The Woman from Kerry (20 page)

Rose laughed again, amused at the thought of the years that lay between herself and this lively young man.

‘Well, you were only a baby when it happened,’ she began. ‘After the news came about Da, the Rosses heard through their church that the Stewarts needed a housemaid. So it made sense for Mary to apply.
In own handwriting
, as all the advertisements say,’ she continued with a smile. ‘So she was called to interview. But Ma wasn’t sure whether she’d be happy or not living-in. So she went with her. She told Mary that if they offered her the job she was to say that her mother wished to speak to the housekeeper before she could say yes.’

‘That sounds like Ma.’

‘Well, Mary was offered the job and Ma is called to the housekeeper’s room where she proceeds to ask
her
questions about the situation. By the time she’d finished, the housekeeper has a few questions of her own. When she hears mother came from Ardtur and is now widowed, she asks if she’d like her to find a situation for her as well. So mother says “yes” and Mary Laverty, I think that was her name, sets about finding her a position.’

‘And she found one in Kerry?’

‘There was a Lady something visiting the Stewarts who knew another Lady something who was a cousin of Lady Caroline. And Lady Caroline needed an assistant housekeeper who could sew. That’s how we ended up in Kerry.’

‘
Ah, God be with you Kerry, Where in childhood I was merry
,’ he sang cheerfully, as they passed the gates of the Richardson estate and came within sight of the spinning mill at Drumcairn.

‘There hasn’t been any trouble at Currane Lodge, has there? Not like poor Lady Anne in Sligo,’ she said, her thoughts moving back to the peaceful times that now seemed so far away.

‘No, no trouble at all. Don’t forget they still have Old Thomas and my friend Tom.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, those two were both founder members of the League in that area. They’d make sure the Molyneux were never on anybody’s list. While Sir Capel lives, there’ll not be trouble at Currane, but his successor might be a different matter.’

‘And does he keep well?’

‘Fairly well. Cook says he has gout and gets pains in the chest if he rides out about the estate.’

Rose sighed. Ma had gone and with her the link to the family they’d known so well. When Sir Capel died, the family itself would have to go. He had no heir and Sam, whom he’d cared for and educated,
with the thought he might adopted him or marry him to one of his daughters, had abandoned him for the sake of a cause. Poor man.

They reached the level crossing and Rose waved to the signal man. They’d been exchanging greetings for years now, though only once had they met face to face.

‘How does wee Sam know so much about engines?’

‘That’s his father fault,’ said Rose grinning. ‘John loves anything that moves by itself. I’m becoming an expert myself on pistons and steam pressure. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon he takes them in to the station to see what might be there, waiting to go out, or being turned round. My friend, Mary Wylie, has an uncle who works in the engine shed so they sometimes get climbing up into the cab. There’s no stopping them talking when they come home,’ she said, beaming as they walked through the station gates.

‘I’ll see if I can find a book or two for them, now I know what they’re keen on. What’ll I send Hannah and Sarah?’

‘Oh Sam, don’t trouble. It’s cost you dear to come up today and I doubt if you’re very well paid.’

‘Too true, Rose. And only proper. But I’ve no wife, or child, so I can spare a bit. There’ll be a parcel for them in a week or two,’ he said warmly, as he took out a tiny square of cardboard and the
ticket collector waved them both on to the platform.

‘And speaking of a parcel, Rose. What I left you is some of Ma’s stuff. There wasn’t much. I gave her clothes to Cook. I hope that was right, for they were good friends. But there was a blouse she was making and I knew by the size it must be for you and some nice pieces of material. And buttons. Thread, too. So I parcelled it up for you in case it would be useful. There was a good shawl and I sent that to Mary. Did I do right?’

‘You’ve done wonderfully, Sam. I’m so very glad to have seen you, even if it was bad news that brought you. I hope we’ll meet again soon,’ she said, as a distant whistle told her the train was approaching. She looked down the platform and watched the gates of the level crossing swing out and clack into place.

