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Charlie did not suffer from the absent-mindedness that was sometimes a feature of age, nor did he have the habit of looking the other way from what he would prefer not to see. Charlie saw so much he was perpetually preoccupied, thinking through some item he had read or teasing out some puzzle he’d encountered in his formidable reading programme. Given how often his mind was elsewhere, Clare took it as a great compliment that he never forgot when she was coming. Not only did he have the kettle boiling, but he always cleared away enough of his books, papers, maps and sketches to leave them a seat each in his small front room.
‘Well now, tell me all your news, Clare. How is that good man of yours? I hear he’s been down in Fermanagh again. Did he prosper, as the saying is?’
Clare laughed. Not only did Charlie know everyone for miles around, but he knew everything going on in the entire area as well. When she’d last seen him a couple of weeks earlier, the complicated land dispute in Fermanagh involving one of Charles and Andrew’s biggest clients had not yet arisen.
‘Well, Charlie, as you well know, Andrew hasn’t much time for litigation or the criminal side, but he’s in his element when it’s land. As long as he has a good dispute, preferably with boundaries, so he can get his feet on the ground, he’s happy. I wish there was more work of that kind,’ she ended sadly.
‘Too soon for him to give up being a solicitor and take to farming?’
‘’Fraid so. I can’t give him much hope till we’ve a year behind us, or more likely two. It has gone well though, so far, as I’m sure you’ve heard. But we can’t think of buying land till we’ve repaid all the loans for the structural work,’ she admitted honestly. ‘The trouble is, the more we do, the more we find to do. We had to have the gutters cleared and the bad bits replaced and one of the men who’d been up on the roof told us the west chimney is in a bad way. How bad it is we don’t know yet. We’re just keeping our fingers crossed.’
‘Aye, I can see that would be a worry. But I did hear you were fully booked in May.’
‘Yes indeed,’ she laughed, as he filled the teapot from his electric kettle and took the lid off the cake tin. ‘Full up in May and bookings coming in all the time. The local papers did us proud with that piece about Armagh in apple blossom time. That was your idea. But there’s more good news. Besides visitors, we’ve a couple of surveyors booked for the whole of June. I don’t know how they got to hear of us but more long stays like that would be just great. Steady income and less laundry,’ she added, making a face.
‘Surveyors now?’ he nodded, as he laid out the cups and saucers methodically. ‘Would that be a new factory or suchlike?’
‘Yes, it’s an American company. Textiles. I think it’s probably synthetics. Steve and Tom aren’t American, they’re English, so they’re not really much interested in the end product. In fact, to be honest, though they’re very friendly, I think they’re only interested in doing the job, watching TV in the evening and getting back home to their wives.’
‘So you got the TV then?’ he demanded, raising his shaggy eyebrows.
‘I got two actually,’ she confessed, only too aware of Charlie’s thesis that television prevented conversation and was undermining the quality of local visiting. ‘The sixteen inch is in the old smoking room for the use of guests. I told you we’d have to have that. But I was in luck. Apparently fourteen inch ones are out of date already, so I got one cheap and we have that in our sitting-room. Mind you it’s much bulkier than the sixteen inch and it’s a tight squeeze with my desk and the typewriter and the office stuff we need in there as well, but we’ve been so busy we were beginning to think we’d no idea what was going on in the world at all. Not even what’s going on here in Northern Ireland.’
‘Not a lot, Clare, not a lot. I can tell you you’re not missing much, though I have to say the unemployment has dropped a bit and there’s a few more houses going up,’ he said, between mouthfuls of cake. ‘There’ll not be much happening unless your man Brookeborough exerts himself. And that’s not very likely. Sure, it’s time he was retiring. The man’s a few years younger than I am but I can’t say the same for his ideas. We need someone with a new perspective and some notion of how to create jobs and a whole different attitude to people forby. Sure, the ship building’s going down the plughole and the linen industry isn’t far behind. Emigration is way up again and there’s desperate poverty, and not just in Belfast and Derry. Even the small farmers are laying off men and bringing in tractors . . .’
