A Girl Called Rosie (16 page)

‘Hallo Rosie. That’s the worst over.’

Helen Sinton had come up quietly behind them and slipped an arm round them both. ‘You must be my cousin, Emily,’ she went on smiling. ‘I think the last time we saw each other, I fell out of a tree in your orchard.’

‘Ach dear, fancy you rememberin’ that,’ responded Emily, her face lighting up. ‘Your poor ma looks tired out.’

‘She had rather a bad journey from Berlin to The Hook,’ Helen replied, pressing her lips together. ‘She just caught the first possible train with no booking, so she’d no sleeper. I think she actually stood part
of the way, but she’s not letting on about that. Have you ever seen so many people at a funeral before?’

‘I’ve never been at a funeral before,’ Rosie confessed.

‘So Richard P. told me. He seems very concerned about you,’ she said with a small smile.

‘He’s been very kind,’ Rosie replied honestly. ‘He tried to warn me what it would be like. I was so afraid of doing something wrong.’

Helen took them both by the arm.

‘There are some taxis waiting over at the hotel. They’re going to ferry us all up to Rathdrum and then collect the men as they make their way back from the churchyard. I’ve to go now and summon them,’ she added, ‘unless you’d like to come with me.’

Rosie glanced across at Emily, knowing how shy she could be with people she didn’t know well, but she was looking pleased and relieved. However different from them this elegant young woman might seem to be, with her smart London costume and beautifully manicured hands, she was warm and friendly, just like her mother.

They set off together, slipping out by the small side gate behind the church, but there they had to wait for some time before they could cross the road. They stood silently on the pavement until the last of the solemn figures had past by, then took one last
look at the long, dark line winding its way over the bridge, past the Crozier Memorial and through the town, on the journey John had made at least once a week through every week of his working life.

Rosie, Emily and Helen were the first to arrive back at Rathdrum. The front door stood open, the sitting room and hall were full of flowers, but all was silent as they made their way through to the kitchen. To their surprise, they found there not only Mrs Love, who had insisted on staying behind, but two young girls in black dresses and white aprons laying out cups and saucers and a smart young man polishing wine glasses.

‘This is Mary and this is Bridget,’ said Mrs Love quickly, introducing the two girls. ‘Auntie Hannah said that you and I had done enough,’ she went on, addressing Rosie. ‘We’re not to spend the afternoon in the kitchen, so she borrowed these two from the hotel.’

Rosie wondered why she hadn’t introduced the young man who was polishing away quite devotedly, but before she’d remembered Mrs Love was a vigorous teetotaller, Helen had stepped forward towards him.

‘I’m Helen,’ she said sticking out her hand. ‘And these are my cousins Rosie and Emily. Who are you?’

He looked up from his tray of sparkling glasses, stared at her in amazement, blushed as red as the stripe on his Irish linen tea towel, and finally shook her hand.

‘I’m Willy Auld. Pleased to meet ye.’

‘Does your father by any chance work in the Post Office?’

‘Aye, he does. He’s the postmaster,’ he replied, looking startled.

‘You must talk to my mother when she gets here. She and your father are old friends. I’ve often heard her mention him. Now let’s take these through to the sitting room. Where have you set up the booze?’

Rosie had no idea what she was going to do about the look on Mrs Love’s face as she saw Helen and Willy disappear together. To make it worse, Emily said excuse me and headed for the lavatory and Mary and Bridget picked up their trays and moved out into the hall to follow Helen and Willy.

‘Yer granda wasn’t a great man for drink,’ she said accusingly.

‘No, I don’t think he ever got drunk,’ Rosie replied, choosing her words with care, ‘but he always enjoyed a wee whiskey. And he liked wine,’ she added emphatically, remembering the bottle of sparkling white wine he’d ordered for her birthday supper.

Mrs Love pressed her lips together and jerked her head in righteous disapproval.

‘Ye haven’t seen the boxes that came with that young man from the hotel. And it being the Sabbath day,’ she said, tight with ill-concealed anger.

‘Where did he put them?’ Rosie asked, looking round her, there being no visible sign of drink of any kind in the kitchen.

