On a Clear Day (24 page)

Clare shook her head and laughed. In this mood, there was something so direct about Ronnie. He was so open and without guile. And yet she sensed he was not as easy as he liked to pretend. It seemed to her his dramatic style and lively manner
was one way of distracting attention from his true feelings. The more she saw of him, the more she thought he’d begun to be very unhappy indeed, that something had made him really uneasy, even downright angry.

‘But, it wasn’t enough to get you a job, Ronnie?’ she said softly as she leafed through the pile of articles.

‘Nope! You don’t want people asking questions unless you’re sure they’ll come up with the appropriate answers and I might have had some answers that didn’t suit. Quite reliable on the beauty front, but a different cup of tea if you let him loose on anything that matters.’

‘Like your research on bronchitis?’

‘How did you know about that?’ he asked sharply, a startled look on his face.

‘You mentioned it in the bus when I said I remembered the Gasworks and it sounded to me as if you knew quite a lot a about it.’

She watched him look away as if something at the far side of the room required his immediate attention. In the low light from the two lamps he’d made from old wine bottles, his face looked almost haggard, quite unlike the person who’d reminded her of a wartime beauty recipe.

‘And what you knew had upset you,’ she added quietly.

‘You don’t miss much,’ he said wryly, as he
turned back towards her and stared down at the black marble hearth. ‘That was the last straw, when they wouldn’t publish that particular article. “It wouldn’t look good”, they said. “Controversial”, “Might offend the Ward councillors.” If journalism is about anything, surely it’s about the truth, about pointing out human misery and exploitation. How can you ever change what needs to be changed if all the unpleasant things are swept under the carpet, if only the people who are well-fed and comfortable have a voice?’ he said, making no attempt whatever to conceal his bitterness.

‘That’s why you’re going, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is, Clare. Part of me doesn’t want to go one little bit. I love this grim, old city in a funny way. I don’t mind being broke. I don’t even mind the place being run down and behind the times, but I mind not being able to say so, not being able to try to change things, to make things better. I thought I could stick it out, but I can’t. I’m getting nowhere fast. And that’s wrong. If you’ve got something you can do then you have to find a place and a time where you can do it, otherwise you let yourself down. And if you let yourself down, then ultimately you let others down.’

He looked into the glow of the gas fire, defeat on his face.

‘You won’t let anyone down, Ronnie,’ she said firmly. ‘You never have, so you’re hardly likely
to start now. At your advanced age,’ she added lightly.

To her delight, he smiled. He reached out, took her hand and squeezed it.

‘My father once said you were a lot older than your years. I think he has a point,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘I shall miss you more than anyone else in Ulster, even though I’ve only seen you once in a blue moon. Don’t forget that.’

He got up, drew her to her feet and kissed her gently on the lips. Without another word he led her downstairs and brought her through to the kitchen where Mrs McGregor was filling hot water bottles on the scrubbed wooden draining board beside her ancient gas cooker.

Clare collapsed gratefully onto the vibrating front seat of the double decker bus and stared down at the continuously changing pattern of pedestrians on the crowded pavements below. Across the square, beyond the heavy-leafed trees, the dazzling white stone of the City Hall expanded outwards in pillared porches. Exotic, turquoise-capped turrets reached upwards from its solid mass. Silhouetted against a pure blue sky they made her think of rock outcrops projecting from a limestone cliff.

Beside her, Ronnie waited till two women sat down in the seat across the way, then arranged his long legs as best he could in the aisle between. It had been his idea to walk down from Queen’s to their city centre bus stop. That way, he said, they could get a proper look at interesting buildings like the Moravian Church, or pause at the junction with the Lisburn Road to cast an eye down the terraces of Sandy Row towards the red-brick mass of Murray’s Tobacco Factory.

Although his tour of Queen’s had been very thorough and they’d been on their feet since nine o’clock, she’d been happy enough to walk when they emerged from the main gate and turned
towards the city. In the previous two hours, he had shown her all the buildings on the main university site. He’d taken her into the Great Hall to look at the ceiling and the portraits, marched her round the Quad and pointed out the various lecture theatres. He bought them a cup of tea in the Student’s Union, then walked her back to the library and upstairs to the reading room.

Not satisfied with his whispered tour of the main subject areas and his brief guide to classification, he’d approached a small, grey-haired lady, deployed his considerable charm and got permission to take her into the stack.

The warm, musty atmosphere of the book stack was totally intriguing. Fascinated by the endless rows of books on subjects she had never even heard of, Clare realised she wasn’t paying attention to what he was saying. But when she did manage to say something, she was quite surprised to discover he’d been watching her closely and didn’t mind at all that she’d missed what he’d just said.

Curious about the circular windows beside the small work areas beyond the metal walkways, she stepped towards one, pulled out a chair and sat peering down at the sunlit lawns and pathways below. The only noise she could hear was the distant mutter of the central heating system keeping the temperature up for the sake of the books and the quiet footsteps of a librarian loading a trolley
with the requests from the reading room.

‘Did you work up here?’ she asked abruptly, aware she hadn’t said a word for ages.

