The Hamiltons of Ballydown (25 page)
Read The Hamiltons of Ballydown Online
Authors: Anne Doughty
Rose and John exchanged glances as they watched her search in the bottom of the box for the accessories and the book of instructions.
‘My goodness,’ she said, reading the cover quickly. ‘How did you know I wanted one of these?’ she demanded, looking from one to another. ‘Teddy says they’re better than the one he had at Ashley Park.’
‘All your father’s work, love,’ her mother admitted easily.
‘So how did you know, Da?’ she asked, staring at him intently.
‘Ach, it was Hugh. I never thought of him knowing anything about photography, but the
minute I said “plate camera” he was away,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He’d all the details. Where to get it. What the different models were. What it would cost. I’ve no idea where he foun’ it all out.’
Rose nodded agreeably and glanced sideways at Sarah who’d disappeared into the bottom of the box to make sure there was nothing she’d missed. Perhaps it was just the effort of bending over immediately after supper, but she was almost sure Sarah was blushing.
Ballydown
August, 1900
My dearest Anne,
Yes, of course we are delighted. Such wonderful news. We had a letter from Hannah earlier this week and I must say she does sound extraordinarily composed. Were you as confident about your first child? I certainly wasn’t. I do so hope all goes well with her. I did miscarry twice myself, much to John’s distress, but I’m hoping that Hannah may be more fortunate.
That’s the second baby we’ve heard of this week. My dear friend Elizabeth is also expecting. I’m so glad she’s married to a doctor for she is rather old for a first child. On the other hand she’s is a very fit and
healthy woman and she has a strong personal faith, something for which I have had cause to be grateful. From everything John and Sarah have told me, I doubt if many other women could have kept me in the land of the living the night I was so desperately ill.
I’m glad you’ve been able to have a proper summer’s rest at Ashley Park. It’s such a joy to me to be able to imagine you sitting by your window, or walking in the gardens, or out riding in the park. Of course I will come again, with or without John, but you’ll understand why I didn’t feel I could come this year.
Sarah has now been working for six weeks. The first three weeks were dreadful and I was so concerned about her. She came home every night pale with fatigue, almost too tired to eat. Of course, she’d been used to sitting all day in school, not standing behind a counter or in a darkroom, or running up and down the stairs in between. She’s getting used to that now. She admits freely that much of what she has to do is boring, apart from the darkroom work. What has been a surprise to her is how much she’s learnt from just being at work in the town, observing customers in the shop and in the studio. I’ve seen the notebooks come out again on a Sunday afternoon if we’re at home.
Now that Hugh’s motor is properly run in and both he and John can drive it, we’ve had some splendid outings. I’m sure you know the song: ‘Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea’. Well, last Sunday, we went to Newcastle with a picnic lunch. How strange to see ‘our’ mountains in this different setting. From the field gate across the road they’re misty blue shapes, that seem close, or far, depending on the weather. But in Newcastle, the little watering place at their foot, they are green and have shady paths where one can walk up to various viewpoints, though I preferred to sit on the beach with John listening to the sound of the sea. Last Sunday, we spoke of Kerry and thought of you and Harrington while Hugh and Sarah climbed up the lower slopes of Slieve Donard.
My dear, I have written enough for one letter, but I shall write again soon. Give my love to all our young ones and to Harrington and please do not exhaust yourself when you go back up to town, or I shall have to scold you as you would scold me.
As always, your loving friend,
Rose
‘There’s a letter for you today, Sarah,’ announced John, one Wednesday lunch time, some weeks later,
as she stepped into the kitchen dripping puddles on the floor, having cycled through the grey, misting rain that swept in during the late morning.
Rose got up from the table where she and John had finished their meal and handed her a warm towel from the rack over the stove.
‘Thanks, Ma,’ she said, hanging her sodden cape on a hook and burying her wet face in the warm fabric.
‘Should you change that skirt?’ she asked, as Sarah wiped her wet face and towelled her hair vigorously.
