The Hamiltons of Ballydown (10 page)

‘Well, what do you expect on a Friday night? Do you never go out?’ Jamie came back at him crossly.

‘I tell them where I’m going,’ Sam replied, dropping his voice even further lest he disturb the sleeping figure. ‘Would it be that hard to leave word?’ Sam asked, looking away from his brother’s face.

‘Jamie, how good to see you.’

Jamie turned his head towards the cool, soft voice and saw Elizabeth Sinton standing in the doorway, a small tray in her hands.

‘You mustn’t worry about your mother,’ she said reassuringly, as she noted the strained and anxious look on his face.

‘There’s every reason to hope she’ll recover completely, even if it does take a long time,’ she went on, as she put down her tray on the dressing table.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, Jamie, I think I must try to give your mother a little nourishment before we tell her you’re here. She’s been so looking forward to seeing you.’

Jamie got up and walked to the door. It had never occurred to him that the one person he’d always depended on might not be able to help anyone for quite some time. As for the other matter on his mind, he’d have to keep quiet about that. His father would not be well pleased at the best of times, but with all this anxiety about Ma he couldn’t really expect him to understand. As Harry had said, if you want to be sure of a manager’s job, there are those that can help you and those that can’t. That was why Jamie had joined the Lodge. Last night he’d become a full member of the Orange Order.

Some ten days after her close encounter with mortality, Rose woke in the early afternoon and blinked. Sunlight streamed into her bedroom. She ran her eyes over the familiar furniture, the quilt she and Elizabeth had sewn two summers previously, the chair where her warm dressing gown lay ready for her daily effort to stand by the side of the bed, the wardrobe which only just fitted under the sloping roof, its mirror reflecting back her own pale face and the neat arrangement of pillows that supported her. Her eyes rested on the rich colour of hot house flowers on her dressing table and a jug of daffodils in the deep windowsill. For many minutes, she studied every small detail of the room as if she had been away for a long time and had only just returned home.

Then she listened to the stillness. Elizabeth had found someone to come and look after the household, a distant relative of her own Mrs Lappin, a worn, sad woman who fussed over her in a kindly
way and moved about the house so quietly she never disturbed her sleep. She’d brought her soup some time ago, fed her patiently, encouraged her like a child when the effort of swallowing seemed almost too much. She’d slipped away with only a rustle of her skirt and left her to sleep.

Rose usually woke when she heard the sound of voices, the bang of the garden gate, the click of bicycles which told her Hannah and Sarah had arrived home from school. But today, she’d woken of her own accord. For the first time in all these strange, confused days she felt she could see things clearly and recognise what she was seeing.

She lay very still, unwilling to set off the pain that would clasp at her chest if she moved without due caution, and gazed up at the fast moving clouds driven by the brisk, March wind. Some days previously she’d managed to ask Elizabeth if she’d nearly died. She was gentle, but honest, as she always was. Yes, indeed she had. Much earlier, one evening as John sat with her as she moved in out of sleep, he’d confessed as much, but she couldn’t hold on to it and kept having to ask him again.

She could remember nothing of the night when she’d been so ill except strange dreams of people long gone. She’d had a vague sense of hands touching. She knew she’d felt an exhaustion quite unlike anything she’d never known before, however hard she’d worked.

The clouds closed over and the room grew dim, but her eyes remained wide open. For the first time since she’d staggered up the stairs, desperate to hide her aching head in a soft pillow, what she most wanted was not sleep, but just to lie in the quiet and watch the sky, the sudden swirl of gulls, white against the grey, now tumbling and crying.

She felt a sudden surge of excitement. She was alive. She was here in her own bed with the clouds racing and closing and darkening towards rain. She’d never thought of dying herself, always of loosing her beloved John, or one of the children. It was a strange irony. After all her anxiety for them, she was the one who’d almost died.

‘Almost,’ she whispered to herself, her lips barely moving. ‘
Sure a miss is as good as a mile.
’ The words were Granny Sarah’s. They came unbidden and made her smile. There were no degrees about dying. You did, or you didn’t. However close you came, you went or you stayed and she had been allowed to stay.

Huge spots of rain drummed against the window. She heard its throb on the roof, its splash in the stone gutters below. What a comforting sound it was to those warm and dry indoors.
Listen, Ma, aren’t we lucky we’re not out in that.
To begin with, they’d been her own words, but the children picked them up and repeated them. And she had encouraged them. In the days when they had so little, it was
proper to give thanks for warmth and shelter.

The sudden, scudding shower passed. The window still streamed with tiny rivulets as the sun broke through again. The last rolling drops caught the light and winked briefly with rainbow colours. The grey clouds had rolled away, the sun beamed down once more from a patch of flawless blue sky.

