On a Clear Day (36 page)

Of the four black-suited figures she might not see again for many a day, only Bob seemed sad as he waved to her before he reversed down to the empty main road.

But the last word was Sarah’s. As soon as she’d arranged her skirt carefully beneath her bottom so that it wouldn’t crease, she wound down the car window and leant out.

‘Make sure you read your Bible every day, Clare,’ she said, as Johnny started the engine. ‘You can keep on re-using the notes I gave you last Christmas. There is just so much to be gained by rereading the same passages at regular intervals.’

And then Johnny, too, reversed down to the empty main road and set off on the long journey back to Fermanagh.

There was still light outdoors as the dusk faded and the hush of evening deepened over the quiet land.
Clare stood under the rose trellis at the front of the house for a long time, listening to the blackbirds as they called and scuffled before settling to roost. When she glimpsed the first star she stepped back into the kitchen and found it so dark she couldn’t have picked her way between the abandoned chairs but for the glow of the stove, which cast their tall shadows against the distempered walls.

She carried the chairs back to their place in the sitting room, ignored the scattered remains of tea and dropped down on the settle. It was the first time she had been able to sit quietly by herself since the moments by the well in the orchard the previous day.

She’d always loved the kitchen when it was lit only by the radiance from the stove. Often, when Robert, rose to light the lamp, she felt sad as the kindly shadows were driven away. In the flickering firelight, one was not aware of the soot-blackened ceiling or the scuffed, varnished paper that covered the lower half of the walls. The dirt and grime she struggled to keep at bay simply disappeared and she could enjoy the gleam of well-loved objects, the wag on the wall with its brass weights, the shiny black noses of the china dogs on the mantelpiece, the well-polished surface of the mahogany drop-leaf table that saw service only at Christmas, the wink of the glass panes in the corner cupboard.

She looked across at the empty chair and for a moment imagined she saw the faint haze of smoke from his pipe. She smiled to herself. She was sure the smell of his tobacco would always linger in her mind. Judging by the pained look on Sarah’s face when she’d come back with Uncle Bob from Granda’s room, the Bibles and Bible commentaries were thoroughly pickled in his favourite Mick McQuaid tobacco.

On the mahogany table, an old stone jar, held a bunch of gold and bronze chrysanthemums. They were not the impressive blooms the local florists had used for the wreaths, they were spray chrysanthemums, garden grown, smaller and more homely, with a wonderful spicy smell. They had been waiting for her when she came back from the orchard and found John Wiley lighting the Tilley lamp under the watchful eyes of Sadie and Sarah.

‘The Senator and the Missus sent these for you, Clare,’ he said, drawing her over to the scrubbed table where he’d laid the blooms in their brown paper wrapping. ‘An’ I’ve a wee somethin’ here from Andrew forby,’ he added quietly, as she bent down to see if there was any rainwater left in the galvanised bucket in the big cupboard.

‘Does Andrew know about Granda?’ she asked, straightening up immediately.

‘Aye. He phones his Granda fairly regular,’ he explained, ‘but the Richardsons were up at
Caledon on Friday, so he got June, an’ of course she tol’ him. So he rang again later, an’ asked the Senator for these.’

John took from the deep pocket of his coat an old tin box. Inside, half a dozen small sprays of fuchsia with the pendant blooms of Clare’s Delight were carefully packed in damp moss. She had burst into tears and clutched John as if she would never let him go.

‘Ach, there now, Clarey,’ he said, putting his arms round her, ‘Sure Robert was a good age. You’d not want to ’ave seen him poorly, now wou’d you?’

She shook her head vigorously and mopped up her tears as quickly as she could. What had made her cry this time was the thought of the Senator, a man she had come to know and like, an exact contemporary of Robert himself, going to his greenhouse and cutting his precious blooms, surely the last blooms of the season, to send to her, because Andrew had asked him if he could spare them.

The fire was dropping low and the room growing chill. Remembering that Jessie would be arriving soon, she stirred herself, made up the stove and lit the lamp. The soft, yellowy light grew as she turned up the wick and the familiar gentle hiss broke the silence of the room. How many times had she watched Robert light the lamp? Now, she
would have to go on lighting it until the electric came. According to the newspaper, it wouldn’t be long now.