‘No, its only the skirt, Ma, my petticoat isn’t wet at all,’ she said as she sat down and blew her nose. ‘Oh that’s better. Rain is so tickly running down your face,’ she went on as Rose brought her a bowl of champ from the oven.
‘Your Ma looked for a silver salver to put it on,’ her father continued, grinning cheerfully, ‘but she couldn’t seem to find one.’
‘Maybe you should eat a bite first, Sarah. You don’t often get letters from Westminster,’ added Rose.
‘Ma, this is wonderful,’ Sarah said, as she breached the pale green mound on her plate and watched the melted butter trickle out. ‘I wasn’t expecting anything hot.’
She munched vigorously, as she looked from one to the other. ‘Now what’s all this about a letter?’
By way of answer, Rose reached down a long,
stiff envelope from the mantelpiece and placed it beside her plate.
‘House of Lords,’ said John, as she examined the embossed seal on the reverse. ‘Maybe they want you to go and take their picture.’
Sarah put down her fork, picked up a clean knife and opened it.
‘It’s from Lord Altrincham,’ she said, beaming, as she drew out two thick, folded sheets and glanced at the small, well-formed hand that covered the pages.
‘The man ye met at Ashley Park? Ye liked
him
but ye didn’t think much of the wife, did ye?’
‘That’s putting it politely, Da,’ she replied, taking up her fork again. ‘She was awful. But he and I talked a lot. That’s why I wrote to him.’
‘You wrote to him?’ he exclaimed, his eyes wide, as he glanced at the clock and stood up. ‘And now he’s written back?’
She nodded, her mouth full, as she scanned the closely written pages.
‘I’ll maybe walk up later,’ she said, as John reached for his coat and cap. ‘I think Hugh might be interested. It’s a bit tricky to make out but I’ll read it to you later when I’ve figured it out myself.’
‘Aye well, I’ll leave you to it.’
He bent to kiss Rose and then Sarah.
‘We don’t hear from the Houses of Parliament every day,’ he added, smiling to himself as he stepped out into the rain.
House of Lords
25th September, 1900
My dear Miss Sarah,
I was delighted to receive your interesting and informative letter. Our acquaintance may have been brief but I remember it with great pleasure and most certainly do not consider it impertinent that you should write to me.
On the contrary, I am honoured that you should confide in me and go to so much trouble to inform me of the improvements that your father and his partner, Mr Sinton, have been making towards the health and safety of the workers in the four mills for which they hold themselves responsible.
Would there were many more to take such a view of their responsibility. As we agreed at Ashley Park, questions of safety are seldom uppermost in the minds of those who see manufacturing merely as a source of profit for themselves and not as a means of livelihood for large numbers of workers, all of whom have families to support.
I must congratulate you on the photographs which you sent to me. My wife treasures the pictures that you and young Lord Cleeve took when we first met, but
you have turned what many see as a pleasant hobby into a very effective tool. It doesn’t surprise me, but it pleases me greatly. With your pictures I can argue more specifically. It is not that my colleagues on the Factory Health and Safety Standing Committee are entirely ignorant of conditions in mills. Some of them have gone to considerable pains to educate themselves, but time is of the essence. Your pictures and annotations sum up the situation so clearly. Rest assured I shall make good use of them.
I would very much like to be kept informed of the progress of the innovations you have spoken of. I am familiar with the co-operative movement, but not of the particular application of which you speak. Similarly, the ticket system has long been overdue for reform. It seems you are already several steps ahead with your card system and in your plan for regular medical examinations and seaside holidays.
What you say of your own present employment is somewhat alarming. You, who are campaigning for shorter hours, are working very long hours yourself. I know your dear mother will be taking great care of you, but may I, as someone who sees the potential of your future work, beg you not to exhaust yourself.
I have no doubt that you will be visiting your sister at some future date. Should it be convenient for you to visit while they are in London, I would be very pleased to entertain you in the House and to accompany you to the Stranger’s Gallery should you wish to observe a debate.
Please convey my good wishes to your dear mother and to your sister.
