The Hamiltons of Ballydown (4 page)

Rose was sure she’d never forget that moment when John showed her his royalty cheque. Even when he’d explained why the amount was so high, she’d had difficulty grasping it. A simple enough wee thing, he’d said, but it helped stop the threads from breaking and the greatest time waster of all was when a machine stopped for one thread.

It was only when she went to the bank and was persuaded to open a deposit account with a shiny, gold embossed pass book did she really believe what had happened. With this amount of money in the bank there’d no longer be any question of supporting Hannah and Sarah, as well as Jamie, in whatever career they might wish to follow. She put the pass book in Granny Sarah’s old handbag at the back of the sideboard and peeped at it now and again to reassure herself it wasn’t a pleasant dream.

It seemed the Hamiltons were not the only ones to have had good fortune this year. In November and December, letters came to Ballydown from her sister Mary in Donegal, her older brothers in Scotland and Nova Scotia and her younger brother Sam in Pennsylvania, full of good news, new jobs, new houses, marriages and babies. From Gloucestershire, Lady Anne still lamented the move from Sligo, but she was heartily glad no one was now likely to shoot her husband simply because he was a landlord. She was hard at work refurbishing
the draughty mansion he’d inherited from a distant cousin and encouraging him to take up his seat in the House of Lords and continue the work he’d begun as an Irish MP.

There’d been good news too from their old home at Salter’s Grange. Their former neighbour, Mary-Anne Scott, once such a thorn in the flesh, had taken ill and died about eighteen months after their move. To their delight, their old friend Thomas had remarried a widow with a grown up son and daughter. Now, he and Selina had a little daughter of their own. But the news that delighted Rose most of all was of his eldest daughter, Annie. Bullied unmercifully by her mother, she’d been a poor downtrodden creature whom Rose had pitied but couldn’t dare to help. Thomas insisted that Rose would find her ‘well-improved’. She and her new step-mother were the best of friends and Selina had helped her find a job in a dress shop in Armagh. Now she was walking out with a young farmer from Ballyards. ‘A right sort of a fella,’ Thomas said approvingly.

Rose was delighted to count up all these items of good news, but as she did so she felt troubled that her horizons seemed so narrow compared to Elizabeth. While her friend was concerned about the fate of Boers and Africans, she herself was more involved with the fate of an unhappy child, the victim of a mother, so obsessed with the wrath of
God she had neither time, love nor kindness for her own child, or for her neighbours.

She did read the local newspapers and
The London Illustrated News
which Lady Anne sent her each week, but were it not for Elizabeth’s searching questions, she doubted she would give much attention to world events. Elizabeth always wanted to know what she thought about things, a local matter like a recent anti-Parnellite rally in Newry, or the latest bill going through Parliament, or the current crisis in South Africa.

It was part of their commitment as Quakers to pursue peace and goodwill by all possible means, Elizabeth had once explained, and you couldn’t do that unless you were well informed.

‘But can you really know the truth about what’s going on, Elizabeth? Don’t you remember that story about the mill in Ballygawley, burnt down by disaffected workers? Then we found out it was a spark from a traction engine catching a thatched roof that had started it. Newspapers can only print the reports they get. How can you rely on them?’

‘Mostly we don’t. That’s why we write letters and set up committees of our own. It’s not perfect, but at least we can trust other Friends to try and see things as clearly as possible. One has to try, even if one fails.’

Rose was impressed by her friend’s commitment, but she wondered what could ever be achieved in
South Africa when you had two groups of people so determined to treat each other as enemies. She remembered well enough the Land League’s struggle and her brother Sam’s hard work for the people who were being exploited and evicted. True, much had been achieved, but the bitterness generated between landlords and tenants and between strong farmers and their tenants, had never gone away.

Sam was now a successful land agent in Pennsylvania and a leading Trade Unionist. When she read his long letters, she was made so sharply aware of the disappointments he’d suffered. Even when he put a brave face on it, she knew he despaired of social justice as often in his new world as he’d once done in the old.

She often wondered how Sam would get on with people like Hugh and Elizabeth, people as privileged as the Molyneux’s, yet, like them, no more wishing to exploit their fellow creatures than they had been. The Land Leaguers would have condemned Sintons and Molyneux’s alike simply because they were owners or employers.

She remembered Old Thomas, the coachman at Currane Lodge. Sam said Old Thomas was probably the founding father of all manner of protest in that part of Kerry. Until she’d heard him hold forth about The Great Famine, she’d never even heard of Quakers.

‘Sure the Quakers kept whole villages alive. Did
ye not know? And they diden ask what ye believed, they only asked what you needed, would it be food or clothes, or the both.’

