A Girl Called Rosie (7 page)

‘I expect some of the volunteers thought it was time it was gone,’ he replied crisply. ‘Anything they thought was British would be fair game. Or maybe someone was storing arms there. Black and Tans or Pro-Treaty or Anti-Treaty. You’ve plenty to chose from in the last few years. It could even have been an accident.’

Rosie was puzzled by the strange look on her grandmother’s face. She’d been so shocked when she first saw the burnt ruin, but now, a small smile played around her lips as she stepped down from the motor and walked closer to the ruined house. She ran her eye over the wide stone steps that led up to the empty space where once the front door had been.

‘Lady Anne used to ride her horse up those steps,’ she said suddenly, turning towards her.

Rosie stared back at her in amazement.

‘His name was Conor and he was huge,’ she went on. ‘Goodness knows how many hands high. But she was a wonderful horsewoman, was Lady Anne, and Conor would do anything for her. Do you remember him, John?’

‘Indeed you’d never forget a horse like that. There’d be few enough men would have the way of him, never mind a young girl.’

Rosie saw her grandmother’s eyes blink and move away from the steps.

‘Is Lady Anne dead?’

She nodded sadly.

‘Eight years ago now, though it seems much longer. Her husband, Harrington, died in May 1916 and she had a fall from her horse about a month later. She broke a hip and never really recovered. I don’t think she wanted to recover. She as much as told me so when I went over to see her,’ she added, with a small, wry smile.

‘The worst thing about growing old, Rosie, is that you lose your friends, even ones that are younger than you are. Like Anne and my baby brother, Sam. And Lily, a year later.

‘Lily Molyneux,’ she went on to explain, ‘Anne’s younger sister, the one who painted those watercolours you always admire at Rathdrum. She lived here too, the prettiest of them all.’

‘But she never married?’

‘No, she never did.’

Rosie said nothing. The look that passed across her grandmother’s face was so unlike her she was sure there was a sad story to be told. Too sad for such a lovely summer day standing looking at the ruins of a once handsome house and thinking about dear people now lying under the tangled growth of a neglected churchyard.

Rosie left her grandparents sitting in the motor and walked up the wide stone steps. The lower ones still bore the shallow indentations made by long years of use, but the upper ones were shattered at the edges by the heat of the fire. Grass was sprouting from the cracks.

She moved cautiously. In the soot-blackened gap, she stopped and gazed at the ruins beyond. The upper storey had collapsed, pieces of wall had bent and fallen on top of each other, like a book dropped on its open side, the pages splayed, the binding poking up in the air. The burnt timbers gleamed and shone in the sun. Here and there, small patches of weed and wild-flower, fresh and green, waved in the breeze, thriving in the rich ash.

‘Not long ago,’ she said aloud to herself.

She had seen enough abandoned cottages near her own home to know how quickly tree seedlings could spring up, but even here, where growth was so prolific, there was nothing older than this present season. The undamaged trees in the nearby garden and driveway had not yet colonised the tangled ruin.

She stared at the waving fronds, imagining what they would become. In ten years, in twenty years. Left to the wind and rain, the soft breezes from both sea and lake and the luxurious vegetation all around, the desolate space would close over, settle and heal.
Like with the churchyard, you would soon have to know the story to be able to find the fragments that remained.

‘Well, what next?’ asked John as she arrived back at the motor, but made no move to get in.

‘I’d like to see the stable yard and the rooms where you lived, Granny.’

‘Well, I’m not sure what we’ll find there,’ her grandfather replied. ‘The back drive is over there. It looks no worse than the front though. The stable yard is over yonder, beyond those chestnuts,’ he went on, pointing to a gap in the trees. ‘What do you think, Rose?’

‘Why not? We may as well do the job properly and let Rosie have the whole story.’

They proceeded even more slowly than before, but it was not many minutes before the grass grown track stopped at a handsome pair of stone built pillars. The gate had been removed but ahead of them the cobbles of the stable yard were still there.

‘My goodness, that’s a surprise,’ exclaimed John, coming to a halt outside a two-storey building with stone steps running up to the living quarters on the upper floor.

All around them the single-storey buildings, workshop, barns and storehouses, stood open to the sky, their roof timbers green with growth, their slates gone, yet the living quarters Rose and her
mother shared and the main stables opposite where John himself had been quartered for the length of his stay, still had their roofs intact.

‘Well, what do you make of that?’ he asked in amazement.

Rosie looked up at the tiny windows above the pale, flaking whitewash. The room behind them must be much smaller than the room over the workshop at home.

‘But didn’t the man from Detroit put new roofs on?’