‘Out in the workshop. There wouldn’t have been room in here. They’d a’ filled the place.’

‘I’ll go and look,’ Rosie offered, desperate to get away from her black looks.

There were indeed a dozen or more cardboard cartons neatly lined up along her grandfather’s workbench, their lids turned back ready for use. She examined them carefully. Whiskey, port, sherry, as she had expected. But alongside the familiar names like Bushmills and Powers was a whole range of soft drinks.

She sighed with relief. She could go and tell Mrs Love that only some of the boxes contained the demon drink. But as she moved out into the sunlight again it occurred to her that Mrs Love and ‘drink’ was the equivalent of Uncle Joe and the Fenians. It wouldn’t matter what facts you gave her, she’d made up her mind and nothing would change it.

She paused as a second vehicle from the hotel drove slowly into the yard and stopped short of the motors already parked by the sweet pea. To her great relief, she saw Elizabeth Stewart coming towards
her accompanied by two grey-haired women and an uneasy-looking younger woman.

‘Hello Rosie, come and meet two old friends of Granny. This is Selina Scott from Salter’s Grange and Peggy Wylie from Annacramp and this is Ellen Scott, Selina’s daughter-in-law. Ellen and Robert are at the forge house now, beside the one where your father lived as a little boy,’ she added helpfully, as Rosie shook hands. ‘Do you think we could slip in by the back door to save walking round to the front? Not proper at all to bring visitors in by the back but we’re all so tired with standing.’

For a moment Rosie thought of asking Elizabeth to speak to Mrs Love, but when she saw how wearily Selina Scott was leaning on her stick, she made up her mind.

‘Of course you can. It might be a bit of a squash with the two girls making tea, but it’s much shorter.’

She led the way and found the kitchen was now empty, another group of women were coming down the hall from the front door, the sitting room was beginning to fill up and Mrs Love nowhere in sight.

Sometimes things did come to help you, she thought, as she breathed a sigh of relief.

What surprised Rosie most about the afternoon was the laughter. Richard P. had not mentioned that. Nor had he told her how those who have suffered loss renew their ties with those who have
also suffered, not by grieving, but by telling stories, weaving between them a web of memories that comfort and sustain.

Now in her eighties, Selina told Rosie about how John Hamilton had worked with her husband, Thomas, in the forge at Salter’s Grange. How they’d stuck to their principles when the two of them were threatened and intimidated by Orangemen protesting over Home Rule, making no difference between their Catholic and Protestant customers, and how they’d suffered for it financially.

‘But you know, Rosie dear, the amazing thing was, if your grandfather hadn’t been forced out of the forge and into the mill to keep bread on the table for his four wee ones, he might not have ended up a director of Bann Valley Mills. He’d have been a good country blacksmith like my Thomas, with enough to bring up a family and leave a little by, but he’d not have made such a go of it as your granda did. Though having said that I’m not sure if Granda could have done so well if it hadn’t been for Granny there behind him,’ she added, looking across the room to where Rose sat, listening to Alex and Sam, among the first to arrive back from the graveyard at Seapatrick.

Selina fell silent and Rosie was just about to ask her if she would like another cup of tea, when she turned towards her, her pale eyes bright, a sober look on her face.

‘Rose once told me that her mother used to say that some good may come from even the most heartbreaking events,’ she began. ‘But that’s only if you have the courage to accept what has happened. I think Hannah McGinley was right, and your grandmother has always done the same. You have to face things, Rosie, not pretend they haven’t happened. Life is never all bad, or all good. You’ll miss your Granda, but other things will come and you’ll always have the memories.’

Rosie nodded, though she was not sure she fully understood.

‘But what about Granny, Mrs Scott? I know I have all sorts of experiences ahead of me, good and bad, like you said, but don’t you think she’ll be terribly lonely by herself?’

Selina smiled and wondered what to say to a girl so thoughtful, yet so inexperienced.

‘I talked to my Thomas for years after he went,’ she began. ‘I knew him so well I could guess what he’d say. There were times I could just imagine him laughing at me for getting in a state about something. And there were other things came to help me too. People I’d lost touch with. My friend Peggy and her family, for instance.’

