first off.’

So it was arranged.

‘But you two ain’t goin’ afore you’ve tied the knot,’ Ada told her eldest daughter firmly. ‘There’d be talk – it ’ud give a wrong impression and you know what folk is like. I want you married afore you goes off anywhere, wi’ anyone.’

And though she laughed, Ellen agreed, so she and Liam decided to have a quiet wedding just as soon as it could be arranged, and this time Ellen, Liam and Ada went off to Lime Street Passage and explained how things stood to Mr Locke, who promptly put matters in hand.

‘I’m glad you’re going with the youngsters, young man,’ Mr Locke said to Liam. ‘Being Irish yourself, you’ll know all the ins and outs of it, I dare say, and will be able to advise them how they are to go on.’

Liam smiled gently and Ellen, stifling a giggle, did not tell Mr Locke that all Irishmen are not natural-born farmers, nor that Liam had spent most of his life in the city of Dublin and probably knew a good deal less about farming than young Donal.

‘It’s all arranged,’ she told her mother when they returned to Mere Lane that night. ‘It’s a shame Liam’s family can’t be with us, but it’s just not possible: there’s no time. We’ll marry on the Tuesday and set off for Ireland on the Thursday. We’ll spend a few days wi’ Mrs Nolan an’ the children, and go by train and bus to Ennis. Oh, Main, I can’t help bein’ excited – I just hope the twins behave theirselves, mind.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they will,’ said Ada, with a cheerful confidence she was far from feeling. Donal and Deirdre were full of themselves, as high as kites on excitement and anticipation. ‘Just you give ’em a good clack if they play up – tell Liam to tan their bums for ’em, that’ll mek ’em think twice.’

And so it was arranged and the Docherty family began to plan the wedding breakfast.

In the end it was May before the newly-weds and the twins set off for Clare, and then it was not merely for the visit that Ada had foreseen, but for an indefinite stay. The reason was simple; the farm manager had been offered another job by a cousin who had a very large sheep station in Australia and, though willing to remain at the farm for the weeks left before his passage to that country, he did not wish to stay indefinitely. So the Dochertys and Liam had discussed the matter and decided that they had no choice. If they were ever to make a go of the two properties they must start work there as soon as possible, in order that they might learn the ropes before Mr Catlin, the manager, left.

‘After all, it’s norras though we don’t mean to stay,’ Donal said. ‘Once I’m there . . . well, I shall need to stay put, what wi’ summer comin’ on, an’ stock to look after an’ that.’

But they had had some help. Donal went, with Liam, to one of the sheep farms he visited in the course of his work and they had a long chat with the farmer who had rented him his sheep pasture, a rosy-faced, middle-aged man called Bert Nobbs, who was happy to help a young feller who was going into farming – and who might buy stock off him one of these fine days.

‘You’re right not to leave the place once you arrive,’ he assured them. ‘And at first, at any rate, it looks as though wages will be your biggest outlay, so if you can work as a family, it’ll pay you. You already know a good deal about sheep, I grant you, but you’ve yet to discover what thrives best in Clare. I can’t tell you that for most of me stock is bought this side o’ the water.’ He looked at Liam. ‘Now as to workers, I know all the young Dochertys are settled, he said so, but what about your fam’ly, young fellerme-lad? Any strong young chap what could do wi’ some country air an’ country food in return for workin’ on the farm?’

‘Aye, that’s possible,’ agreed Liam. ‘Just at first, mind. They’re all city born, like the Dochertys.’

‘An’ what about yourself?’ the farmer enquired. ‘Young Docherty tells me you’re just back from France. Got a job to go back to?’

‘I don’t know,’ Liam said gloomily. ‘I dussen’t tell ’em I’m back, not until I can claim me job an’ start work at once. But I’ve me doubts, to be honest. Mebbe I’m best stickin’ wi’ the Dochertys, if they want me. And besides, I’m marryin’ shortly, so I am, an’ me wife won’t want to leave her brother an’ sister strugglin’ on the farm alone, not for a year or three.’

‘Good, good. Well, don’t be ashamed to ask for advice when you reach Clare, an’ then tek it. You’re tekin’ your lambs wi’ you, I understand?’

‘Aye, ’cos I’ve two rams an’ four ewes,’ Donal explained – unnecessarily, since Mr Nobbs had kept an eye on his small flock for him when he was unable to be with them and much approved of his choice. ‘It’ll be the beginnin’ of me flock . . . if the present one’s norrup to wharr I want, tharris.’

‘Right. Well, then, they say the best manure for the land is the farmer’s boot – you know what that means? You’ve got to be there, keep your eye on everyone and everything and that way you’ll succeed. Drop me a line now an’ then, let me know how you go on.’

Donal agreed to it, so they were packing all their possessions, not intending to be back in Liverpool for some considerable while.

‘Though Mam will come out to us in a few months, I dessay,’ Deirdre said a little forlornly. She loved Ellen dearly and was already fond of Liam, but much though she longed for a country life, she knew she would miss her old friends and relatives. ‘And anyway, Mr Nobbs says women do as much work on most farms as men – I’ll enjoy that.’

Because of the arrangements which had to be made the time fairly flew, and suddenly the wedding was about to take place. Deirdre was a bridesmaid in a pale-green dress and Liza, now Mrs Tolliver, was matron of honour in pink. To save money, Ellen wore the dress which Liza had married in, but no one minded. Indeed, it looked quite different, for it had to be altered to fit so Ada had added a wide lace hem to lengthen it and had embroidered white roses round the low neck. ‘No one will know or care that it ain’t new,’ she assured her daughter comfortably. ‘And isn’t your weddin’ ring the prettiest thing now? Where did Liam gerrit?’

‘From George’s, on Scotland Road,’ Ellen told her mother. They were all sitting in the kitchen on the eve of the wedding, talking comfortably. Liza was there, and Tolly, who had agreed to be best man, and Dick, who was to give the bride away. ‘I wish I could ha’ give Liam a ring too, Mam, but we dussen’t. Not wi’ going to Ireland an’ all. We felt we oughtn’t to spend any more money, not yet awhile.’

‘Goodness,’ Ada said, jumping to her feet. ‘That’s put me in mind o’ something . . . wait you a moment.’

She left the room and returned presently with a small wooden box in her hand. She sat down on the arm of Ellen’s chair, opened it and delved about inside, presently emerging triumphantly with a large and heavy gold ring which she handed to her astonished daughter. ‘There – wharrabout that then, eh? You can have that for Liam, until you can get one of your own, I mean. It belonged to your great-grandfather, then your father wore it until he died. I didn’t give it to Mick, because he’d a signet ring of his own.’

‘Oh, Mam, he might’ve been killed in the war,’ Deirdre said reproachfully. ‘Can I have a look at the ring?’ She held out a hand and Ellen, who had been fingering it with awe, handed it to her younger sister. ‘What’s the initials, Mam? It ain’t a D for Docherty, that’s for sure.’

‘No, it’s not, because your great-grandmother was married twice,’ Ada explained. ‘Didn’t I ever tell you? She came to England as a widow expectin’ her first child, an’ had a little lad, your grandfather, Dee. The ring had belonged to her first husband . . . I never did hear his name . . . an’ she gave it to your grandfather, who took the name of Flanaghan, who was my gran’s second husband. But he kept the ring an’ handed it on to me as the eldest child at me weddin’. An’ I give it to your father, who wore it till he died.’