I remain,
Yours faithfully,
Altrincham
‘Well,’ said Rose, with a great deep breath, as Sarah finished reading the letter to her, ‘you’ve begun. I said you’d change things and it looks as if Lord Altrincham thinks so too. Congratulations, love. I think you should be pleased.’
She smiled awkwardly.
‘Yes, I
am
pleased,’ she admitted, leaning back comfortably in her father’s armchair. ‘But I couldn’t have done anything if you and Da and Hugh hadn’t helped me. It’s
their
work I’ve written about …’
‘And
your
pictures you sent.’
‘And some of the best were taken on the plate camera you and Da gave me,’ she continued, not to be deflected from expressing her sense of fairness.
Rose laughed.
‘I highly approve of modesty in a young woman.
It is very becoming,’ she said in a teasing tone, ‘but I will
not
let you diminish what you’ve achieved. Take it, treasure it, build on it. There will always be disappointments enough you’ll have to carry. If you don’t take the goodness of what you achieve you won’t have the strength of spirit to weather the bad bits.’
She nodded and stretched her legs out in front of the stove. A faint mist of steam drifted upwards from the damp hem of her dress.
‘Oh, it is lovely to sit and talk, Ma,’ she said suddenly. ‘That’s what I miss most as a working girl. All our cups of tea after school and on Saturdays if there wasn’t a hockey match. Now its Wednesday or Saturday afternoon, and that’s only when I don’t go to one of the mills.’
‘Yes, I miss you too. But one day you’ll be gone altogether, so I’m enjoying what I have,’ she replied quite calmly.
‘Oh Ma, don’t be daft. I’m not going to marry an English Lord like Hannah. Ireland is my place and Down is my corner. I won’t be far away. There’s work enough to do here without me emigrating,’ she declared. ‘I’ll maybe be one of these fierce old spinsters who are doing such good work on women’s rights. Could you see me in the Suffrage Movement?’
‘Goodness knows what you’ll get up to, but there
is
something I want you to think about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A blessing on Lord Altrincham for paving the way for me,’ she said sighing. ‘I know you’ll say that other girls have to work even longer hours than you, Sarah, but other girls may not have the gifts you have,’ she began cautiously. ‘If you exhaust yourself out of sympathy for them, you won’t be able to do much to help anyone.’
She nodded and admitted that sometimes she was so tired by Saturday she just wanted to sit by the fire and read a novel.
‘What I want you to do is see this job as a temporary thing. Give it up when you’ve learnt all you can. Take some months off. Go and visit Hannah. I’d love you to come with me to Donegal to visit your Aunt Mary. It would be marvellous for your landscape work. Then, when you’re ready, look for something different. You don’t have to
earn
a living. That’s a real gift, but it’s you who must take it.’
Sarah beamed at her.
‘Am I easier to talk to than I was when I was at school?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
‘Yes, you are. They say girls in their teens go through a rebellious phase. They always hate their mothers. You didn’t do that, thank goodness, but you did do some hating. I used to feel I was treading on eggshells when I tried to help you.’
‘Isn’t it nice to be old, Ma. One’s got past all that.’
‘Old?’ Rose retorted. ‘Do you mean me, or you?’
‘Both of us. We’re both so old we can talk to each other like friends. I’m so happy about that.’
Rose looked across at her, as she bounced up from her chair and looked out of the window to see if the rain had stopped.
‘Yes, I’m happy about it too. It’s much more restful,’ she said laughing gaily.
The last week of January 1901 brought with it two memorable events: the long-awaited departure of Queen Victoria and the anxiously awaited arrival of Elizabeth Stewart’s first child. While the country went through the rituals of mourning for a Queen who had mourned for most of her long life, Elizabeth, after a long and difficult labour, borne with her customary calm, gave birth to a robust baby boy who already had a cap of the same fine dark hair as his father. Elizabeth and Richard were relieved and delighted. Every moment they could spend together with their child was a kind of celebration.