She shook her head and paused, staring up at the soot-blackened boards of the ceiling where tiny flecks of distemper had fallen off, leaving white marks on the dark surfaces. She stood, a large, empty teapot in her hands and knew, suddenly and quite clearly, that she would never look up at the blackened ceiling and see a light bulb hanging there. For a moment, she was completely taken aback.

‘And why should I?’ she said aloud, recovering herself.

She could imagine how unforgiving the electric light would be, illuminating all the dark corners. It would cast harsh shadows and show up the sad shabbiness of this well-loved room. Yes, of course, ‘the electric’ made life easier. Granny and Granda Hamilton and their immediate neighbours had all had it put in this year. They all said how much work it saved and how much less cleaning there was. But no one ever spoke of what had been lost when it came.

‘Hello, Clare, how’re ye doin?’

‘Oh, Jessie, how good to see you,’ she said, as her friend walked in, the fur collar of her coat beaded with tiny specks of rain. ‘You shouldn’t have come down for me, you know. I’d have come
up later and you could’ve had longer with Harry.’

‘Ach, not atall. He’ll be late enough by the time he gets back to Belfast,’ she said dismissively, her back to Clare as she slipped off her coat and parked it over a chair. ‘Did ye get yer aunties off all right?’

Clare grinned.

‘Sarah told me to make sure I read my Bible every day.’

As Jessie raised her hands in a familiar gesture of despair, Clare caught the glint of diamonds.

‘Come on, Jessie, let’s see it. You kept your gloves on this afternoon,’ she said cheerfully.

She saw Jessie’s face crumple. She seemed so awkward and uncomfortable and not like her usual self at all. She’d been pale when she’d arrived, but Clare thought it was just the cold of the night air. Now she was beginning to think something was wrong.

‘I’d have called the party off, Clare, if it hadn’t been for the message ye left me on Friday,’ she said, uneasily.

‘Of course you would, I know that,’ Clare said reassuringly. ‘Do you really think Robert would have been very pleased if I’d let you? “Ach, a lot o’ nonsense. Shure life goes on. Isn’t it grate news about Jessie.” That’s what he’d have said, Jessie, isn’t it?’

Jessie nodded. Robert had no time for
sentimentality. But she was still ill at ease as she held out her hand for Clare’s benefit. The tiny circle of diamonds winked again.

‘Oh it’s lovely, Jessie,’ said Clare warmly. ‘Is that a sapphire in the middle?’

‘Yes. Harry said it was to match my eyes,’ she said flatly. ‘He’s always saying daft things like that.’

‘It’s not daft. You have lovely blue eyes and you look gorgeous in that coat. You really can wear posh clothes,’ Clare said enthusiastically.

To her great surprise, she saw tears wink in the corner of Jessie’s eyes and her lips begin to tremble.

‘Oh Jessie, love, what’s wrong? What is it? Have I said something?’

For one awful moment Clare wondered if Jessie might be pregnant. Something awful must have happened to upset her so. She hadn’t seen her cry like this since the night she’d found her in the barn after her father shot himself.

‘Ach, it’s nothin’ you said. It’s just everythin’,’ she sobbed. ‘I have Harry, an’ we’re engaged an’ everythin’ in the garden’s rosy an’ you’ve lost Robert an’ Andrew is away over in England an’ …’

Jessie voice failed her and she broke down into floods of tears.

‘And what, Jessie?’ Clare repeated. Whatever Jessie wasn’t telling her was going to be very bad news indeed. Suddenly, she felt sick with tension
and she couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer.

Jessie struggled with a minute scrap of lace and muttered incoherently.

‘Please, Jessie,’ Clare pleaded. ‘Just tell me. Tell me
now
.’

But Jessie was so distraught it took some time before she was able to say anything coherent. When finally Clare grasped what Jessie was saying she felt the blood run from her cheeks and her hands go stone cold.

On the way home from Robert’s funeral, Mrs Rowentree had stopped to give a lift to a local girl who’d gone to the same secretarial college in Belfast as Jessie. Maisie Armstrong had got a job in a solicitor’s office in Armagh and had come back to live at home. She’d asked Mrs Rowentree how Jessie was and if she and Clare were sharing a flat in Belfast. Mrs Rowentree said no, they weren’t, and wondered what had put that idea into the girl’s head. When she enquired further Maisie grew so embarrassed and awkward Mrs Rowentree had pressed her to explain. Finally, she’d blurted out she thought Clare must be going to live permanently in Belfast now because on Friday she’d had to type up all the papers for terminating the tenancy.