‘Rose has her son and daughters and all you grandchildren,’ she continued reassuringly. ‘No, it’s not the same, but it
is
something. That’s what helped
me when the house seemed so empty. That and a kitten a neighbour gave me,’ she added, beginning to laugh. ‘You might not believe me, but that wee scrap of divilment was the first thing that made me laugh again.’

She paused, looked across the room at Rose, then back at Rosie.

‘Now away dear, and talk to some of your young cousins,’ she said smiling and patting Rosie’s shoulder. ‘You’re good company, but I’m happy here to sit and watch the comings and goings till I get a word with your grandmother before I go.’

Rosie moved out into the hall, simply because a space opened in that direction. As she came through the sitting-room door her cousin, Hugh Sinton, arrived with Billy and Charlie and Richard P. Moments later another motor stopped. This time it was Frances Harrington, Sammy and Bobby and Dr Stewart. Together the eight men filled up the narrow space, some greeting her warmly, others squeezing their way into the kitchen where Willy stood, with a tray of glasses at the ready.

As soon as there was movement, she reached the stairs and ran up quickly, hardly able to believe the house could accommodate so many people. But then, everyone gathered below wanted to support her grandmother. They’d make light of any difficulties
and be as helpful as they could in whatever way was needed.

Talk and laughter rose in waves from the downstairs rooms. From her window she could see some people had moved out into the yard, others were now walking in the garden. For a moment, she felt totally alone.

How could one be alone when there were more known people downstairs than she’d ever experienced before all gathered together in one place? Not only Granny and her own family, but her aunts and cousins whom she’d never met till now, like Frances, or met so long ago that they might as well be a different person.

Beyond her open door, she heard a footstep on the landing. She paid no attention, but went on staring out of the window wondering when she’d stand here again. She caught her breath. Till that moment, she’d never thought losing Granda might mean losing Rathdrum.

The knock on her door was gentle but firm enough to reach her over the waves of sound echoing from downstairs.

She turned round and saw Richard P. entering the room.

‘Have you had some tea?’

It was the only thing she could think of to say.

‘Not yet,’ he replied, coming to stand beside her
at the window. ‘You looked very thoughtful,’ he went on. ‘Sad?’

‘Yes,’ she said honestly, ‘but not like I was in church. I was wondering when, or if, I would ever stand here again.’

‘That’s a very philosophical question.’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, you know the saying that you can’t step in the same river twice …’

She shook her head, wondering what was in his mind.

‘You can’t step in the
same
river twice, because it has moved on. Whatever happens, some things will have changed. You in particular.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Oh yes, me too.’

He paused as if he wanted to be sure of his words for what he had to say next.

‘Perhaps what I mean is that I’ve changed a great deal since I was sixteen. Going to medical school. Coming back and going into practice with Father. I might not change as much in the next few years as
you
will.’

‘But not everything changes, does it?’ she asked, puzzled by his train of thought and an expression she couldn’t read. ‘You’ll still be Richard P. and I’ll be Rosie. There are some things I can’t ever imagine changing.’

‘Yes, I think you have a point. We’ll have to compare notes …’

He broke off as he saw two figures moving purposively across the yard below.

‘Actually I came up to say “Cheerio”. Auntie Rose has persuaded Helen to go back tonight. She was in the middle of producing scenery for a play that has its first night next week. It seems she just put down her paint pot and came. I said I’d take her to the boat.’

‘And you won’t come back later?’

‘No, I’ll go straight home from Belfast. Mother and Father will want to stay this evening, so I need to be on call.’

For a single moment she felt overcome with disappointment. She’d just assumed she’d see him one more evening before she herself went home.

‘It’s going to be a lovely evening for the drive,’ she said quickly.

She watched as Aunt Sarah and Helen put a small suitcase and a couple of parcels in Richard’s motor. Helen threw her arms round her mother, hugged her, and climbed into the front seat, her dark hair caught back with a bright red scarf.

Richard followed her gaze down into the yard below.

‘Take care, Rosie. I’m sure I’ll get all your news from Auntie.’

For a moment, she saw him hesitate. Then he took her hand, kissed her cheek and strode off without a backward glance.