Thomas was unambiguous in his praise. The Quakers had raised money, he said, in Britain and America. They’d manned soup kitchens and distributed aid. They’d supplied vegetable seeds to plant and taught people who lived near the coast how to fish. Even if they could save so few, at least they’d tried. Thomas would never forget them for that.

When Christmas came and the Hamilton’s went to Holy Trinity for the Watch Night service, Rose wondered if ‘goodwill to all men’, could ever be anything other than a pious hope. One more of those things you expressed regularly on Sundays and forgot as regularly on Monday.

In the chill spaces of the newly enlarged church where she’d stood with Hannah and Sarah on a hot August day studying the marble carving of a ship trapped in ice, the memorial to a local man who had given his life looking for the Northwest passage, Rose thought of her friends, Elizabeth and Hugh, sitting in a small, plain meeting house, waiting upon inspiration to guide them in their service to others.

She had never thought of extending ‘friendship’ to all people, wherever they were, and whatever their need. She wondered if there was more she herself could do, she who had so much, and was
so very happy with her family all around her. She looked up at the ship locked in the ice and thought of the surviving crew setting out to walk to safety, the message they’d left for the benefit of others who might follow. Crozier had failed, for he’d not achieved what he’d set out to achieve. Nevertheless his efforts had not been in vain.

She felt sure trying and failing and accepting failure as a part of her life was the only way. There was such joy in success, and she’d had her share, but you can’t go through life without failing, however hard you try. The important thing would be to learn to accept failure when it comes and never to let it defeat you.

The mildness of late autumn carried on into the early weeks of the New Year, but towards the end of January stormy weather gathered itself with much more than its usual force. On a night of wild wind that whined and moaned and lashed rain furiously against the small-paned windows of Ballydown, the corrugated iron roof of the turf store was ripped off and thrown half way across Dolly’s sodden meadow. At the top of the hill, branches were torn from the limes in the avenue at Rathdrum and an old tree fell, narrowly missing one end of the workshop.

By the time John picked his way through the litter of broken branches an early messenger, breathless from his struggle with the wind, had already arrived to report a damaged roof at Millbrook, two miles north of Banbridge. A little later, another young lad climbed through the shattered branches with a message warning Hugh that the Bann looked as if it might burst its banks and flood the bleach works at Ballievy.

Before they could set off to view the damage, John and Hugh spent a cold, gust-blown hour pulling aside the torn branches so they could drive out in the brougham. The mill manager at Millbrook would have sent for their builder, but Hugh himself would have to give the orders for the work needed to secure the roof. He would then have to go to Ballievy where the danger of flooding would increase hourly with the run-off from the mountains and the surrounding countryside.

It was a difficult week for everyone, bringing the first real cold of winter. Rose didn’t go into Banbridge as she usually did. Apart from her walks to the foot of the hill when she heard the bread-man’s bugle, she stayed indoors, making sure there was a good fire for Hannah and Sarah coming in from school and a tasty and satisfying evening meal for the huge appetites the bitter cold always generated.

It was a relief to everyone when the storms died away. The quiet weather that followed was just as cold, but very still. Every blade of grass, every twig was coated with a glistening rime that seldom melted even when the sun reached its highest point in a translucent blue sky. The light was so clear the mountains moved dramatically closer, their outline as sharp as a freshly-made pen sketch.

By the middle of February the ground was frozen hard after continuous frosts. Each morning, Rose took a kettle of hot water outside to fill the dish for
her little birds. Each morning, she had to loosen and tip out the glistening disc left over from the previous day. As she threw it into the flowerbed, she noticed the lopsided sculpture of ice the individual discs now made, joined together by the slight melt in the noonday sun.

She poured the boiling water into the shallow stone dish John had bought her to replace the old frying pan she’d once used. The steam rose in clouds around her. Even so, by the time she’d gone back into the house and refilled the kettle, the water would have cooled. Within the hour, its surface would have silvered over and she’d have to walk out and poke it open again. She never grudged the task for in weather like this there wasn’t a drop of water to be had between here and the river.

With the clear, quiet weather continuing through February, the lengthening evenings were more apparent, but the mornings were still dark when John and Sam set off for work, the light growing weakly as Hannah and Sarah got ready for school. What didn’t change was the cold. On the last day of the short month, the sky was still dark as they wheeled their bicycles out onto the hill. The heavy cloud that had masked the pale sunrise thickened through the morning. When John came in for lunch, he looked up at the leaden sky and said he was sure they’d have snow.

An hour later, Rose watched anxiously as the
first flakes swirled round the windows. She looked at the clock. Hannah had a choir practice, so she’d be later than usual. She went to the door and watched the fine flakes swirl towards her. The tiny fragments were more like ash from a bonfire than proper snow. She spoke severely to herself. It might well be evening before there was any amount lying. She shut the door, lit the gas lamp, took out her sewing and settled down to wait for Sarah.