Visiting in the evenings after work, when Hugh drove her over to spend a few hours with the new parents and her mother, who was looking after Elizabeth, Sarah was overwhelmed by their joy. She held the very new baby, was amazed at its smallness and its perfection, totally entranced by the curling and uncurling of its fingers and amused by his name. James Richard Pearson Stewart seemed such
a big name for such a very small creature.
It was only when Elizabeth was on her feet again and Rose safely back home that Sarah admitted she was so exhausted she felt she could sleep for a week. She wondered how women who worked all day in shops and factories could manage to buy food in their brief midday break, cook an evening meal, keep up with the laundry and housework and be up early enough to get to work by eight o’clock the next day. She’d done it willingly enough for three weeks, but she wasn’t sure she could have kept it up much longer.
With Rose’s encouragement and the knowledge that her mother would be away again quite soon, she gave up her job gratefully in the middle of March and spent her first week of freedom having breakfast in bed and getting up very late indeed.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Rose asked, the morning her sailing tickets arrived.
‘But, of course, Ma. I’m absolutely fine now,’ she reassured her. ‘If it weren’t for looking after Da while you’re with Hannah, I’d be thinking of a new job. But I won’t even look at Situations Vacant until you’re back.’
‘You won’t get bored?’ asked Rose cautiously.
‘No. I’ve got lots of plans,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going to work out how I can use my old bedroom as a dark room. Da says he can fit a frame over the window and I’ve found a filter I can use on a torch
to make a dark light. That’ll keep me busy when I’m not cooking and cleaning.’
‘You will get out in the fresh air, won’t you?’ Rose went on, suddenly remembering what Lady Anne had said about the smell from the knife room at Ashley Park when Teddy had used it as a darkroom.
‘Yes, I will. Hugh’s offered to help me with my landscapes,’ she explained. ‘He got me to admit you can’t carry a plate camera and a tripod on a bicycle. He says the motor needs regular outings to keep it running sweetly, so he might as well drive me around the countryside rather than just take it out for the sake of keeping it ticking over.’
Rose looked at her carefully. Her daughter’s eyes were bright, her usual good spirits completely restored. Clearly, she was looking forward to the next month, her plans already made. She wondered what changes might occur in her absence. A month was a long time. Only a week earlier, Lady Anne had enquired if Sarah had any admirers.
‘
She is such an attractive, lively girl
,’ she’d written. ‘
I can’t imagine she hasn’t her admirers
.’
She’d sat for a while thinking about it, her regular letter already half-written.
I hardly know how to answer your question about Sarah, Anne dear. I sometimes think of what you said about Teddy, that he couldn’t even remember the names of the girls he
danced with. Sarah’s a bit like that. Quite disparaging about most of the boys she was at school with. Occasionally, I mention a name, like Peter Jackson, our new neighbour’s son, who is a nice lad and distinctly good-looking, but Sarah just laughs.
I sometimes wonder if it’s because she’s always had such a good friend in Hugh that she finds boys of her own age so very young and unappealing. I must say I’m surprised Hugh has never married. He’s an attractive man and although he does still have a scar, the damage of that terrible fall seems to have been completely corrected. He hasn’t even got a limp now. What marvellous things they can do these days to mend damaged bodies, though I must say Hugh worked terribly hard himself and suffered a great deal to get his muscles working again. I really did think when Elizabeth got engaged to Richard Stewart, Hugh would look around him.
But speaking of looking around, Anne, I’ve remembered something else I must tell you. Sam arrived last Saturday afternoon looking smarter than ever. I’ve never know anyone who could get such a shine on their boots! Sarah began teasing him right away. Sam, of course, said nothing. He has a way of just smiling. But John and I both think there’s
a girl in it somewhere. Sarah is perfectly certain there is. She says he may not be saying anything, but she won’t be one bit surprised when he does.