She nodded silently and drank her tea, listening hard as she always did when he started to talk like this, running on from one topic to another. She could never guess what he might bring to her attention next. The progress of the Erne hydroelectric scheme, the fate of Georgian terraces in Central Dublin, the development of an industrial park adjacent to Shannon Airport. Charlie was as committed to the whole island of Ireland as he was to their shared interest in their own small corner.
Today, he moved quickly away from matters social and economic and began musing on matters political. The manoeuvrings of political parties and the protests of activists was not something Clare had ever found easy to follow. She relied on Andrew to keep her informed and recently there’d been so little time to talk at all. When they did have the opportunity there were far more personal matters to concern them.
‘Ach, I think the IRA has just about had it if the truth be told,’ he said suddenly.
Clare was quite amazed at this unexpected comment. Long years ago, when she was still at school, her grandfather had let slip that Charlie was an old IRA man. It had taken her aback completely, for she could not see how even an ex-IRA man could be so good a friend to a stout Orangeman who never missed marching behind Grange band every Twelfth of July, despite his limp.
‘One of these days, they’ll lay down their arms and that’ll be that,’ Charlie went on, as he drained his teacup. ‘They did their best, but circumstances change. It’s economics will change the future of this place, not revolution,’ he said firmly. ‘Though mind you, that doesn’t mean there won’t be trouble. When people are convinced they’re right, however wrong they are, there’ll always be those that can manipulate them for their own purposes. But they have to find out for themselves. It’s like everything else, no one can tell you you’re wrong, you have to see it for yourself.’
‘Is that what happened you, Charlie?’ Clare asked quietly.
She had spoken before she had thought about it, which wasn’t like her at all, but something had prompted her to take her chance and try to resolve this old puzzle.
‘Did you know I was a member?’ he asked, his large grey eyes widening. ‘Your Granda told you?’
She nodded.
Charlie shook his head and looked around his small, overcrowded sitting room. ‘I’ll never understand that grandfather of yours,’ he said abruptly. ‘He was as traditional, conservative and Orange as any man I’ve ever met and yet, when I got into trouble, sure he took an awful chance hiding me, him and Kate, the pair of them.’
‘From the police, Charlie?’
‘No, not at all,’ he said laughing aloud. ‘The police wasn’t the problem. It was the fact I’d changed my mind. When you join the IRA, you’re in for life. If you want out you get out with a bullet in your back or maybe just a couple of shattered kneecaps on a day when the disciplinary squad are in a good mood,’ he explained easily.
‘So where did you hide?’
‘D’ye remember where your granny kept her hens?’
‘Yes, of course. The nearest bit of that old house across from the forge. Beside the white lilac.’
‘Aye. In my young days, there was still a bit of roof away at the opposite end, the forge end. I suppose it would have been the bedroom when it was still a home. But I spent weeks in there till they thought I’d left the country. I did a powerful lot of reading and writing and Kate brought me food. And that’s how she and I fell in love, if that’s what you’re thinking about now.’
‘Yes, I knew that bit,’ she admitted shyly. ‘He told me she’d been his sweetheart and she did love him, but she loved you too and she said if she didn’t marry you, you’d end up on the end of a rope.’
‘She was right, Clare. She was right enough,’ he said, nodding sadly. ‘I was headstrong. I thought I could put the world to rights, but all I did was nearly get myself shot as a traitor. Me? Me, a traitor to the country I love. Erin go Bragh! Ireland for ever!’ he shouted, as he jumped to his feet.
Clare laughed at his vehemence, remembering all those nights he had come to visit them, putting his head around the door and saluting them with the same Irish rallying cry. Her grandfather either pretended not to hear, or else he made a joke of it.
‘Your grandfather was the straightest man I ever knew. There was no badness in him anywhere, but he was unsure of himself. There was something about him, or something had happened to him, maybe when he was a child, and it seemed to stop him from making up his mind about things. But if he knew where he stood, like helping me, then he’d let nothing get in his way of doing what he thought was right, even at risk to himself. I owe him my life, Clare, and I’ll never forget him,’ he said, as he sat down again, took out his large striped handkerchief and wiped his eyes unashamedly.