‘Ach yes,’ said John laughing. ‘I forgot. I thought they’d lasted a bit too well since our time here. But that’s it. Do you want to go up and have a look?’ he said turning to Rose. ‘It’ll be safe enough inside if the roof’s sound.’

‘No, John. I think I’d rather walk a little way down the path and sit by the lake, but I think I know who will want to go and have a look.’

Rosie nodded vigorously and then had a sudden thought.

‘Wouldn’t it be locked up, Granda?’

‘Not very likely,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘The only thing worth stealing is the slates. They mustn’t have had a ladder long enough.’

Rosie climbed down from the motor, ran across to the foot of the steps, then paused halfway up the steps to watch her grandparents setting off down the
back drive. Her grandmother was limping slightly, but she seemed not to notice. As they moved away from the motor, to her great delight, she saw them look at each other and laugh.

Smiling herself, she ran up the remaining steps to the rooms where Hannah McGinley had made a home for her daughter and her youngest son, Sam. She turned the handle on the door at the top and stepped into a room with two small windows and a black metal fireplace. Beyond the windows she could see the clock on the stable block, its face still painted blue, its hands long gone. Below stood the parked motor, its elegant shape in sharp contrast to the mellowed stonework of the old stone building.

She turned back into the room. The floor was dusty, but not as dirty as she had expected. The new planks still showed where it had been mended, much paler than the original ones which were darkened with age and tramping feet. The black metal fireplace was still intact.

Opposite the door by which she had entered stood another, presumably leading to the bedrooms. Suddenly, she noticed something lying on the floor by the bedroom door. She stepped across, picked it up and stood staring at it in amazement. A page torn from a notebook, perfectly fresh and clean with the number six written clearly at the top.

She carried it back to the window where the light
was better and began to read what had been written. She studied the unfamiliar hand and the even more unfamiliar words for some minutes before it struck her that her problem was not so much understanding what it said, but how this piece of paper came to have a smudge of ink on it as fresh as if it had only just been written.

As she ran her eye along the unfamiliar words once more, her body bent towards the light, she heard the creak of the bedroom door opening behind her. Startled, she whirled round and looked up as a young man with red hair stepped into the room.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said formally. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before.’

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ asked Rosie, looking the young man up and down.

He shut the door behind him, leant nonchalantly against the doorpost and regarded her with a slight smile. Red-headed, with a creamy skin and the freckles that usually go with such colouring, he was dressed in an open-necked shirt and a pair of grey flannels, the shirt crumpled and none too clean, the trousers marked with black streaks below the knee.

‘I could ask you the same,’ he said quickly, a hint of pique in his tone, ‘and with more cause.’

‘But I asked you first,’ she replied, holding her ground.

She was sure he was older than she was, perhaps as much as twenty, but that didn’t give him the right to be sharp with her. But then boys were often like that. They behaved as if they knew everything, had the right to say the first thing that came into their head and then stand over it whether it made any sense or not.

She lowered herself carefully on to the low, narrow windowsill. She was perfectly aware that she was blocking its light and making the room even dimmer, but if she was going to have to wait for him to explain himself she might as well try to be more comfortable.

He returned her gaze, studying her thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry my sitting room is so ill provided,’ he said sarcastically, ‘but I can’t possibly invite you into my bedroom.’

‘Is it better provided?’

‘Yes. It has a chair and a small barrel. I moved them in there when the motor stopped. Along with my desk and bookcase.’

‘And why did you do that?’

‘Precaution. I don’t get many visitors here. In fact, visitors are not welcome.’

‘Are you hiding then?’ she asked abruptly, looking him straight in the eye.

Without giving her an answer, he turned his back on her, went into the room he’d described as his bedroom and fetched a roughly-mended chair which he placed to one side of the empty fireplace. Through the open door, Rosie caught a momentary glimpse of a blanket thrown over a heap of wilted bracken and a packing case on which sat a small pile of books, a bottle of ink and a notebook.

He rolled the barrel across the floor, upended
it on the other side of the fireplace and sat down, glancing into the empty grate as if to ensure the fire did not need another log or a shovel full of coal.

Rosie sat silent, puzzled by his reticence, but unwilling to give way to his attempts to deflect all her questions.

He gazed around the completely empty room as if it were full of interesting objects, then settled his eyes upon her with a small smile.

‘You might be a spy,’ he said coolly.

Rosie burst out laughing and shook her head, almost prepared to forgive him for his uncooperativeness.

‘Though you are a bit young, I must admit,’ he added, looking her up and down. ‘You can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.’

‘I’m sixteen,’ she retorted, without even bothering about the small modification of the truth.

What did a few more days matter? Except, of course, that it did. People made judgements based on age that were quite false. Miss Wilson had explained that to her girls most carefully.