As she lay quiet, she thought of her dear friend Hugh. He had no patience with the murmured sympathy people showed when they observed his ungainly walk, or caught the grimace that sometimes broke through as he mounted a horse or pulled himself up into the brougham. She understood now. Hugh had his life and he gave thanks. She had hers and so would she.

She turned her head cautiously, so she could make out the large hands on the alarm clock which John carried away with him each night and returned each morning when he came to look at her before he went downstairs. Three o’clock. An hour before the sound of voices disturbed the afternoon stillness on the hill, the cattle grazing peacefully across the road, Mrs Rea quietly ironing or baking downstairs.

She smiled and risked breathing a little more deeply. It was still very painful, but she’d promised Elizabeth to take deep breaths whenever she remembered. Her duty done, she returned her full attention to the sky and the continuous change of
colour and shape of the clouds that gathered and dispersed and gathered again.

Within the hour they’d opened and closed again three times. The many weathers of a March day, as Thomas Scott would say. The rapid change comforted her. The energy of wind and rain was deeply reassuring, a continuity that would go on regardless of any human observer. Whether she was here or not, the sky would open and close, but she
was
here. She’d been spared to see the springtime come again. To go on caring for John and her children. Overwhelmed by gratitude, she felt tears trickle down her face. She ignored them, too tired to wipe them away and too happy to let them trouble her.

However many more weeks she would lie here, however many months it might be before she could sweep a floor or bake bread, however many years she might live, she knew she would never forget this moment of reawakening to life on a March day.

There were indeed times in the months that followed when Rose almost despaired of her progress. Day after day, she would struggle to her feet only to collapse gratefully back on the bed again, but she never lacked encouragement. Elizabeth was a constant visitor and Richard Stewart came smiling to her bedside always ready to point out the progress she had made since his last visit.

To set against the tediousness of daily effort there were sudden moments of pleasure. There was the first time she managed to walk as far as the window. She stood triumphantly supporting herself on the sill and looked down on her garden where Hannah and Sam had weeded and tidied and persuaded Sarah not to dig up the plants that still looked dead at the end of March.

A few weeks later, she’d alarmed poor Mrs Rea by turning round from her own window and setting off across the landing to Sarah’s room, so she could look down on Dolly grazing peacefully on the new grass.

By the end of April, she finally managed the stairs, steep and awkward for her with a banister on one side only. She could now sit by the kitchen window, a piece of sewing on her knee. One warm, pleasant morning at the beginning of May she looked out longingly through the wide-open door and felt she could resist the freshness of spring no longer.

‘Mrs Rea, do you think I could sit outside for a little while?’

‘Oh ma’am, would that be wise, do you think?’ she replied anxiously, her hands twisted together. ‘What would Miss Sinton say if you were to catch cold?’

‘Well, if I wrapped myself in an extra shawl,’ Rose began, as if she were considering carefully. ‘Which one do you think would be best?’

‘Oh the wool one, Mrs Hamilton. Definitely the wool one. I’ll go and fetch it from your room.’

Mrs Rea was a dear, kind woman, a good worker and a reliable watcher, but as well as being a rather sad soul, she was an innocent. It was Sarah who had discovered Mrs Rea was very easily distracted. She smiled to herself, amused she should be using her daughter’s well-practised technique to such good effect.

‘I’ll take the other chair out and get it ready for you,’ Mrs Rea said, coming back downstairs, the shawl over her arm. ‘Now don’t you move a step till I have it ready and can come and give you my arm,’ she went on, picking up John’s armchair and carrying it over the threshold as if it were a mere basket of vegetables.

‘Thank you, Mrs Rea,’ Rose said gratefully, as she settled herself. ‘I’m sure the sunshine will be good for me.’

The sun was indeed warm and comforting. She could feel its soothing power through her blouse, bathing her chest and ribs where the pain still lurked. Three times a day, when she did her breathing exercises, and in the evening when she was tired, it sprang to life, but mostly through the day it slept. She could forget it for the moment and give her entire attention to her new surroundings.

All around her there were signs of growth. The hawthorn hedge across the road was fully clad with
tender leaves, though there was no sign of blossom yet, but bloom there was in the flowerbed alongside the garden path. Set against the turned earth and a background of flowering shrubs, there were spiky shoots and unfurling fronds of hosta and aquilegia. Then she spotted something she couldn’t quite make out. Beyond her flourishing philadelphus and partly hidden by it, a splash of pink and a gleam of leaf.

Before she realised it, she had walked the length of the garden path and discovered the camellia John had bought the day he and Jamie went to the Horse Fair in Armagh. Despite the heavy frosts in February, the sheltered position they’d chosen had done its job. The exotic pink blossoms were as lovely as anything she’d ever seen.