‘In my final year, yes.’

She saw him look at her quizzically, but he said nothing. He just waited till she stood up, then said: ‘Come on, I told Josephine we wouldn’t be long.’

‘Is that her name?’ she asked, surprised they should be on such intimate terms.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he replied, smiling, as she followed him back towards the entrance. ‘But the Chief Librarian is known as Napoleon. He’s not on this morning or you’d see why.’

She grinned back at him as they came through the door of the stack and headed for the request counter. The top of a grey head was the only sign of the lady in question.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Ronnie, as the head responded immediately to the sound of their approach. ‘I’m touting for new business so you won’t be out of a job,’ he added cheerfully, as she cast an appraising glance at Clare, then attempted to look severely at him.

As they were crossing Shaftesbury Square to get to the Dublin Road, Clare realised she shouldn’t have worn her best shoes. The little pair of Louis-heels had had several recent outings, but visiting Aunt Sarah, or going to the Ritz with Jessie, didn’t exactly involve much walking.

‘Queen’s Bridge,’ said Ronnie quietly as they crossed the Lagan. ‘That’s the Liverpool boat berthed down there. They’re probably checking out their red carpet for tomorrow night,’ he added.

‘Don’t say things like that, Ronnie,’ she replied hastily. ‘You’ll make me cry and I mustn’t. I’m a big girl now.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said seriously. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be so grown up.’ He paused a moment and added, ‘Sweet sixteen and all that. It’s not even your birthday till October,’ as if his problem with her grown-upness was a matter of arithmetic.

She looked away and studied the rows of tiny shops lining the Newtownards Road. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Was that what he was thinking? But she had been kissed. He’d kissed her himself last night and now he looked as if he might like to kiss her again if only they hadn’t been on a bus surrounded by women with shopping bags.

As the thought struck her, she had no idea what to say.

A moment later, Ronnie had to give his attention to his legs as the two large women in the nearby seat began to manoeuvre their persons, bags and parcels into the narrow aisle. As the bus juddered to a halt, Ronnie collected himself and continued his commentary on the passing scene.

‘It gets posher as you get further out,’ he began. ‘Higher density of trees whacks up the property prices. By the time you see Castlehill Road leading to Massey Avenue you’re in Nob’s Hill. Minister of Education, Under Secretary of This and That, you know. They live there to be near the job. Walk to work on the chauffeur’s day off,’ he added casually. ‘If you see policemen around, then some big shot has been sent from Head Office to make sure they’re doing it right. But mostly in July they all go on their hols. That’s why it gets so quiet the likes of us can sneak in the back door and get a shufti.’

‘Golly, is that it?’ Clare asked in amazement.

Suddenly they were past the substantial suburban houses with neatly trimmed hedges and old roses and a huge building perched high on a hillside shone white in the brightness of the sunlight.

‘Yes, that’s it. The seat of what this benighted province chooses to call “democracy”. Looks quite impressive now they’ve got the cow dung and black paint off. You probably don’t remember that.’

‘Remember what?’

‘Camouflage. During the war. They wanted to put the Air Force and a whole lot of top brass in there. Sounded like a bad joke. The place made a wonderful target. Absolutely marvellous bomb run
up any of the approach avenues and a vast, shoe-box of a building gleaming white in a bomber’s moon.’

The bus stopped. They got off and stood gazing up the long, tree-lined drive that climbed steadily towards the imposing front of the building beyond the heavy wrought-iron gates.

‘So they painted it and covered up the avenues with cinders,’ he went on. ‘It’s taken them years to get it cleaned up again.’

‘Did they really use cow dung or are you pulling my leg again?’

‘Yes, honest Injun. I do not tell a lie. Uncle Harry was in on the job. He’ll tell you. Some chemist or other worked it out. But the mix didn’t come off as well as it was supposed to. They’d awful trouble with streaks.’

Clare looked longingly at the green slopes running parallel to the handsome avenue and the grey pavement now growing steeper by the minute.

‘Do you think we could walk on the grass?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Don’t see why not,’ he replied promptly. ‘They can’t put you in jail, you’re under age. I’m being transported anyway. What the hell!’

Clare stepped onto the grass, took off her shoes and felt the soft, cool turf under her hot, swollen feet. She felt better immediately.

‘Ah, these country colleens,’ said Ronnie, looking down at her with a exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m
sorry we’re late for the morning dew. You could have bathed in it.’

She giggled and trailed her feet as they slowed down on the steepest part of the slope. Ahead of them, the right arm of a huge statue was raised against the blue of the sky in a fierce, menacing gesture. A few vehicles loaded with tree prunings and gardening equipment were parked on the roundabout at his feet, indifferent to his protest.

‘Worth it for the view, isn’t it?’ he said, as they stood catching their breath on the wide stone terrace in front of the main entrance.

The city with its encircling hills was laid out below and beyond them. Only the beginnings of heat shimmer softened the sharp outlines of the edge of the Antrim basalts, the strong lines of factories and mills, churches and warehouses, docks and gantries and the massed ranks of back to back houses that had spread outwards from the flat land around the docks and the city centre as industry demanded more and yet more labour.

