The Woman from Kerry (12 page)

When Thomas left them and walked on, turning down the lane to his own forge, they’d continued down the steep hill from the church and up the
equally steep slope leading them past Alex’s cart manufactory itself. All was silent, the grass already grown high between the waiting carts and the wheels that would now never be fitted.

As they walked on, John talked about the part of Alex’s work he knew best, for he’d fitted new metal rims to the wooden wheels of the carts on the estate often enough, fixed others that had sheared or worn thin. A difficult task because the metal hoops must first be heated in a circular fire built on a stone ring, then the wheel dropped in and the hoop shrunk on to it.

‘Sure the first time Thomas set me to do one didn’t I set the wheel on fire because I got the rim too hot,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘An’ the next time I couldn’t get the rim on, because I was being so cautious with the fire the rim was so cool it hadn’t expanded at all.’

‘Thomas?’ she said, puzzled. ‘Did you once work for Thomas then? You never told me that.’

‘I served my time with Thomas,’ he replied, laughing at her amazement.

‘But what about your father? I thought you said he was a blacksmith.’

‘Aye, he were. But he didn’t hold with father teachin’ son. He said yer far better to go to a stranger. An’ he knew Thomas was a good man. Sure the Scotts has been blacksmiths as long as anyone can remember.’

Rose laughed aloud.

‘And we’ve been married six years and I never knew you were apprenticed to Thomas. What other secrets have you been keeping from me?’

He laughed and swore he had a dozen, and then began to tell her stories about the people who lived in the farms they passed as the lane rose again among the little rounded hills.

‘Did I ever tell you about the children who lived down Bloody Lane?’

She smiled and shook her head.

‘There was a new master at the school an’ he was very strong on bad language. One mornin’ he was filling in some form for the School Governors or suchlike and he asked this wee child where he lived. “Down Bloody Lane”, says the child, and promptly gets caned. ‘Of course, there are four brothers and sisters live in the same place,’ he said grinning as he turned to look down at her. ‘So three more of them get caned as well. Well, finally, we get to the eldest one and he’s been figuring out what to do so that he won’t get caned. “Where do you live?” says the Master. “In the lane the blood flowed down after the Battle of the Yellow Ford”, says he, all pleased with himself. “And what date was that?” says the Master. “Don’t know, sir.” So he gets caned after all.’

‘Our friend Thomas had business with Sir Capel the day,’ John began, as they settled by the fire. ‘An’ he came down to see me afterwards.’

Rose was about to take up her needlework, but the tone of his voice stopped her. She sat quite still and waited for him to go on.

‘He’s asked me would I go into partnership with him, Rose. He says since Alex has been poorly there’s so much extra work coming to him, he hasn’t even enough room roun’ the forge to line up the stuff while it’s waiting. He’s workin’ all hours not to let people down that needs their machinery an’ their carts but he says now he knows the manufactory is closed it can only get worse, he’ll not be able to manage without help.’

‘And what did you say to him?’

‘I said I’d think it over an’ let him know by the end of the week. I’d have to give Sir Capel a couple of weeks’ notice, though by right it’s only a week either way.’

‘Would you want to leave Sir Capel then?’

‘Ach, it’s not Sir Capel, he’s the best at all, it’s the work. Sure, it’s all the same. An’ there’s no company. To tell you the truth, Rose, I just want to be my own man. I’m tired of workin’ for someone else.’

‘Well, I can’t fault you for that. Didn’t I marry you for a change of boss?’

He looked at her blankly, saw she was teasing him, and relaxed with a smile.

‘It would mean at times I’d be late home of an evenin’ an’ there’d be a lot more money than now, but sometimes in winter, or bad weather, I might be early
home an’ the money not so good,’ he said, cautiously.

‘Well, the money’ll not worry us,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘If you get in my way I’ll put you out in the wash house. Or maybe I’ll teach you to sew wee dresses,’ she said, laughing.

‘I woulden be idle, Rose. There’s plenty I could do round the house. We’d not be worse off, over all, but it’d be a change for you. What do you think?’

‘If it’s what you want, John, it’s what we ought to do.’

Suddenly, she realised the room was lighter. She went to the window and saw the downpour had stopped. To the south, in the direction of Armagh, the sky was full of high piled castles of cloud, the first streaked patches of blue sky showing between them. Her spirits lifted and gave her the courage to go back to her memories of those cool, wet years.