‘I’ve been over there on the road so often when the gates have closed in front of me, but I’ve never stood here looking out at them before.’

‘Maybe, if things go well with us, we could make use of the trains. Sometimes there’s cheap day returns. They’re half the price. That’s why I couldn’t stay the night. But maybe next time.’

The train was approaching. She could see it coming under the bridge on the other side of the Loughgall Road. Now it was on the level crossing. Smoke and clouds of steam swirled around them as the brakes squealed and carriage doors flew open as
it came to a halt beside them. There were no more hours, or minutes, only seconds.

Sam put his arms round her, kissed her cheeks and hugged her.

‘Take care, Rose. Take care. Write very soon,’ he said, and was gone.

Even before he’d thrown his empty bag up in the rack, the train had creaked, moved silently for a few seconds, then pulled forward more quickly, gathering speed as the huge clock above the platform jerked from six o’clock to one minute past. A further cloud of smoke and steam enveloped her. By the time it cleared, the guard’s van was already growing small in the distance and Sam was looking out at the countryside through which they’d walked together only half an hour previously.

Rose slept badly that night, her dreams haunted by questions she couldn’t answer and people who turned out to be not the people she thought they were. She saw herself climbing a mountain with a bleeding foot and woke up trying to remember the name of the boy who’d carried her part of the way back home. She felt clumsy and confused and had to take a headache powder when the children went off to school.

She sat down with her sewing as soon as she’d cleared away the remains of breakfast and washed up the porridge bowls. Even the sound of little
Sarah’s voice reading to Ganny seemed to make her head ache. It had been an effort to get the children off to school without snapping at them, but she had a strict rule that she never took out her temper on them when she herself felt bad.

The head had begun to ease when she heard a slight scuffling sound and looked up sharply. An awkward-looking youth stood on the threshold, gathering himself to knock the open door. He dropped his hand, then mumbled indistinctly as she put her sewing down and came over to him.

‘Thomas sez t’ tell ye, the pair of them is gone over t’ Robinson’s,’ he began, jerking his shoulder in the direction of the farm. ‘The big cart is stuck in the sheugh and the wheels is jammed. He said t’ tell ye if anyone comes wi’ a horse, they’ll be a while. They’re beyond in the back lane if they’re wantin’.’

She nodded encouragingly as the lad turned away and strode off past the empty forge towards the Robinson’s. She went and drank a cup of water from the pail in the wash house and sat down again to her sewing. She’d hardly put her needle back in the seam when a shadow fell across the floor and she looked up to see Mary-Anne standing at the door, her knuckles poised for her familiar tattoo on the door.

She got to her feet quickly enough to prevent further action and stood waiting for what was to come. To her surprise Mary-Anne’s tone was more reasonable than usual.

‘Missus Hamilton, I understood that when you were put out of your last house you came here as a temporary measure until you found something suited to you. I’d like to know when you intend moving on for I see no signs of it at the moment.’

The cheek of the woman. Somehow she found her apparent reasonableness far more insulting than her habitual rudeness.

‘No, indeed you don’t, Missus Scott. We’re quite well settled thank you,’ she said coolly. ‘Sir Capel has been most kind in mending our roof and replacing the windows. We have no intention of moving.’

‘So yer not moving, aren’t you?’ Mary-Anne spat out. ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ she went on, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I let my husband talk me in to havin’ you and your family here against my better judgement,’ she went on furiously. ‘An’ I’ve put up with it nine months now, using our water and making free of our land an’ showing no respect for the property. It’s one thing havin’ a man workin’ at the forge who’s foolish enough not to support his own people, but it’s another matter having you and your family, forby your followers from Kerry, comin’ to spy out the land, I suppose, for the other side,’ she said, pouring out the words with such venom she had to pause for breath.

‘I take it you are referring to my brother who came yesterday,’ said Rose, in an icy tone.