So much happening, my dear, babies and engagements. I’m so much looking forward to seeing you next week when I come over for Hannah’s confinement. What a mercy she is so well and has you at hand. I am so grateful for that. Love and kisses to you both,
Rose
Francis John Molyneux Harrington was born at Cleeve Hall, one of the manor houses on the Ashley estates, on the last day of March 1901, arriving just before midnight in the midst of an equinoctial gale that felled timber in the park and disrupted sailings to and from Ireland. But within the comfortable old manor, all remained calm and quiet. Shortly after the birth, Rose and Anne retreated to the sitting room to drink tea, leaving Hannah holding her child as if she’d spent her young womanhood caring for babies, while Teddy sat beside her, unable to take his eyes from her face and the fall of her hair.
Rushed to the nearest Post Office by one of the younger servants, the expected telegram arrived at Ballydown next morning. Sarah heard the scrape of handlebars against the garden wall and hurried to the door.
‘Here y’are. I hope it’s not bad news,’ said the telegraph boy, as she flew down the garden path, grabbed the envelope he held out to her and ripped it open.
‘
Lovely boy. Hannah well. Letter follows. Love Ma
,’ she read, her stomach doing a double somersault before it settled back into its normal position.
‘No, it’s not. It’s good news,’ she said beaming. ‘My sister’s had her baby. All’s well. Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘Ach aye. That’s great. An’ how’s Sam?’
Sarah paused, confused and somewhat taken aback. She looked more closely at the young man in his smart uniform.
‘Billy?’ she said, still a little uncertain, ‘of course it’s Billy. I didn’t recognise you for a minute. You were Sam’s flagman.’
‘Aye, till I got abolished in ’96,’ he said wryly.
‘But you went on working at Tullyconnaught, didn’t you? It was you went for Da when Sam broke his leg. Thank goodness you did.’
‘Aye,’ he replied, lifting up his bicycle and preparing to mount. ‘But when I came up to see Sam an’ he told me he’d got his cards, I thought to meself. That’s that. And I started to look about. I’m a lot better off where I am. And I’m learning the telegraph forby. As long as they don’t invent somethin’ else for sendin’ messages quicker, I’ll
do rightly,’ he declared, as he got into the saddle. ‘Tell Sam I was askin’ for him,’ he called over his shoulder as he pushed off down the hill.
‘I will indeed, Billy. Thanks a lot.’
She read the telegram three times more as if it still had something new to tell her. Laughing at herself, she pulled on her cape and set off up the hill, the bright, torn envelope in her pocket.
The stiff, chill breeze from the north-east almost took her breath away, but it was powerful enough to blow holes in the clouded sky. By the time she got to the top of the hill, great patches of blue sky had already appeared. Against them, the still bare branches of the limes swayed back and forth, the light picking out the pale, swollen buds that would break into leaf as soon as they felt the touch of some real warmth.
She made her way to the workshop, but finding it empty and silent, she proceeded to the conservatory. It was Hugh who saw her first and sprang to his feet, setting aside a pile of papers.
‘Sarah,’ he said, beaming.
‘Hallo, Hugh,’ she replied. ‘Sorry to interrupt the work. I have a message for Granda Hamilton,’ she continued, almost managing to keep her face straight.
‘Ach dear,’ said the man himself, looking up at her, his eyes suspiciously damp. ‘When did you hear?’
She pulled out the crumpled telegram, put it in his hand and dropped down gratefully in the chair Hugh brought for her.
‘And all well?’ Hugh said softly, meeting her eyes, as John read and reread the brief message just as she’d done.
She nodded happily.
‘About ten minutes ago,’ she said, answering her father’s question as Hugh disappeared in search of Mrs Lappin and a pot of tea.
‘I can’t rightly take it in,’ he said, blowing his nose and glancing again at the insignificant piece of beige paper.
‘Tea in a couple of minutes,’ Hugh said, coming back into the sun-filled conservatory. ‘Mrs Lappin says “
congratulations
,” John. This makes you an aunt, Sarah. How do you like the idea?’ he asked, his sober, grey eyes unusually bright.
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ she replied laughing. ‘I hope he’s as lovely as Elizabeth’s baby. What does it feel like to be an uncle?’ she demanded in return.