She’d been anxious as she continued to read of the violence surrounding the actions of The League, but no harm had come to Sam, even though he’d worked long and hard in the countryside. And when he wasn’t active in the field, behind closed doors he’d been helping Davitt to devise a Land Act that would secure ownership of the land for small tenants and give them security against eviction at last.

When Davitt persuaded Parnell to take up the land question, Sam’s letters became ever more hopeful. He’d been right, too. If Parnell would only
take up the cause of the tenant farmers, he’d said, then Protestants and Catholics would come to their support. And they had. In his last letter he said he was sure Lord Ashbourne’s Purchase of Land Act would go through Parliament when it came up this coming August. Once it was active, the old, bitter question would be resolved, once and for all.

He was now working as a land surveyor, but he’d not abandoned the cause, as he made so clear in his letter.

She reached up to the mantelpiece and unfolded his most recent letter. She took it down from the mantelpiece and unfolded it.

She shook her head. For him the issues had become simple. But when you thought about people
individually, not as
landlords
or
tenants
or
working men
, it seemed to her very far from simple.

She put his letter back and reached for the one beside it, newly arrived from Lady Anne. Since her first years in Sligo, when her letters had been full of Race Meetings and Horse Shows, change had come about, as much of a surprise to Rose as Sam’s involvement with Davitt and the Land League. Now they were full of stories of her efforts on behalf of the children on the estate.

Rose smiled as she saw the flowing hand on the envelope and felt the thickness of the folded sheets inside. Unfolding them once more, she thought of all the upsets she’d sat through in the schoolroom at Currane Lodge, whenever Miss Pringle had forced Lady Anne to put pen to paper.

She put the letter down and thought of the wild and intractable young woman she’d once known. That Lady Anne would ever find anything more important in her life than riding superbly she could not have imagined, yet she had. Firstly, she’d amazed herself by producing a son and a daughter whom she loved dearly, and then she’d surprised her entire family by encouraging her husband with his land improvement projects and his political activities. Lord Harrington was now a member of Parliament and a vigorous supporter of Parnell.

Rose could still see the girl of nineteen sitting at her dressing table complaining about the way Captain O’Shea always wanted to talk politics to
Lord Harrington. Now the same Lady Anne was eager to tell her of Gladstone’s plans for Ireland and how Harrington was rallying support for Parnell amongst his friends in Sligo and Dublin. She was also able to tell her about her own meetings with Parnell and how she’d found out for herself the truth in the rumours about his relationship with Captain O’Shea’s wife.

‘And I wish I had
you
here, just to have an old friend to talk to,’ Rose said aloud.

As she folded the letter, a beam of sunlight struck the kitchen floor. The sun had come out at last. As she hastily returned the letter to its place on the mantelpiece and hurried to the window, she caught the sound of voices.

‘I’ll go and tell Ma ye’r comin’.’

‘Don’t run so hard, James, you’ll fall.’

‘No, I won’t.’

She looked out. James was running full tilt towards the garden gate. A fair way behind, Hannah was walking sedately, yet with a certain briskness, young Sam firmly held by the hand.

Rose went and opened the door. She stood there, waiting till they came close enough to catch in her arms as the sun now poured down around them.

A week later, the schoolhouse closed, the older children playing in the field behind the house, Rose heard the door of Sarah’s room open quietly.

As she sat sewing by the open window, the small figure of her youngest child hurried across the floor towards her

‘Ma, G’anny’s making a funny noise.’

‘I’ll go in and see her,’ said Rose quietly, a stab of anxiety passing through her. ‘You can go out and play with the others now you’ve had your sleep,’ she added, giving Sarah a quick hug.

Entering the room swiftly, she heard an irregular rasping noise. She’d never heard a death rattle, but it had been spoken of enough times these last ten years past for her to fear the worst.

‘Sarah,’ she said gently, taking her hand. ‘Are you all right?’

There was no reply. For a moment, she thought the figure lying so still beneath the unruffled counterpane had left already. Then came another
rasping breath. There was another long moment of silence, then the old woman turned her pale, worn face towards her.

‘Right as rain,’ she said weakly, her lips so dry the words were barely audible.

Rose took up a glass of water from the bedside table. Deciding she was too weak to raise she simply moistened her lips with drops of water on her finger.

Sarah smiled. Her eyes flicked open and she ran the tip of her tongue back and forth over her cracked lips.

