On a Clear Day (29 page)

The wag on the wall gathered itself, the throaty whirring warned them it was about to strike the hour.

‘Goodness, it’s six o’clock and you’ve had no tea yet,’ she said, concerned that Charlie would appear before she could get it on the table. ‘Will you tell me about this another time, Granda? I really do want to know.’

‘He’ll likely tell ye himself,’ said Robert easily. ‘He thinks yer a great girl. Especially since ye started listenin’ to Radio Eireann and comin’ out with the Irish. Maybe he’s hopin’ to get you into the movement,’ he added with a broad grin.

Clare picked up her blazer, pulled the kettle onto the heat and said she’d be back in a minute. As she hurried into her room and tugged her tunic over her head, a possible explanation for Robert’s manner came to her. He must have helped Charlie in some way when he was mixed up with the Republican Movement. But it was all very strange. Robert was so very loyal, she’d have thought he wouldn’t even speak to a Republican, yet he and Charlie were dear, close friends. It was all very strange.

Clare’s exam results were good, so good it seemed there was little doubt she’d get her scholarship the following June if she were to try for it. She was relieved and delighted. She’d been back at school only a few days when the bad news came.

A letter from a solicitor in Armagh informed them of the sale of the late Mr Albert Nesbitt’s farm, landholdings and other property to Mr Edward Hutchinson of Portadown and pointed out that, as sitting tenants, they were entitled to remain as tenants of the aforesaid Mr Edward Hutchinson. The rent could be forwarded to the Armagh or the Portadown branch of the above mentioned firm of solicitors. As from 3rd inst, the date of completion of the conveyance of the property, the amount payable would be increased to ten shillings.

‘Ten shillings?’ gasped Clare, as she came to the critical figure. She knew they’d never be able to scrape together ten shillings every week.

‘But they can’t do that. That’s a hundred percent increase. I’m sure that’s illegal.’

Robert shook his head.

‘Sure Albert hadn’t put the rent up for twenty years, Clarey. It’s maybe reasonable enough if we did but know it.’

‘But the new Taylor houses down in Eddie’s front field are only seven and six,’ she protested, ‘it was in the
Armagh Guardian
last week.’

‘Aye, but that doesn’t include rates. Albert
paid the rates on this place and I did all his bits of mending and welding no charge, so he wouldn’t be out of pocket. It works all right with someone ye know. But this new man doesn’t know us an’ maybe has no work I coud do fer him,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Or maybe he just wants the money,’ he added more sharply.

Clare saw the strained look on his face and regretted her outburst. She didn’t want him to be worried about it. It was up to her to find the money.

‘You’re probably right, Granda. I’ve been reading too much about wicked landlords and the Land League for history. But I don’t know what Charlie’s going to say when we tell him. I don’t think it’ll be popular.’

To her surprise, Robert laughed heartily. The strained look disappeared and he was perfectly cheerful again.

‘Charlie was all for shooting the landlords at one time,’ he said, still grinning. ‘If we’re bate we’ll send him down to Ballybrannan and see if he can get rid of yer man for us,’ he added, as he threw on his cap and headed for the forge, leaving Clare with the stiff, white sheet of paper still in her hands.

She thought about the new rent every time she cycled to or from school or whenever the routine, everyday jobs left her mind free. Over and over
again, she went through the details of their tiny budget and tried to see how she could cut their expenses. But she knew perfectly well she couldn’t. Even before this latest blow, the rise in food prices had begun to make things difficult. No, there was no doubt about it, the extra money for the rent would have to come from somewhere outside.

She thought of Uncle Bob who had always been so generous and Uncle Johnny, who would be generous were it not for his dear wife. And Auntie Polly, who was so generous by nature she seldom had any money in the first place.

Night after night, Clare lay awake doing sums in her head, considering the letters she might write. In the end, she decided she needed to save Uncle Bob and Uncle Johnny for real emergencies and somehow solve this one herself. What she needed was a Saturday job that paid considerably more than Margaret’s five shillings a week, but few women could afford help and there were no shops in Armagh so busy on a Saturday they’d pay for an extra pair of hands.

She had still not solved her problem when an envelope arrived with a London postmark, the address written in a large, flowing, quite unfamiliar hand.