Despite the loveliness of the late afternoon, the softness of full leaf not yet darkened by summer growth, the flowers in coloured profusion leaning over garden walls and the dancing flight of swallows hawking over the water meadows, Clare was so bound up in her own thoughts that she found herself cycling up her own driveway without having registered any of it. What preoccupied her was what Charlie had said about her grandfather not being able to make up his mind. He was right, of course. Outside the forge, where he was protected by his long-learnt routines, he was so hesitant. Time and again, she had to make up his mind for him. Just like Andrew, her beloved Andrew, who tried so hard and so often had not the slightest idea what to do for the best.
For all their difference in age and background, in education and context, she’d always sensed these two men shared something in common. It was not that they were unworldly or impractical, but so often, faced with a straightforward, everyday situation, they simply couldn’t decide what to do. She confessed to herself, it was a problem she had never had. Mostly because there’d never been many options. She’d always taken what seemed the most sensible course whether she liked it or not. But as Andrew had once pointed out, there was no one to get in her way.
Of course, she hadn’t always got it right, she reflected, as she pedalled along beside the new rose bed, but that wasn’t the problem. What mattered was being able to decide in the first place.
Drumsollen looked lovely in the sunshine, the sun lower now and throwing longer shadows. She freewheeled down the slope and parked the bicycle in the covered area by the steps that led down to the basement and the big kitchen, next to which was the room they now used as their bedroom. All was silent as she walked along the echoing corridor that ran the length of the house. The big kitchen was cool, clean and very empty. Except for two trays on the well-scrubbed table, carefully covered with white cloths, there was no sign of life. She saw the note penned in June’s schoolbook copperplate sitting between the trays. It read:
Supper for No. 6 and No.7 when they come in. Your Uncle Jack rang. Said to ring him back before 6 p.m. Andrew rang said he hoped to be back fiveish. Mr and Mrs Moore picked up Ginny. Said they’d see you Sunday afternoon. Sent their love. John will be back as soon as he drops me home. See you tomorrow. Best. June.
Clare glanced at her watch. Twenty-five past five. Judging by the lack of cars parked outside, it looked as if she was the only one at home. Unsurprising on such a lovely evening, when their guests would stay out as long as possible. Tom and Steve were seldom in before seven.
She smiled to herself as she ran along the corridor, hurried up the carpeted stairs and made for their sitting-room. Headquarters, as Ginny had christened it. She’d thought Andrew might not get away till late afternoon, but he was already on his way home which was lovely. Friday was their evening off. Though they seldom went anywhere, they were always pleased to have John keeping an eye on things which meant they could garden, or go for a walk, or have a proper dinner with a glass of wine in the bay window of the dining room.
She moved carefully through the narrow gap between their everyday dining-table and her large roll-topped desk, picked up the receiver and dialled Jack’s number. Jack had been so good at advertising Drumsollen House, she’d told him when he rang last week that he ought to be getting a fee.
‘Frootfield Prisserves, ken I help yew?’
‘Oh hallo, Josie. Can I speak to Jack please?’
‘Houl on a minit,’Josie replied, abandoning her telephone voice. ‘He said ye’d phone.’
Clare suddenly found herself feeling anxious. Unless he had a new guest for her, Jack usually phoned at the weekend. By this time on a Friday, he should have been on his way home.
‘Clare, how are you?’ he asked, in his usual relaxed manner.
‘I’m fine, Jack. Is something wrong?’
‘Well, we’ve had a wee problem,’ he said soothingly. ‘Da had a bit of a turn last night. He was fine this morning, but the Doctor said he should stay in bed a day or two and rest. But he was asking for you, so I told him I’d give you a ring. That was fine by him. Maybe you’d take a wee run over at the weekend if you can.’
Clare found her hand shaking and beads of moisture were making the receiver slippery. She would never forget it was Uncle Jack who had come up to Belfast to look for her at Queens so he could tell her that Granda Scott was dead.
For a moment, she could think of nothing to say. As she stared helplessly at the black mouthpiece, she heard the sound of an engine and a small, familiar toot-toot. It was Andrew. With a steadiness she certainly did not feel, she said quietly; ‘Thanks, Jack, we’ll be over shortly.’