‘Are you frozen?’ she asked, when she came in by the back door.

‘Bits of me are,’ she replied, putting an icy cheek against Rose’s warm one. ‘And I’m starving,’ she went on, depositing her satchel on one kitchen chair and dropping her short, heavy cape onto another.

Rose decided not to remind her there were hooks for satchel and cape. Not today.

‘Go and cut yourself some bread and jam while I make us a pot of tea,’ she said, as Sarah stood in front of the stove, shivering, her dark eyes reflecting the leaping flames beyond its open doors. ‘I’ve put out some new damson,’ she added, as Sarah turned away and headed for the dairy.

‘Oh good. Damson’s my very favourite,’ she said, beaming.

Rose had just poured their tea and was waiting for Sarah to reappear when she heard a scrabbling sound outside the front door, so tentative, she wondered if it could be a knock at all. To be sure,
she went to the door and opened it. A bitter, chill wind poured into the warm kitchen.

‘Wou’d this be Rathdrum?’

Rose stared at the woman on her doorstep, so out of breath her words were barely audible. A woman younger than herself, but shorter and bent over, a great bundle in one arm, her face seamed with lines of weariness and anxiety.

‘No, I’m afraid it’s not,’ replied Rose honestly. ‘Was it Rathdrum you wanted?’ she added, quite unable to think what the woman might want there at this hour on such a day.

‘I’ve ta get a ticket fer the dispensry,’ she explained, gasping as she humped her bundle higher in her arms.

The bundle began to cry, more like a kitten than a child.

‘Come in and rest yourself for a minute or two,’ said Rose quickly. ‘It’s quite a bit up the hill yet. The steepest bit as well. I’ve just made a cup of tea,’ she added encouragingly.

‘Can’t stop,’ she said abruptly. ‘The chile’s bin sick since the morn’. It’s tha’ weak it can har’ly cry.’

‘I’ll go for the ticket,’ said Sarah firmly as she swung her cape over her shoulders and pushed her way past them. ‘Go in out of the cold, I won’t be long,’ she said quickly to the hunched figure and set off at a run before Rose could say a word.

‘Come and sit by the fire,’ she urged, as the
woman stepped reluctantly into the kitchen. ‘Sarah’s a good runner but it’ll be at least ten minutes till she’s back. Here, have some tea. It’s only just poured.’

The woman sank down in John’s armchair and hoisted the child onto her knee. She sat awkwardly balanced on its edge, looking around her uneasily, her eyes moving curiously over the stove, the pool of light from the gas lamp and the rows of plates and dishes on the dresser. The thin shawl she’d wrapped round her child fell away from its face, a small pale face but for two bright spots of colour on its cheeks.

‘Could you eat a bite? It would give you strength,’ Rose said gently as she saw the listless eyes rest on Sarah’s plate of bread and jam. ‘Here, give me the little one and have this with your tea,’ she went on, ‘I’ll drink mine later.’

She reached out for the close-wrapped bundle and found it much lighter than she’d expected. But then, the poor woman had been carrying it against the force of wind and snow. No wonder she’d been hunched over. The child barely moved when she took it in her arms. The small, pathetic cries continued as she walked it up and down the kitchen shushing it and rocking it, trying to soothe its agitation.

She paused at the edge of the lamplight to study the screwed up face that lay against her shoulder.

‘What age is the baby?’ Rose asked easily, trying to make the woman feel more comfortable.

The woman threw a glance towards her but couldn’t speak, her mouth was so full of bread and jam. She went on pushing food hurriedly into her mouth as if the plate would be taken from her at any moment.

‘Two in April,’ she replied in her flat, exhausted tone, as she swallowed the last morsel and drank deep from her mug of tea.

Rose was shocked. If she’d said a year, it might have fitted the weight in her arms, but at nearly two the child must be pathetically thin.

‘Had you no one at home to send for the ticket?’ she enquired sympathetically.

‘They’re all in the mill till seven. My man and the two boys,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I had a girl, but she got the cough and died last year. She was eight,’ she added, with a falling tone that somehow suggested it was her being eight had caused her to get a cough and die.

‘Can I pour you some more tea?’ Rose asked, as her visitor drained the very last drop in her mug by tipping her head so far back the light from gas lamp above shone down full upon her.

Under its soft, luminous glow, the woman’s face was sharply lit. Tight-stretched over protruding cheek bones, her skin had a brownish, muddy look, her dark wispy hair, already showing streaks of grey, was drawn back from her face and tied with a bit of rag. Her eyes were small, deep set and listless,
all light gone out of them. They glistened with moisture. Whether with the bite of the cold or with tears of frustration and exhaustion Rose simply could not tell.

The woman shook her head, clearly on edge, listening for any sign of Sarah’s return.