Late that afternoon, when Mrs Rea told Hannah and Sarah what a fright she’d had, looking out and seeing an empty chair, she’d felt a kind of lightness, as if laughter was suddenly given back to her, even if it was a bit painful to begin with.

‘Hullo, Ma. How far today?’ demanded Sarah, as she burst into the kitchen after school.

‘Oh, I just strolled into Banbridge and back before lunch,’ Rose replied, laughing, as Hannah followed her more sedately.

‘What about the play then? Did you both get parts?’

‘Yes, we did,’ Sarah nodded, her eyes sparkling,
‘Hannah is Jane Bennett and I’m Darcy. Miss Clarke said my curls were just right if we smoothed them out a little and I’m taller than Hettie Taylor, who’s Elizabeth. So that’s all right. But I have to learn to walk like a man and scowl. Arrogantly, but aristocratically,’ she went on seriously, drawing herself to her full height and making a face.

Rose smiled and tried not to laugh. Miss Clarke clearly had an eye for character casting. She was about to ask Hannah how she felt about her part,
Pride and Prejudice
being one of Hannah’s favourite novels, when she was startled by an unusual noise, a strange, wheezing sound, coming from the other side of the room. She looked towards the dairy. Mrs Rea was bringing in a tray with a pot of tea, one cup and saucer, two mugs and a plate of bread and jam, her face creased into a grimace, her arms shaking till she put the tray down safely on the kitchen table. She wiped her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron and went on laughing as if she would never stop.

‘Can I come to your play, Miss Sarah?’ she asked, recovering herself somewhat. ‘I’d like real well to see you scowlin’ at Hettie Taylor. A right saucy one she’s been since ever I knew her poor mother,’ she explained, as she poured a cup of tea for Rose.

‘Of course you can come Mrs Rea,’ said Sarah firmly. I expect
all
my friends to come. You’ve got eight weeks, Ma. Will you be able to get into the
trap by then?’ she added, turning to her mother anxiously.

‘I’m sure I shall, Sarah,’ she reassured her. ‘How could I miss seeing you both? And I went to the field gate three times today to look at MacMurray’s calves. Mrs Rea will tell you.’

‘Aye, there’ll soon be no stoppin’ her,’ Mrs Rea agreed. ‘Though she was glad enough to lie down to be ready for you pair comin’ home, wi’ all your news,’ she added, as she stood watching them demolish the bread and jam. ‘Missus dear, we need some more buttermilk. Can I go down to MacMurray’s now the girls is home to keep ye compn’y?’

‘Shall I go?’ Sarah offered.

‘No love,’ said Rose gently, ‘Mrs Rea has been busy all day. I’m sure she’d like the little walk,’ she added, turning and smiling at the older woman. ‘Take your time, Mrs Rea, and find us out all the news.’

‘Any letters today, Ma?’ asked Hannah quietly, as she reached for her mother’s empty teacup.

‘Yes, there were. Why don’t you change your pinafores and tidy up the tea things and then I’ll tell you all about them.’

‘Are you tired, Ma?’ asked Hannah.

‘Well, not exactly …’

‘Yes, you are,’ burst out Sarah. ‘I know by that piece of hair on the side of your cheek. You always push it back when you’re
not
tired.’

Hannah exchanged glances with Rose.

‘Why don’t you close your eyes Ma, while we tidy up.’

Grateful for Hannah’s perceptiveness, Rose closed her eyes. She wasn’t sleepy but she certainly did feel tired. Then she remembered that as today was Dramatic Society the girls were later than usual. As she always began to fade around five, it wasn’t surprising she’d begun to find Sarah’s liveliness a strain.

All had gone quiet, so she leant back in her chair. In the first week of her illness Hannah and Sarah had written to all the people in her address book. Letters had been flowing back ever since. They’d been such a joy. She hadn’t realised how many good friends they had. Thomas Scott’s letter was one of her favourites. He’d sat down right away to wish her a speedy recovery and tell her the news he hoped would please her.

His daughter Annie had just married the young farmer from Ballyards and they’d found a house in Annacramp, not far from where Rose and John had once lived. His eldest son had done well at school, but had taken a job with Robinson’s next door to earn his passage money to Canada. He’d set off after his sister’s wedding and was now in Toronto. On his very first day at work in the office of a big department store, he’d met a man from Cabragh who’d once lived up on Church Hill. His youngest
boy, Robert, had now joined him in the forge and was doing rightly. His wee daughter, Sophie, was walking and into everything, including the dirt of the forge if Selina took her eyes off her for a minute.