Andrew insisted he wasn’t in the least tired. He’d be happy to drive her over if she wanted to go to Liskeyborough right now. They paused only long enough to drop his briefcase in Headquarters and lock its door behind them. They waved to John Wiley when they met him on the road but spoke little on the short journey. In the farmyard in front of the long, low house they found several other vehicles parked randomly in the wide space, but no sign of anyone about.
‘I think perhaps you should go in on your own, Clare. I’m here if you want me,’ Andrew said, as he switched off.
She nodded, not sure what she would find when she stepped into the big kitchen where her grandmother habitually sat by the fire complaining about her legs and commenting sharply on everything that came under her gaze. She didn’t even know where her grandfather would be. For all of the years she had visited this house, his bedroom and those of whichever of her uncles were ‘at home’ had been out in the large, upper storey of the big barn where he had his workshop.
‘Ach, hello, Clare. You’re a stranger.’
Her youngest aunt, Dolly, now in her early fifties, a dressmaker by trade and a spinster by choice, rose from the fireside and looked her up and down.
‘Granny’s lying down. She says her heart’s broke with people trippin’ in and out all day. She’s not had a minit’s peace.’
‘How is Granda?’ Clare asked cautiously, knowing Dolly’s view of her father would match in all respects the view held by her mother.
‘There’s not much wrong with him if he’d just content himself and not go poking at things in that workshop of his,’ she said sharply. ‘The doctor said he was to rest. He’s in Jack’s room to save us both running back and forth to the barn.’
Clare took a deep breath. She’d never liked Dolly, though she’d done her best over the years, especially when she’d had to share a tiny bedroom with her. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely her fault that her manner was so sharp. She’d been spoilt and petted by her mother and allowed no life of her own. On the other hand, as a grown woman, she could have tried harder.
‘Has he a visitor at the moment?’
‘No, not one,’ replied Dolly airily. ‘Some of the boys were in earlier and a couple of neighbours came a while ago, but they’re all over in the workshop now fiddling with something or other,’ she added, with the dismissive sniff that had become habitual, as if nothing in the world was ever likely to please her.
‘I’ll away and see him then,’ Clare said quickly before Dolly could offer any reason why she might not.
She stepped into the short passageway behind the fireplace, her feet echoing on the wooden floor. The bedroom she’d shared with Dolly on her visits from Belfast was small, but Jack’s room next door was even smaller. She opened the door quietly in case her grandfather was asleep. But he was not. He was sitting up and a slow smile spread across his face as his bright blue eyes met hers.
‘I thought I heerd yer voice,’ he said, as she squeezed down the side of the bed nearest to the window to give him a kiss. ‘How’re ye doin’?’
‘More to the point, how are you, Granda?’ she came back at him.
He laughed and put out his hand for hers. It was large and warm, broad fingered and deeply lined. She had to admit he looked well enough, his face and almost bald head suntanned and shiny. Were it not for the two bright spots of colour on his cheeks, a bit like badly applied rouge, she might have been reassured, but there was something about him that was different from the last time she’d seen him.
‘D’ye see that wee box?’ he asked, glancing to the other side of the bed, where a jug of water and a glass sat on a small chest of drawers beside his well-thumbed Bible. ‘Bring that roun’ to me like a good girl,’ he said, speaking in that soft tone she had always found so comforting and reassuring. The box, a few inches square, was made of battered white cardboard.
‘This is for you,’ he said, taking out a gold fob watch. ‘D’ye know what this is?’ he asked, handing it to her.
She pressed the raised catch and looked at the elegant numerals on the clock face. It must be his retirement present from Fruitfield. Jack had sent her the newspaper cutting from the Portadown Times.
‘D’ye see what it says?’ he asked softly.
The room was already becoming shadowy, so she turned it to the light and looked closely. ‘Sam Hamilton, a good and faithful servant. With gratitude from the Lamb Brothers and all their staff,’ she read slowly, looking up at him.
‘There’s some says it’s a lot o’ nonsense, Clare, givin’ a man a watch when he retires and has time to himself, but maybe they don’t understand that somethin’ in your hand helps somethin’ in your heart,’ he said slowly. ‘It reminds you of all the hard work, the good times, aye, and the bad times too. An’ all the friends ye had.’