Clare sat stunned, unable to grasp how something so awful could happen so quickly and just when it was least expected. It had never
occurred to her she might lose her home. Despite all the encouraging things Jessie went on to say she knew suddenly and quite clearly that nothing was going to change matters. Jessie was quite right to be upset. For the second time in ten years she knew she was not only bereft, she would be homeless as well. She wept silently while Jessie made tea.

‘Maybe she’s talkin’ through her hat,’ said Jessie, desperately, as she poured for them. ‘I shouldn’t a’ mentioned it till at least we were sure, till we had these damn papers,’ she went on, totally distraught at Clare’s distress. ‘Surely he can’t do that,’ she declared, ‘just put you out when the rent’s paid regular and the Scotts have been here since pussy was a kitten.’

‘I think he can probably do what he likes,’ Clare replied flatly. ‘He doubled the rent the minute he got his hands on old Albert’s land.’

‘Did he?’

Clare nodded wearily.

‘That’s why I got the job at Drumsollen,’ she explained. ‘We couldn’t have paid the new rent if I hadn’t.’

‘You never told me that,’ Jessie said, accusingly.

‘Some secrets are not very exciting. I’ve always told you all my nice secrets?’

‘Clare, is there any whiskey left?’

‘There might be,’ she replied vaguely, nodding at the glass-fronted cupboard.

Jessie put down her teacup, threw open the glass doors and inspected the remnants in the surviving bottles.

Clare sat quite still, looking up at the blackened ceiling. Some part of her had known. Whenever she lost one thing, she lost everything. Well, not quite everything. She had some friends and she had a room of her own. But the thought of never coming home, of there being nowhere to go on a Friday evening, no place beyond where she lived and worked through the week …

‘Here, drink that,’ said Jessie, taking away her teacup.

She handed her a glass of whiskey to which she’d added a generous splash of spring water.

Clare drank obediently and sat silently looking into the fire. She didn’t even notice Jessie refill her glass.

‘Jessie, dear, I know I said I’d come home with you tonight and we’d spend tomorrow together. Please don’t be annoyed with me, but I have to stay here tonight.’

‘Aye. I thought you might. Will I stay with you?’

Clare shook her head.

‘And have your mother worry herself silly?’ she said patiently, as she wiped her damp face.

As time passed and they sat talking together, she began to feel that perhaps things weren’t so bad after all. She was tired and rather thirsty, but
the heat of the fire was so comforting and Jessie seemed to be in better spirits now.

‘Don’t worry, it might never happen,’ she said reassuringly, as she got up and went outside for a pee.

An hour later, Jessie left her to cycle back to Tullyyard. Before she went, she insisted Clare get ready for bed and put out the Tilley lamp in the kitchen. She lit a candle for her and made her promise to lock the door and put out the candle the moment she’d gone.

Once outside, Jessie stood in the darkness, listening intently. She heard Clare put the bar on the front door. Then she watched for the tiny wavering light to appear as Clare went into her room and set it down on the washstand by her bed.

‘Whoof,’ went Clare, after she’d drawn back the bedclothes.

The flame flickered and recovered.

‘Whoof,’ she went, as she tried again.

Outside the bedroom window, Jessie watched and waited. First a giggle, then another whoof and finally the creak of ancient bedsprings. Jessie said a silent thank you. As long as she’d managed to blow the candle out and bar the door she’d be all right. She’d sleep. Jessie had no doubt she’d sleep. After four glasses of Bushmills, she’d never known anyone not. 

The papers came next morning, a huge fat packet of them. Clare carried the big envelope back into the house with a handful of other letters and cards, her legs shaking, her heart beating faster, as she sat down at the table and tore it open. She scanned the covering letter hastily. It confirmed all her fears. Their client, Mr Hutchinson, wished to convey his sincere condolences to Miss Hamilton on the death of her grandfather, a much-respected member of the community. Further he wished to assure her he had no intention of insisting on her vacating the property at the customary week’s notice. Now that she was resident in Belfast, he appreciated she would need at least
two
weeks to make the necessary arrangements for handing it over. In consideration of her position, no rent would be charged for this two week period, but her attention was drawn to the inventory enclosed and the necessity of leaving the property in a clean condition, ready for immediate occupation by his farm manager, Mr Hanson and his wife and family. He wished her every success with her future career.