‘A right red-headed Fenian whoever he was,
standin’ at the end of the lane sayin’ his piece to yer man from Blundell’s Grange, gettin’ his information, or passin’ it on, no doubt. What good woud he be up to an’ not willin’ or able to speak the Queen’s English?’

The pain in her head vibrated like the sound of a heavy hammer in the forge and she felt a tightness in her chest as if her heart were going to burst. How dare she? How dare this woman speak of Sam like this? How dare she treat her as some lower form of life, to be tolerated for a time and then moved on as no doubt she moved on tinkers or gypsies?

‘Missus Scott, first I’m going to tell you why my brother Sam has red hair, and then I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do unless you go away and leave me and my children in peace.’

She spoke so softly, she realised Mary-Anne was having to pay close attention in order to hear her, but she couldn’t have spoken louder if she’d wanted to. Her chest was so tight with anger and tension she had barely breath enough to get the words out.

‘My brother Sam has red hair, as has my son James, because their grandfather had red hair. He was a Scot, a Covenanter, as bitter and as hard as you are, a real, good Christian, reading his Bible and cursing those who weren’t like he was. And do you know what happened him? Well, I’ll tell you. He died, like everybody dies. And you’ll die to. And
just like him, there’ll be no one to mourn you, not even your own children.’

‘I beg your pardon, Missus Hamilton …’ said Mary-Anne, her face flushing a hectic crimson.

‘I haven’t finished,’ snapped Rose, sharply. ‘If you don’t leave us alone, I shall tell Thomas exactly what you’ve been doing. I’ll tell the Robinsons you’ve tried to deny us spring water from
their
orchard and I’ll ask Sir Capel to give us a plan of this property with your boundaries marked on,’ she went on, taking a quick, gasping breath. ‘We pay our rent, we are good tenants and he is happy for us to be here. We owe
you
thanks for nothing, not even the practice of the Second Commandment. Now go away and don’t come back,’ she ended, raising her voice for the first time, as she closed the door firmly in Mary-Anne’s startled face.

She closed her eyes and leant against the door, shaking with the effort of control she’d made and wondering whether she should put in place the wooden bar they seldom bothered to use except on very windy nights.

‘Not nice lady,’ said Sarah, her eyes round, her arm firmly enclosing Ganny. ‘Don’t like her, Ma,’ she went on, her voice wavering.

Rose gathered the little girl in her arms and walked her up and down dropping little pecking kisses on her cheeks till the child responded with a big hug that almost throttled her.

‘She’s gone now, Sarah. We’ll forget all about her. Would you like a wee, tiny drop of Ma’s tea with sugar in it if I make some?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said excitedly. ‘And Ganny too. She always liked her cup of tea.’

‘You read her a little story while I go and fill the kettle.’

Rose just managed it to the wash house before she burst into tears. She wept, leaning against the cold north wall so that little Sarah wouldn’t hear her. She wept tears of fury that life should be made so much harder than it need be by the nursed resentment of a bitter woman. She wept tears of sorrow that the one person who would understand about the loss of her mother, dear Sarah, was herself gone before. And she wept tears of anxiety, the nameless fears of the night returning in the broad light of day, growing into a sense of menace that the future was about to ask of her a strength she would not be able to find.

The early spring was particularly lovely in that spring of 1886. After Sam’s visit and the news of her mother’s death, Rose moved through her daily routine with only half her mind on what she was doing, her head full of strange random thoughts and memories. She paused often to take in the loveliness of the day, only to find herself sitting or standing, minutes later, lost in her own thoughts.

When she went up the orchard for water she would pause by the well, make sure there was no sign of Mary-Anne, and sit down on the mossy slope nearby, careful not to crush any of the newly opened wood anemones that flourished in the dappled shade. Despite the sunlight pouring down upon her through the budded apple trees, she felt all her pleasure in the day drain away. Try as she might, she seemed powerless to prevent a painful restlessness welling up and obliterating the joy such moments of ease so often gave her. It happened so often, she began to think, joy and ease were features of the past.