‘My dears, I have to keep my age a secret,’ she’d said firmly, one afternoon when the subject of age came up in discussing the novel they were reading. ‘There are some people who would assume I was too old to run a school if they knew how old I was. They would say I was too out of touch to know
what went on in the world, or too feeble to do the things a teacher needs to do. Keeping my age secret is nothing to do with vanity.’

Rosie remembered how she had gone on to caution them about the dangers of making such ill-founded judgements about people, either old or young. Now here was the very proof of what she’d said. This young man assumed she couldn’t guess what was going on just because he judged she was younger than he was.

In fact, as Rosie sat watching him fidget on his hard wooden barrel she began to wish she’d said seventeen while she was about it. Wearing one of the two new dresses her grandmother had bought for her birthday, with its trimly fitted waist and soft, full skirt, she felt sure she could have got away with it.

‘I’m here for the good of my health,’ he said abruptly. ‘There are two IRA men searching for me. If they find me, they’ll kill me. They’ll probably torture me first, or tie me to a land-mine, or some such variation to provide entertainment,’ he added, as if shocking her would keep her in her place. ‘There are quite a lot of options from recent events,’ he said, his pale face flushing angrily.

‘But why would they want to kill you? What have you done?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing that I know of personally, but I have red hair and I’m a Walsh. That’ll be enough for the
same pair who are after me.’

She was sure he was telling the truth, but could she be sure that he was not frightening himself. Many people were fearful without good cause, but as many did indeed go in fear of their lives. Terrible things had been done in the last years in every part of Ireland with family set against family, brother against brother.

‘But the Civil War ended last year,’ she began as calmly as she could manage. ‘There was a treaty last summer, wasn’t there?’

‘And do you really think that would have the slightest effect on two men who have made up their minds that I, or my brother, betrayed them?’

Rosie dropped her eyes and stared at the prettily patterned fabric of her new dress. If that was the way of it, then he had good cause. After the Black and Tans had left there’d been deaths enough at home in County Armagh which everyone knew were the settling of old scores. Feuds and fallings out that had grown to hatred were being taken up under the shadow of the political troubles. She’d listened to the stories of stolen guns and night raids her brothers brought home. There were plenty of guns to be had and plenty of opportunities. Hundreds had died, both Catholic and Protestant.

Suddenly, she saw again the newly turned earth in the churchyard, the jam pot of flowers, her
grandparents standing close, their heads together. Walsh. That was the name freshly cut on the small white stone.

‘Was your grandfather Thomas Walsh, the coachman here at Currane about fifty years ago?’

He stared at her in amazement.

‘What if he was?’ he said, with a visible effort to collect himself.

‘And your elder brother Thomas was killed last year, in May, in an ambush of Free State soldiers,’ she went on very quietly, ‘in the hills above Waterville.’

To her absolute amazement, he dropped his head into his hands and burst into tears.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about your brother.’

Quickly she crossed to him, then hesitated, looking down at him, his shoulders crumpled, his face in his hands, tears trickling silently down his fingers. Then she knelt down beside him and put her arm round his shoulders.

‘Now, please tell me what’s going on. There must be something we can do to help.’

‘We?’ he said quickly, his unease springing up again as he wiped his tears crossly with the back of his hand. ‘Who’s “we”?’

‘My grandparents and myself,’ she said, taking his hand and drawing him over to the window. ‘Look, you can see them down there, near the motor. They’ve been to the lake together because
that’s where they used to walk when they first met. My grandmother used to live here. In this room. She knew Thomas and your father. Apparently your father and her brother, Sam, were good friends.’

‘Sam McGinley?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are …?’

‘Rose Hamilton,’ she said easily, ‘but everyone calls me Rosie.’

‘They soon won’t,’ he said, as he wiped his eyes firmly with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You’ll be a Rose when you’ve grown up just a little bit more.’

Before she had time to decide whether this was meant as a compliment or another edgy comment, he clasped her hand more firmly, drew her to him and kissed her warmly on the mouth.

‘Rosie Hamilton, you’re an angel in disguise,’ he declared, releasing her. ‘I haven’t spoken to a soul for three weeks and unless it rains a bit harder tonight I won’t even have enough water for a bowl of porridge tomorrow.’

A few minutes later Rosie made her way back down the steep stone steps and into the stable yard, aware that Patrick Walsh was watching anxiously to see what would happen. Uneasy herself, she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to say to the two figures who sat in the motor and turned towards her, smiling, as she approached.

‘Well, did you have a good look?’ asked Rose, as she came and stood by the driver’s side. ‘There can’t have been very much to see.’

Rosie decided there was no simple way. She’d have to be direct.