From this distance, the unhealed gaps left by the bombing were almost invisible, the shabbiness of buildings untenanted or awaiting demolition masked by sunlight and trees. Clare looked up at Ronnie and saw his face crumple. He’d said last night that he loved this city, but now she saw so clearly just how much it meant to him. She turned away and looked along the terrace towards the car
park in case her seeing his distress would make it even worse for him.

Ronnie gave his uncle’s name to the doorman and they went inside. She took in the vast sweep of the entrance hall, stared up at the elaborately decorated ceiling and looked longingly at the marble tiled floor. She couldn’t quite believe it. She thought of ballrooms on the screen at the Ritz Cinema, remembered the Churchill’s ball in
Emma
.

‘Just perfect for ten couples,’ she whispered, as the doorman disappeared in search of his colleague.

‘Da ta da, ta ta ta ta ta,’ sang Ronnie loudly.

To her utter amazement, he caught her in his arms and swung her across the floor to the unmistakable rhythm of ‘The American Patrol’.

‘Ronnie,’ she gasped, as he executed a skilful reverse turn in the midst of the empty space.

But his only answer was to move them in even wider circles towards the impressive staircase at the far end of the brightly-lit hall.

She had no idea Ronnie was such a good dancer. The further they went, the more elaborate his footwork became, but his hand on her waist was so firm that she reckoned if she missed her step he’d just pick her up and put her down again. Ronnie swung her towards the foot of the great staircase just as a figure appeared on the half
landing and began to make his way down.

As they came to a halt, she followed Ronnie’s gaze. A young man in a very white shirt was descending slowly, his jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder, his eyes flickering casually around the empty space behind them. For one moment, Clare thought she was imagining things. The figure stopped beside them.

‘Hello, Clare,’ he said, smiling at them both.

She was quite sure now from the quizzical look in his eye he’d seen them dancing.

‘Hello, Andrew,’ she just managed to reply. ‘This is my cousin, Ronnie McGillvray. Ronnie, this is Andrew Richardson. He lives up the road from us.’

Ronnie looked doubtfully at Andrew Richardson and then smiled suddenly.

‘Clare and I are about to have a free, conducted tour of the premises,’ he began. ‘Would you like to join us or have you done it all before?’

‘No, this is my first time here,’ he said easily. ‘I’m on chauffeur duty for Grandfather and I’d love to see round the place.’

‘Well, now’s your chance. That tall, grey-haired man by the entrance looking this way and wondering what on earth’s keeping us is my uncle. The bigger his audience, the better he likes it. What we lack in numbers, we must make up for in intelligent interest. Come on.’

Taking Clare’s hand, he walked her back along the pillared hall as Andrew fell into step on her other side.

Uncle Harry’s tour of Stormont was an event Clare was sure she’d never forget. Apart from the fact that he insisted they see every corner of the building from the basement to the top storey, he was full of stories about the well-known personalities who had come and gone over his long years of service. Names she knew only from the more up to date history books or from Granda Scott’s avid perusal of the newspapers were Uncle Harry’s ‘regulars’, faces he recognised, striding figures who said ‘Good morning’, or stopped for a friendly word as they headed for their respective chambers.

Harry McGillvray sat them down at the back of the empty lower chamber and described exactly how it looked when it was in session, who sat where and how the various members related to each other. As she listened, it occurred to Clare you might do worse than read an account Uncle Harry and some of his colleagues could put together if you really wanted a history of the political events in the Province.

‘There wasn’t much we diden know about up here,’ he said, nodding to himself, as he led them into the Senate Chamber.

He pointed up at a recently-carved inscription
recording the gratitude of the King for the use of the chamber as an Air Force Headquarters during the war.

‘Me an’ young Bill Murray were on duty the night o’ the big Blitz. He was on this door here, an’ I was down at the entrance. All I coud see whin I luked out was the whole sky lit up an’ the city afire. I couden tell whit parts was hit though I knew for sure the docks woud get it. I was thinkin’ o’ course ’bout the wife an’ the boys, fer we lived York Street way in them days,’ he explained, turning to Ronnie.

Clare watched Uncle Harry as he nodded up towards the inscription, his face deeply lined, his eyes bright with moisture, his recall pin sharp. Ronnie was standing very still beside her, the gaunt look suddenly strongly marked on his face. But, as Uncle Harry continued, it was Andrew’s appearance that changed most dramatically. His relaxed manner, his fresh, sun-tanned look disappeared. His skin paled and his features became immobile. He grew ill-at-ease and fidgety.

‘Bill could see nothin’ outside atall because o’ the black out,’ Harry McGillvray continued. ‘But he coud see the big table that was jus here. The wee Waf girls was puttin’ the bombers on it, comin’ in over the city. The telephones were ringin’ from the batteries and the look-outs an’ the fire brigades an’ suchlike. An’ he was thinkin’ jus the same as
me. “Ah wonder is the missus and the we’eans all right”.’

As she stood listening, Clare became aware that they were in the room where the devastation of the city had been played out with models and counters on a broad, spotlighted table.