‘D’you know, Rose, Tom was here,’ she said, more clearly. ‘A few minutes ago, I saw him standing there by the door, as plain as I see you now. An’ he’s not one bit changed from the days we used to walk out over Moneypenny Hill and he picked wild strawberries and put them in my mouth.’

She closed her eyes again and Rose waited, not knowing whether to speak.

‘Are you in any pain, Sarah?’ she asked at last, when the heavy silence in the room grew too much for her.

‘Pain?’ Sarah repeated, a hint of puzzlement in her voice. ‘No, I have neither pain nor ache. It’s the best day I’ve had for months,’ she said sleepily. ‘I’ll maybe get up after a bit and go and see the roses. Wee Sarah says they’re all coming out together with the heat.’

She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Rose
left her, but only long enough to send James to fetch his father from the forge.

An hour later they were both sitting with her when the tip of her nose began to go white. They stood up, still holding her hands, one on each side of the bed, and watched in silence as the rest of her face slowly took on the same ashen hue. A slight smile touched her lips. Her departure was so peaceful, it was some time before either of them took their eyes from her face, unsure whether she was still with them or not.

When finally they turned towards each other, Rose saw that tears were streaming down John’s face and falling unheeded on his shirt, the large drops making clean marks in the fine dusting of grime from the forge. She came and put her arms round him and kissed his damp cheeks, comforting him as she would comfort a hurt child.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked, as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and looked again at the peaceful figure on the bed.

‘We’ll bring the children in and tell them where Sarah’s gone,’ she said quietly, ‘and then maybe you’d have a wash and go into Armagh to Loudan’s. You could call in with Mary Wylie as you’re passing and ask her would she come down to me. Go up to Thomas and tell him too. You might be lucky and get a lift into town. Loudan’s will bring you back in their chaise.’

‘What wou’d I do without you, Rose?’ he said, shaking his head.

‘And what would I do without you, John?’ she said gently, as she wiped his tear-streaked face with her handkerchief.

As they went out together into the meadow where the children were playing in the sunshine, Rose suddenly saw herself as a child, sitting by a turf fire in Ardtur, the dust and smoke from falling cottages floating through the door, her father asking her mother what he was to do.

How strange it was that men, who seemed so strong, so able to go out into the world and achieve great things, sometimes so completely failed to see their way forward, turning to their women, as lost and vulnerable as a child. She recalled how often her mother had spoken of her own father in such terms, sitting by their tiny fire, in the room above the stables at Currane Lodge, a piece of needlework resting in her lap, her mind moving over precious things from long before.

‘He was a good man, Rose,’ she said softly, ‘but there was little in his life to teach him about the important things,’ she went on more forcefully. ‘Living and dying, facing hardship and disappointment. That’s what religion ought to do for us. Help us to live with the hurts of life. But that didn’t seem important for your father’s religion, it was so fixed on the life to come and being worthy
of it. To tell the truth, mine wasn’t much better. It was far more concerned with wrongdoing than with living well. But I had my grandmother to guide me. She was a wise old lady and she taught me that we all have courage if we can but find it and it’s easiest to find if you have someone to love. Love is what releases courage, for men as much as women, but the difference between them is this, it’s the women who see what has to be done. A man may have the courage of a lion, but if they have no loving woman to guide them, they can do nothing with it.’

Rose watched John as he picked up little Sarah in his arms and took Sam by the hand. She heard him say something about Granny as she bent down to Hannah and James.

‘Granny has died and gone to heaven,’ she said, as she slipped an arm round each of them. ‘It’s awfully sad for us, because we’ll miss her so, but all her pains will have gone.’

‘Will we bury her in the garden, Ma?’

‘No, James, she wants to be beside Grandpa up in the churchyard.’

‘And will they be together in heaven?’ asked Hannah anxiously.

‘Yes, I’m sure they will. Granny was looking forward to seeing Grandpa.’

‘I know that. She told us all about heaven,’ said Hannah firmly, as they went into the house. ‘She
said we weren’t to be upset when she went, because she’d keep an eye on us from up there.’

Rose walked across the kitchen and into Sarah’s room. John was standing by the bedside, little Sarah in his arms. She was pointing at the figure on the bed.

‘G’anny said she’d be able to jump over a fence again when she went to heaven,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Aye, she will too,’ John agreed. ‘That old body of hers was wore out. She’ll be given a new one. She’ll not know herself.’

Rose looked from child to child, saw their eyes take in the unfamiliar stillness of a woman who had been animated even when she could barely move. Tanned by wind and sun, the face did not yet have the deathly look of chiselled marble. There were even slight signs of a smile, still resting on her lips. Rose caught John’s eye.