She could see he was short of breath, but was quite untroubled by the fact. He simply took his time.
‘If yer father had been alive, Clare dear, I’d have given him this. I tried to make no favourites with my family, but he was my namesake and truth to tell, I always knew what he was thinkin’ as well as I knew m’self. He an’ Ellie were a joy to me. They worked in one with the other . . . ach . . . if only there were more like them. Like you an’ yer man, Andrew,’ he added with a short nod.
He paused again for breath and she could see how tired he was, his bright eyes drooping now as he looked at her. ‘You’re like your mother, Clare, for all you’re dark an’ she was fair,’ he said with an effort. ‘Keep that by you for them an’ me. Come rain, come shine, it’ll mind you of the best, like it has minded me these last lock of years.’
She stayed only a little longer, stroking his hand until his eyes closed and he dozed off. Then she slipped away, escaped Dolly as quickly as she could and let Andrew drive her home, tears streaming unheeded down her face, the small box clutched firmly in her hand, as if she feared someone might try to take it from her.
Five
Unlike the twenty-first of June 1961, two years ago to the very day, when Sam Hamilton was laid to rest in the green space surrounding the Friends Meeting House in Richhill, full of cloudy skies and sudden heavy showers, the twenty-first of June 1963 promised to be fine and dry, the sun already beaming down on Drumsollen long before the smell of cooked breakfasts wafted up from the basement.
Clare walked out to the garage with Andrew, wished him well for a court hearing in Belfast and turned back purposefully into the silent house. She collected a bucket and secateurs, caught the front door back on its chain and ran down the steps to begin her favourite Friday morning task, choosing roses for the tall, cut glass vase that sat all summer through on the polished oak table in the centre of the entrance hall.
As she moved slowly round the flourishing rosebed, Andrews parterre, she breathed the cool morning air and listened for the distant sounds vibrating in the stillness. There was a tractor on a neighbour’s farm, a milk float, its crates of bottles chinking as it passed their own gates, and then the heavy throb of an Ulster Transport bus making the first journey of the day with people going to work in Armagh.
As she leaned over and felt the warmth of the sun on her back she remembered the quiet September evening she’d had to search the small bushes for enough blooms to make a wedding bouquet for herself. All the ones with long stems were already in the church, but she had managed to find the few buds she needed. She’d mixed them with sprays from the honeysuckle up by the summerhouse and tied them with ribbon. After the wedding pictures had been taken, she’d walked round the side of the church and left the little bouquet on Granda’s Scott’s grave, the buds now open in the sunshine.
When the time came, as she knew it would, she had made a similar bouquet for Granda Hamilton. She’d picked white roses for him, but she chose only those with a touch of pink on the outer petals. White flowers were considered very suitable for a wreath and white lilies the most suitably sombre of all, but Granda Hamilton did not approve of such demonstrations. Death was part of life, he always said. He was not troubled by its coming, nor by his own going. That was why she’d not worn black at his funeral.
She wondered why she should miss him so very much when she’d not seen him all that often over the years. But, then, she’d always known he was there, going about his work in that steady, unhurried way of his. Often these days, when she got agitated herself, upset by the problems that descended upon her like falling leaves, she would sit at her desk and stare at the face of his gold watch. Its tiny rhythmic tick comforted her and reminded her that whatever the problem was, it would pass in time, as all things passed. It was she who must learn how to keep steady through the bad times and make sure she took the good of whatever pleasure and achievement the better times might bring.
She moved carefully between the flourishing bushes and found there were plenty of blooms to choose from. Despite the harsh winter that got going immediately after Christmas, the spring and early summer had been kind to the roses. There were more in bloom this year, at this time, than she’d ever seen before, the opening buds more vibrant than usual. ‘No, not yellow after all,’ she said quietly, as she looked down into her bucket, ‘more gold than yellow.’
As she came in through the front door and moved across the entrance hall, she thought of Ginny and smiled to herself. Ginny had covered herself with glory in the months she’d spent with them, working with a will and setting her hand to anything she saw in need of attention. She began by solving the problem of the bleak, bare spaces the missing ancestors had left on the walls when Andrew had been forced to sell them.