‘Andrew Richardson,’ she said aloud. It had to be. She laughed as she tore it open and hastily read the friendly message.

In the year or more since they had stood together on Scrabo Tower, he’d sent her twenty postcards and a Christmas card. Admittedly, when he sent a postcard, he chose a very interesting or attractive one, covered the whole space on the back in tiny writing and put it in an envelope. But he had never written what Clare would call ‘a proper letter’. This was the first time he’d even written her a note.

He had been apologetic, explained that letters intimidated him, that he couldn’t face the empty pages. He promised he would try but, please, in the meantime, would she forgive him and go on writing, he so enjoyed her letters. They were his only real contact with home.

This time his note said he’d be spending the rest of the long vacation in England and would not be visiting Drumsollen House in the immediate future. She wasn’t really surprised, as he’d hinted this might happen. He congratulated her on her splendid exam results and said he was sure she’d get her scholarship next year. He was now off to Norfolk to stay with his Great-Aunt Mary, a formidable lady who’d run a field hospital in France during the First World War and now ran her north coast village through her chairmanship of the Parish Council. He was looking forward to getting away from London where he’d been staying with his uncle’s family. He hoped to do
some bird-watching out on the marshes but his main objective was to paint Great Aunt Mary’s kitchen, which looked very sorry for itself. It had been flooded to a depth of six feet when the sea defences gave way earlier in the year.

Clare wondered where Great-Aunt Mary had been while the sea was busy flooding her kitchen. As she added the note to the small pile in one of the two tiny drawers below the mirror in her room, a thought struck her. June Wiley was now full-time housekeeper at Drumsollen House. She would go and see if she needed another pair of hands.

‘Aye, right enough Clarey, it was a good thought,’ said June warmly, as she sat them down at her kitchen table. ‘There’s that much work up at Drumsollen I could do with half a dozen girls. An’ I’d be right glad to have a sensible one like you at the weekend when these visitors come. But between you an’ me the money’s tight. There’s times John says he’s seen old man Richardson clear out his own wallet to make up the wages for the staff on a Friday. An’ sure even that’s cut down t’half what there used to be when I first went there as a maid.’

‘What d’you think’s happened, June? Granda says they used to be very well off. Were they?’ Clare asked as she sipped her tea.

‘Oh aye, Clarey. I remember before the war the
big parties there useta be. And whatever was left over, should it be smoked salmon or Irish ham, or meringue pie or trifle, it was shared out for the indoor and outdoor staff to take home. You wouldn’t see the likes of that these days even if you could get the stuff. Every wee bit there is left goes into the larder or that big fridge the Missus got back in 1940 before everything got so scarce.’

She reached forward and refilled Clare’s teacup, cast an eye out of the kitchen window to make sure her three girls were busy with the jobs she’d given them.

‘Here, dear, have another wee scone. Isn’t it nice to see a bit of white flour again?’

‘Lovely scones, June. John always says he can’t understand why he’s not fat as you’re such a good cook.’

June tossed her head and made a dismissive remark, but Clare knew she was pleased. She was sure June and John must be a very happy couple. Although they both worked hard, she’d never heard either of them complain about the long hours up at the house or the jobs waiting to be done by whoever got back home first, except in a light-hearted way.

‘I think the beginning of it was when William and Adeline were killed over in London. Oh dear, that was a terrible shock. Old Mr Richardson went roun’ lookin’ like a ghost for months. He
was just devastated. I think William was his favourite, an’ he was a very clever man. He’d just got into Stormont like the father an’ they had him in Economic Development or suchlike. He wasn’t the boss but he was gettin’ that way. I think he was the one kept the family right with their money, the investments and so on, for they haven’t all that big an amount of land, not in these parts anyway, though there’s more down in Fermanagh.’

June gave a complicated explanation of the Fermanagh connections of the Richardsons, which Clare found difficult to follow, and then returned to the fortunes of Drumsollen.

‘Not only was William gone, leavin’ his son to be educated the expensive way these people think fit, but Edward, William’s older brother loses his wife and kinda goes off the rails. They say he drank his way through a fortune before he met this widow with a daughter and a bit of money of her own. He farms out Caledon way and is a great horsey man. Hunts and trains showjumpers. Always back and forth to Dublin. They say if it weren’t for the wife, he’d have to sit on an egg less and it’s her father pays for their boy’s education. As well as the girl, Virginia her name is, they’ve a boy Edward would be a couple o’ years younger than Andrew. Have you ever met young Andrew?’ she threw out, as she stood up and had another look out at her girls.