Sitting by the well one morning towards the end of April, she closed her eyes in the sun’s warmth and saw herself walking out into the garden at Annacramp to see what had bloomed with the morning sun or pick flowers for their table. Often, she would carry one of the children in her arms, repeating for them the names of Sarah’s plants.

‘No, that’s not the way, Rose,’ she whispered to herself, alarmed at the wave of longing that swept over her.

She followed the flight of a huge bumble bee moving across the long, rich grass in front of her, its hum the only sound in the stillness. But the image of the garden at Annacramp wouldn’t leave her.

‘You can’t go back. It’s not good for you to think so,’ she went on berating herself. You can’t go back, you can’t.’

Even as she spoke, she knew she wasn’t longing for the past, nor wishing herself back where once she had been so happy. She was looking for something that had gone from her life.

‘Sarah and Ma?’ she said tentatively.

It was one thing to miss Sarah, who’d been so much part of her daily life for ten years, sharing her joys and sorrows, helping her and appreciating her, another to feel such loss for her mother so far away in Kerry. Dear as she was, how could her going call up so bitter an ache of loneliness, when she had a husband and children living she loved so dearly.

But perhaps it was not her mother in herself, rather it was all she stood for. She and Sarah were both rich in experience. Though Sarah appeared to have had the easier life, she’d always shared the lives of those around her, grieved for their losses, supported them in their anxieties and what she’d experienced, she’d pondered deeply in her quiet hours, just as her mother had done.

‘
How do you know so much, Rose?
’

She smiled to herself. So long ago now, the moment when Lady Anne reached out to a shy, awkward man who could only talk about horses.

It was so obvious really, once you thought about it. Her mother was her first teacher and Sarah had followed after. With them, she’d not learnt French, or English, or geography, but how to live. How to understand people. And now, for the first time in her life she was on her own. She would have to use all they had taught her to go on teaching herself.

She stood up and filled her buckets from the clear water. John had made a marker that showed the fluctuations of the water level. It seldom varied. Even in the driest weather, the shallow pool restored itself almost immediately. Mary-Anne’s fears for her water supply were unfounded. But then, as Hannah would have said, ‘It’s not about the water, it’s about meanness of spirit.’

She followed the new path they’d tramped along the side of the orchard and through the gap in
the hedge she and John had enlarged one summer evening, after one of Mary-Anne’s early visits. It was just wide enough for her to pass through sideways with the buckets. Once through, she had only to cross the common and push open the unlatched new gate into her own back garden.

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ John had said, as they worked out what to do to keep out of
Mary-Anne’s
way. But keeping out of Mary-Anne’s sight had not avoided her displeasure. A mild word that, she thought, as the gate clicked shut behind her.

‘It’s hatred, Rose. That’s what it is. And hatred’s hard to bear,’ she said to herself, as she put down the buckets in the wash house and went back into the kitchen.

She crossed immediately to the open door and looked out. Sarah was sitting exactly where she’d left her in her own wooden chair, on a small grassy mound overlooking the stone circle where the cart wheels were rimmed. She was totally absorbed in what her father and Uncle Thomas were doing.

She laughed. The other children would be sorry they’d missed it, seeing a wheel rimmed was one of the things they most enjoyed and Sarah was sure to talk about it all afternoon. She was just going to turn away and pick up her sewing when she saw Thomas pause and greet someone, a woman, certainly, for he’d touched his cap. A moment later, Rose gave a little cry of delight. It was Mary Wylie.

‘Mary, how lovely to see you. Will you have a cup of tea.’

‘No, Rose dear, I can’t stop. Ma’s got wee Edward an’ he’s teethin’ an’ I have to go inta Armagh. I only called for a minute or two. Couldn’t bear to go past an’ not get a look at ye. How are ye?’ she said, with a sharp look at her, as she dropped down on the settle.

‘Not bad,’ said Rose honestly, touched by the real concern in the simple question.

‘Has she been back?’