‘I found a young man hiding, Grandma …’

‘What?’ gasped John, horrified, before she could continue. ‘And we let you got up there by yourself. Sure we should have known better, the times we’ve been through. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Granda, I’m perfectly all right. But he’s not. He’s Thomas Walsh’s grandson and there are two IRA men after him. He’s been living on porridge for a week. He thinks it’s got too dangerous for his young brother to bring him food. He was leaving it in a hiding place down by the lake for Patrick to pick up at night, but there’s been nothing now for a week.’

‘Oh the poor lad,’ said Rose. ‘How long has he been here?’

‘I didn’t ask him that, but he said he hasn’t spoken to a soul for three weeks.’

‘And living on porridge?’ said John, shaking his head. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Watching us, I expect,’ said Rosie with a smile, turning and waving up at the small window, which showed no sign of an observer. ‘I couldn’t persuade him to come down till I’d made sure there was no one around but yourselves.’

‘Ach, not a soul the whole afternoon,’ said John quickly. ‘Even on the shore where you might sometimes see the odd fisherman.’

Rosie could tell from the look on her grandmother’s face she’d already made up her mind what they had to do and she suspected it was as clear to her grandfather. She breathed a sigh of relief when she caught the look that passed between them.

‘There’s one sure way of getting him down,’ said Rose confidently. ‘Go up and tell him there’s nobody at all around and we’ve got thermoses of tea and a big hamper full of sandwiches and cake.’

All three of them were silent that evening as they sat in the hotel dining room, the sunlight still sparkling on the silver and glass, while the young girls cleared away their empty plates and the young men brought the next course.

Rosie could think only of Patrick. Darkness would fall much more quickly in the small room where he might still be trying to read in the pale evening light. He’d be forced to go to bed as darkness fell. Unless, of course, he went down to the lake, to check again the hiding place his younger brother had used whenever he’d felt it safe to make the journey from Waterville.

A hard enough journey. Patrick told them how fifteen-year-old Kevin used his bicycle over the
lakeside road for the first five miles or so. But then, to avoid being seen or followed, he hid the bicycle in the waterside bushes and took a circuitous route inland, up one deep valley between the hills, across the watershed and down the next, to come out on the lakeshore unobserved.

At least tonight Patrick would have some supper. Her grandmother had gathered up everything the hotel had provided for their picnic tea, wrapped it in the sports pages from John’s newspaper and insisted he take it back upstairs with him.

Poor Patrick. She’d watched him out of a corner of her eye as she poured tea from the Thermoses into Bakelite mugs. She’d seen the look in his eyes when her grandmother brought out the first packages of food from the hamper. He’d said ‘thank you’ so politely when she’d offered him a sandwich, sank his teeth into it ravenously and then struggled with himself not to gobble it up.

Her grandfather had been watching him too.

‘Eat up, Patrick,’ he said encouragingly. ‘We’ll just drink a cup of tea to keep you company. There’ll be a dinner tonight would do half a dozen people. But careful now, don’t eat your fill all at once, or you’ll pay for it.’

‘Here, have these now and a piece of cake or two after them,’ he went on, picking up a generous handful of sandwiches and putting them on a plate.
‘But the rest you should take with you and eat later.’

They’d sat together in the motor drinking tea while Patrick ate devotedly. Rosie wondered if someone passing by might think they were just a family party on an outing, but she was grateful it wasn’t put to the test when she looked at him, his hair dishevelled, his trousers marked, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

‘Did young Patrick tell you whereabouts in Waterville he lives?’ John asked, when they began their main course.

‘No, he didn’t. He wasn’t going to say anything at all when he first appeared. It took me ages to get him to tell me what he was doing there, though I guessed he was hiding from someone.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, I suppose,’ he said, nodding. ‘Sometimes you could hardly believe the badness of people.’

‘You said he had some books, Rosie. Did you get a look at them?’ her grandmother asked.

‘I would have tried but I didn’t manage it.’

Her grandfather looked at her surprised and puzzled.

‘Granny and I think you can tell a lot about someone by the books they read,’ she said to him. ‘He’d been making notes on something when I arrived. That’s how he gave himself away. There was a fresh page lying on the floor. But I couldn’t read it. It was in Irish.’

‘Did your friend Thomas speak Irish?’ John asked abruptly.

‘No, he didn’t,’ Rose replied, shaking her head. ‘I’m quite sure of that. But his son might well have learnt it in Land League days. There was a big revival then. Teachers going round the country giving classes in schools and halls. My Sam taught now and again when he was very short of money. Did Patrick mention his father?’ she asked suddenly.

Rosie shook her head and they fell silent again as a young man came to offer them further thick slices of roast beef and yet more roast potatoes.

‘I can think of someone who could do damage to that salver of beef,’ John commented grimly, as they declined second helpings and saw the loaded serving dish being carried away.