Tea arrived. Mrs Lappin was not noted for her enthusiasm or her smiles but even she seemed delighted. What was it, Sarah wondered, that brought such joy? A child born in another place, to a girl once known, a neighbour’s daughter, no relation or close friend. She’d never seen her look so cheerful.
‘We must go to Dromore and tell Elizabeth and Richard this evening,’ said Hugh, as he finished his tea. ‘What time can I pick you up?’ he asked, looking from Sarah to John and back again.
‘I think maybe I’ll write Rose and Hannah a few lines this evenin’,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘But you and Sarah away over an’ see them. They’ll be powerful pleased to hear the news.’
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ enquired Hugh, one calm April evening two weeks later, as he reached out to take the camera and tripod from her. He waited while she climbed over a stone wall.
‘I think so,’ said Sarah slowly. ‘I have a feeling the light level dropped just as I was ready to take it. But I couldn’t work any faster. There are so many pitfalls with landscape,’ she explained solemnly. ‘One wobbly tripod leg and that lake drains out down the main road.’
He studied her closely, surprised to hear her tone so flat.
‘You look tired.’
‘Do I?’
‘You often do when you take pictures. I think it’s because you concentrate so hard.’
‘I never thought of that,’ she said honestly.
‘Come and sit in the motor. It’s better padded than this wall.’
She laughed and climbed up gratefully into the
parked motor. Behind her, she heard Hugh make sure her equipment was safely wedged on the back seat.
‘That sky just gets more beautiful,’ she exclaimed, as he got in beside her. ‘But I can’t do anything about it till they invent the colour film we talked about after Elizabeth’s wedding.’
‘Probably won’t be all that long before they do,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up with the rate things change at these days. Probably a sign of advancing age,’ he added, with a slight, wry laugh.
She looked at him and grinned.
‘Da says it’s all the fault of the change of century,’ she declared, leaning back comfortably. ‘Making him feel old, that is. Francis and James will be twentieth-century men, but all the rest of us span
two
centuries. And
two
reigns,’ she added, as the thought struck her.
‘Yes, we’re Victorians and the babies will be Edwardians,’ he mused. ‘Just think what they’ll live to see. More radical things than colour film, I suspect. What do you think?’
‘Moving pictures certainly,’ she replied, as she watched fragments of tinted cloud move across the paling sky. ‘Marianne persuaded Lady Anne to go to the cinematograph in London. They do marvellous things with horses. She said some people screamed when they came racing towards them and flew over
their heads on the screen,’ she went on, laughing. ‘But I expect that’s only a beginning, like me using a plate camera and a Kodak.’
He smiled at her and gazed out over the broad prospect below them, the calm surface of a small lake perfectly reflecting the low hills that surrounded it, a solitary fisherman standing thigh deep in water, creating ripples that vibrated outwards into the still water.
‘So what’s your next project, Sarah, now you’ve got your darkroom going?’
‘Belfast,’ she said promptly. ‘I want to learn portraiture and I need a big studio for that.’
He glanced away and for a moment Sarah wondered what had caught his eye. A blackbird in the hedgerow or a patch of light on a distant field.
‘You’d go into lodgings?’ he said, matter-
of-factly
.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, not looking at him. ‘I thought I’d have a word with Elizabeth. She always knows people who know people,’ she said smiling.
But to her surprise, Hugh didn’t smile at all. He just looked thoughtful and rather sad and said it was time they were getting back.
Sarah stood on the shallow steps of the Great Northern Railway Station and looked up and down Great Victoria Street. It was full of vehicles of all kinds coming and going, the noise of hooves and
wheels on the cobbles, the cries of carriers and street sellers loud in her ears. There was no sign at all of a cab, but Hugh had insisted she would need one. The Abercorn Studio was in Anne’s Street, he’d said, studying the street plan in his Trade Directory. It was too far to walk through crowded streets carrying the albums of work she’d decided to take.
It was much warmer in the city than in Banbridge and her smart straw bonnet seemed to make her head hotter rather than keep her cool. She patted her face with her handkerchief. It was much noisier too. She’d have to get used to that. But the thought of getting used to this continuous noise oppressed her.