Rose shook her head and Mary pursed her lips.

‘I’ve trouble forgivin’ that woman anythin’,’ she said, shaking her head slowly, ‘but comin’ at ye when she knew ye’d just lost yer mother … I can’t believe the badness of it. She
must
have known. Thomas would have told her. She knew he came to see you, an’ she’d never have let him near ye if it weren’t a bereavement. I think that woman’s jealousy forby everythin’ else.’

‘Jealous?’

‘Ach aye, there’s some people made that way. They always see others with somethin’ they think they should have. You wouldn’t understan’ for it’s not in your nature.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. I’ve never known ye grudge anyone their good fortune. Sure, look at Lady Anne. Do you ever grudge her the money, or the big house, or
the dresses, an’ you just as clever as she was, an’ probably better lookin’?’

To Rose’s amazement she found herself blushing. Lady Anne was no great beauty, but she’d never given it a thought.

‘Well no, but the poor girl has her own troubles,’ she said quickly. ‘She was in a bad way over her husband. He might have been killed, Mary.’

‘There ye are. That’s what I mean. You only think of the person themselves. But the likes of Mary-Anne looks at you an’ thinks about
herself
. An’ then she thinks of what
she
wants an’ whether or not ye’re any use to her. Maybe she’ll leave ye in peace now you’ve spoke up. I don’t know how you stuck it so long. Are ye sure yer not lettin’ her get in on ye?’

‘I couldn’t swear to it, Mary, but I’m trying. I’m not in best form, I know, but I don’t think it’s
Mary-Anne.
I still keep going for the notepaper to write to Ma, but I suppose that’s not surprising.’

‘No, not a bit. An’ ye were close to her for so long. It’s not as if there were half a dozen young ones roun’ her. There was only you an’ wee Sam.’

‘Which reminds me, Mary. I’ve something to show you and a wee present for you. D’you remember Sam brought me some stuff of Ma’s? I hadn’t even looked at it when you came up to see me. And I forgot all about it when I came down to you. Hold on a minute,’ she said, hurrying into the bedroom.

She returned a few moments later with a half finished blouse in one hand and a length of fabric in the other.

‘Look,’ she said, holding out the blouse, a fine, dark plum-coloured silk which shimmered in the light. ‘She was making it for me when she died,’ she said, sadly. ‘Sam knew it was for me by the size, but what he didn’t notice was this. Look, Mary.’

‘Ach, a lovely wee brooch,’ she said, unpinning it from the hem of the garment and turning it over in her large, red hands.

‘It belonged to my great-grandmother,’ explained Rose, ‘but my mother never wore it. The day we were put out at Ardtur, she gave it to me to wear under my shift, in case any of Adair’s men might see it and steal it. I haven’t laid eyes on it since.’

‘It has the date on the back. Did ye know that?’ said Mary, peering at the tarnished metal. ‘J. M. it says, 1745. That’s a queer while ago,’ she added, her eyes bright. ‘There’s maybe a story there, did we but know it.’

‘Yes, I’m sure there is indeed,’ said Rose, as she looked for herself. ‘J. M. is probably James Mackay. Or maybe it’s Jane Mackay …’

‘Rose dear, I must go, much as I’d like to stay. But I must tell you what I came for. I have good news. Peggy and Kevin was up on Sunday on the train, looking powerful well. Peggy has one on the
way. July or thereabouts, she says. And Kevin is as pleased as Punch, as the sayin’ is.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely, Mary. Isn’t it great to have good news. I’ll start a wee dress for her one of these days,’ she said firmly. as she picked up the length of material she’d set down beside them. ‘And this is for you,’ she said, handing it over. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make it up yourself, I’m doing so much for Leeman’s, these days, but the minute I saw it I thought of you. Blue’s your colour.’

‘Rose, you can’t give me this,’ said Mary, startled, as she stared at the folded length of blue fabric.