The baby had grown quieter in Rose’s arms, though the two red spots of colour on its cheeks had not abated. She continued to walk up and down the kitchen rocking it in her arms, glad when she saw her visitor stretch her bony hands towards the comforting flames.

She offered her own name and was given one in return. Not a name she knew, but she recognised the name of the scattered hamlet where the woman lived, a mere half mile away as the crow flew. The children used to run down from their own meadow to play by the small stream that marked the boundary with Lisnaree, but by the road from where she lived, it was nearer two miles to Ballydown. No wonder she was hunched with carrying and ravenous with the effort and the cold.

Rose was about to ask Maisie McKinley which of the mills her husband and sons worked in when they heard the sound of a vehicle on the road outside. A horse whinnied above the crunch of wheels and was answered by Dolly in her warm stable.

Maisie got up immediately and held out her arms for her child as Sarah burst into the kitchen
her cheeks pink, large, soft snowflakes caught in her dark curls.

‘Hugh’s brought the brougham down to take them to the dispensary. I’ll go too, there’s room for three,’ she added before Rose could protest.

‘What about your homework, Sarah?’

Sarah cast a glance at the slight figure clutching the silent child and shook her head dismissively.

‘Have you another blanket, Ma?’

Rose ran upstairs and fetched one and simply stood watching as Sarah threw it round Maisie Thompson’s shoulders, gathering the fullness at the front for her to clutch in her free hand. When Sarah wore that particular determined look, she knew better than to try to stop her.

‘Come on,’ Sarah said, turning to Maisie, ‘the path’s slippy. Walk on the grass, it’s safer,’ she insisted, as she drew her out into the snow. ‘Back later, Ma,’ she said over her shoulder, as Rose hovered in the doorway. ‘Don’t come out in the cold.’

She did as she was bid, shutting the door before the brougham began its cautious descent of the hill. She shivered fiercely as she came back to the stove. She knew nothing would have stopped Sarah from going with Maisie to the dispensary, yet she felt she ought to have tried.

Hugh would take care of her, of course, and make sure she didn’t sit around in the cold. She did
her best to reassure herself, but she knew it was not the cold or the icy roads she now feared. Between coming in from school and going off with Maisie, Sarah had grown up. With the others the change had come almost imperceptibly. Even now, there were moments when she looked at Sam and still saw the child she’d nursed. Hannah had always seemed older than her years and seldom needed her as much as Sarah had. But now her littlest love was striding into womanhood and nothing she could do would stop her. Nor should she. But she could not hide from herself the fact that, more than for any of the others, she feared for Sarah’s happiness.

‘Where’s Sarah?’ John asked, as he sat down in his armchair and pulled off his wet boots, his glance flickered from Hannah to Rose, as they moved about the kitchen, setting up the evening meal.

‘She went with Hugh to the dispensary,’ Rose replied coolly.

‘A bad night for her to be out,’ he said slowly. ‘Maybe ye should’ve said no.’

‘Da, you can’t say no to Sarah when she takes a notion,’ said Hannah promptly. ‘You know what she’s like.’

‘Aye, ye have a point,’ he said quietly. ‘She came up to us in the workshop like a whirlwind and told Hugh he’d need the brougham,’ he began. ‘She didn’t
ask
him,’ he went on, ‘she told him. An’ I hafta say
he just laid down his work and went straight out for the mare and I helped him harness her up. An’ she just stood there watchin’ us an’ niver a word to either till she jumped up beside him. “
There’s a poor woman with a sick child down home with Ma,
says she to him.
She was comin’ up here for a dispensary ticket. The least we can do is drive her there
.” He never said a word, just looked at her an’ gets up an’ takes the reins, an’ off they go.’

‘Was he annoyed with her, do you think?’ asked Hannah, as she finished her job and drew over a chair to sit down beside him.

‘I coulden tell ye, Hannah,’ he said, honestly, looking her full in the face. ‘The daylight was near gone and he was in a hurry. And ye know the faster Hugh moves, the more he holds his head down. He might not’ave been annoyed, but he was powerful quiet.’

Rose smiled ruefully at John as he sat back in his chair and looked up at the clock. Sam should be in any moment now, desperate for his supper. She’d expected Sarah and Hugh back long before this.

‘What was wrong with the we’an, Rose? Had ye anythin’ in the house to give it?’ John asked, as they all settled down to wait.

‘No, I couldn’t give it anything for I’d no idea what was wrong. It certainly wasn’t wind and it had no cough. But then it was so weak, it might not have had the energy to cough. Poor thing, it was so thin I
could feel its ribs through the shawl she’d wrapped it in. She looked half-starved herself,’ she said sadly, her eyes leaving him and focusing on the corner of the stove where Sarah’s plate of bread and jam had sat.