To her amazement, Clare found herself blushing. She was terribly grateful when June opened the window and asked her elder daughter if they’d finished doing the vegetables.

‘June, it’s nearly your supper time and I’m keeping you back,’ Clare said, recovering herself. She stood up and carried their empty cups to the sink. ‘Yes, I’ve met him twice,’ she went on. ‘The first time he mended my bike down by the gates and the second time was up at Stormont, of all places. I was visiting with my cousin and he’d taken his grandfather up to some meeting or other. We all went to look at the view from Scrabo Tower while he was waiting for him. We had a lovely afternoon.’

‘Aye ye woud that. Sure Andrew’s good company. He coud talk to anyone, high or low. Whether it was the Queen herself or the old char woman, it’s all the same to Andrew. Just like his father. Doesn’t go down well with the Missus. That’s why we don’t see much of him, more’s the pity. I suppose travelling is expensive. That’s her excuse anyway.’

The door opened and the three girls appeared. The eldest, Helen, carried a bowl of water full of peeled potatoes. The next, Jennifer, had a dish of chopped cabbage and the youngest, Caroline, carried a black kitten with large blue eyes.

June stood back, her hands on her hips, and laughed.

‘Are we going to have Kitty for supper then?’ she said, picking up the youngest child. ‘Didn’t I tell you to bring the supper in till we get it on the stove for Daddy comin’?’

The child laughed and threw her spare arm round her mother’s neck, while hanging on firmly to the kitten with the other.

‘Hope I haven’t kept John’s supper back,’ Clare said smiling. ‘Tell him it was my fault.’ She thanked June for the tea and scones and for her company.

‘Sure it was a pleasure to see you, Clarey, an’ I’ll not ferget what you told me. I’ll maybe hear something woud be a help to you. Now wait a wee minit. Take yer hurry, as the sayin’ is,’ she insisted, as she lowered the child to the floor and took a paper bag from the kitchen drawer.

‘Take a few wee scones for you an’ Robert. Tell him I was askin’ for him. An’ I’m sure somethin’ will turn up,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Never fear, Clarey. I’ll keep my ears open an’ so will John,’ she said cheerfully, as she put the potatoes into a saucepan and set them to boil.

‘I’d not be one bit surprised if somethin’ didn’t just fall inta yer lap.’

John Wiley always thought there was a touch of the fortune teller about his wife, but when he arrived back from Drumsollen House a few nights after Clare’s visit and heard a Saturday job had
appeared for her, he reckoned it was little short of miraculous.

‘Now draw over an’ eat your meal like a good man. Sure ye can take a run down to the forge when ye’ve had it an’ tell her the good news yerself,’ June said, as she took a covered plate from the oven and put it on the table in front of him. ‘Eat up now, for ye must be starvin’ an’ it’s late. Was it the car again?’

John nodded sharply as he tucked in to his meal. As Old Man Richardson often said, the car, like himself, was getting on in years. These older models needed much more attention to keep them going.

‘So tell us what happened, June,’ he said, as he hungrily lowered bacon and cabbage with forkfuls of mashed potato. ‘All I heerd in the course o’ the day was that aul’ Martha Robinson had handed in her cards, an’ you’d spoken for a girl for Saturdays. I can’t see how that’s come about atall.’

June laughed heartily and nodded as she put the kettle to boil.

‘Ye coud have knocked me down wi’ a feather when the Missus came into the kitchen. You’d know somethin’ was well amiss fer she niver sets foot beyond the end of the carpets. The long an’ the short of it was, Martha’s been goin’ to the tent mission at Lisnadill, this great evangelist chap they’re all takin’ about. Martha’s got religion.
An’ she’s got it bad. So the first thing she does is give up comin’ to the house on a Sunday to do the lunch. It’ll be doun on her knees mornin’ and night from now on.’

‘Aye, but that’s Sundays,’ said John looking puzzled.

‘It is indeed. But the Missus is no fool. She knows fine well that you’ll not get anyone to come an’ work like Martha did, so she comes askin’ can I make a meal on Saturday she can heat up on Sunday.’