‘I just have.’ Rose laughed and gave her friend a little kiss. ‘I’ve not got much to give away these days, but that had your name on it from the minute I opened Sam’s parcel. I’m just sorry I can’t make it up for you.’

She walked to the door with her and stood watching as she set off down the lane with a cheery wave to Sarah and a word to Thomas and John.

‘Give thanks, Rose,’ she said to herself, as she stepped back into her kitchen and picked up her sewing. ‘You may have lost your wise women, but at least you’ve a kind friend who’s no fool. Mary’s not great at thinking things out, but she’ll never let you down.’

The apple blossom that May was lovelier than anything she had ever seen before. Even the three
very elderly trees just beyond their garden wall were laden with blossom. For a week or more, their delicate perfume blended with the perfume from the orchard and flowed through the open doors and windows of the house. The insects were busy, the bees drunk with nectar. Though the night skies were clear, there was no frost. As the days passed and there was still no wind, the blossom fell like snow in summer. Minute green fruit appeared in great quantity promising a rich harvest.

But the spring weeks that brought more work to the forge and the first signs of growth in their newly cultivated garden, also brought growth of a different kind. As the days lengthened and the news that the Home Rule Bill was to come before parliament, senior men from the lodge made a further visit to the forge. The drilling now was out in the open.

Thomas thought the outdoor drilling might only be because of the good weather, but John was less sure. His guess was that there were now too many to accommodate in the small Orange Hall in the middle of Robinson’s bog. From what the lodge men had said, he felt there was a growing confidence that no one would lift a finger to stop them, were they now to parade openly in the streets of the city.

Sometimes on fine evenings when the children were in bed, Rose and John would sit on the bench under the young pear tree at the gable wall of the shoeing shed. From there they could hear any sound
from the children’s rooms while still enjoying the fading light and the antics of Robinson’s calves in the small field in front of them.

There was seldom any movement on the road beyond this late in the evening, except maybe an empty cart coming back from market, or a neighbour leading home a new cow, pulling awkwardly at its temporary rope halter. But more than once as the evenings lengthened towards midsummer, the sound of tramping feet reached them. They moved out of sight into the shoeing shed until the marching column passed.

‘What do you think will happen, John? Will it go through, do you think?’

He shook his head sadly and studied the toe caps of his working boots.

‘There’ll be trouble over it. That’s the only thing that I’m sure of. Whether it were to go through or not, there’s been so much bad feeling stirred up it’ll come out some way or ’nother. Ye’ve only to read the reports in the paper. It’s all very well saying it’s just talk, but people talk themselves into badness. An’ it’s been goin’ on for months now.’

‘Sam says there’ll be trouble in Belfast either way. But what about here, John?’

‘Ye can’t tell. One o’ the men came to us las’ week I’ve knowed since we were at school together. A right kind of a man, ye’d think, if ye met him in the ordinary way, the sort who’d always help a neighbour
out. But he was talking big, about what they was goin’ to do. You’d think he’d taken on the whole of Italy, he was that hot about the Pope. ‘An sure wasn’t his gran’mother a Catholic from over Moy way. She used to visit m’ mother an’ swop wee plants wi’ her.’

He paused and watched the swooping flight of the swallows over the field of calves.

‘They were a lot harder to talk to than the las’ time,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Did you not tell me the half of it, John?’

He laughed wryly and looked sheepish.

‘Well you’d better tell me the whole of it now,’ she said, with a lightness she certainly didn’t feel.

‘I thought maybe it was a threat with nothing to it, and maybe so it will be, but your man from Cabragh said there was people had approached him about buying the cart manufactory and gettin’ it goin’ again. That was meant as one in the eye for us for “
not bein’ loyal
” as they call it. I don’t know who owns that land, for Alex was just a tenant, but if it’s only money that’s needed then yer man has it, or could raise it if he wanted to. An’ ye know what that wou’d mean.’

‘I do, love,’ she said steadily. ‘I know perfectly well what that would mean. But we’ll not worry till we have to. We’ll meet it should it come.’