‘Say “Bye bye” to Granny for now. We’ll bring her some flowers later. It’s time you had your tea.’

Rose had visited enough bereaved neighbours to know exactly what was expected of her in the busy days that followed. They left her little time for grief or thought, as streams of visitors came to pay their respects to a figure who’d been as well-loved in the community as in her family.

The funeral was a large one, the church crowded, the forge silent, every blind and curtain in the cottages on Church Hill drawn as a mark of respect.
It was only as Rose and John walked away from the flower-covered grave that it occurred to her there was scarcely a house in the whole townland that hadn’t a plant or two from Sarah’s garden growing somewhere about the place.

A few days after the funeral, Rose set out for Armagh to do her weekly shopping and pay the rent. As she left the children with Mary Wylie, her closest neighbour, she felt a real sense of loss for the first time, the opening up of a space to be filled in her own life.

It was not Sarah’s help with the children and her willingness to do any job she could manage that she was going to miss. It was her wisdom, for she was one of those people, like her mother, who had aged well, reflecting on all that had come her way, neither embittered by her losses nor overly impressed by her passing good fortune.

Sarah’s wisdom wasn’t all that obvious in what she said, rather it was in the steadiness and well-being which she spread around her. Even on her worst days, when the pain was bad, or she could hardly move with stiffness, she could find something to celebrate: a job well done, a plant coming into flower, a crack in the clouds, the warmth of the fire, or some wee remark of one of the children.

‘Ah Rose, sure we all get depressed at times,’ she
would say. ‘It’s just nature’s way of reminding us we’re tired or we’re not thinking about things we should be thinking about.’

Rose could hear her voice and see the crinkle of laughter round her eyes as she went on.

‘
Sins of omission and sins of commission
, the Prayer Book calls it. A very posh way of putting it, I’d say. I didn’t understand what it meant for years. But then that’s very elevated language for ordinary souls like you and me.’

‘Sorry indeed to hear about your mother-in-law, Mrs Hamilton,’ said the grocer, as she put her basket down on his counter.

‘Thank you, Mr Frazer. It was very peaceful, but we miss her terribly.’

‘Ach, ’tis hard. But worse to see an old one lingerin’ in pain,’ he said, tightening his lips, as he took his pencil from behind his ear and opened his order book.

Everywhere Rose went there were condolences. People spoke to her grief and then shared their own experience. She found it very comforting, though she was surprised they should talk about their own families so easily. It was only as she took out her rent book in Samuel Monroe’s in Russell Street and waited for one of the clerks to come and take her money, that the reason dawned on her. After ten years here, they simply treated her as if
she’d always been part of the community.

‘Hallo, Peggy. I’m afraid I’m a day or two late,’ said Rose, as she handed over the correct money.

‘What does that matter? Sure we knew about old Mrs Hamilton. It’s a hard time. We’re all awful sorry up at home.’

Rose smiled and nodded, touched again by the real sympathy in the girl’s voice.

‘Your sister’s been so kind to us. I don’t know what I’d have done without her. Especially the way she helped with the children while we were getting ready for the funeral.’

‘Mary loves children. The more the merrier, she says. Sure many a time you’ve helped her out when William was bad.’

Peggy wrote the amount carefully in the rent book, blotted it and handed it back to her. From a rack in front of her, she drew out a white envelope addressed to Mr John Hamilton.

‘I don’t know what that is, Rose,’ she said, as she passed over the letter. ‘I hope he’s not putting up your rent. There’s one or two landlords has raised them recently,’ she added, a note of warning in her voice, as she dropped the shillings and pence into the appropriate slots in her cash box.

‘I’ll tell you next week, if I don’t see you down at Mary’s in the meantime,’ said Rose, picking up letter and rent book and tucking them under the groceries in her basket for safety.

As well as the shopping to do, there were books to go back to the library. She also had to take Sarah’s death certificate and her Friendly Society document to a solicitor to be witnessed before they could claim the money to pay the undertaker. In the meantime, she also needed to draw money from the bank, for John to pay the grave-digger and the verger and not keep them waiting till the policy money came through.

By the time she’d finished, walked back to Mary Wylie’s, given the children their supper, prepared a meal for John coming in from work, read a story and put the little ones to bed, she was so tired she dropped gratefully into Sarah’s old rocking chair and leant her head back against the padded cushion.

She was fast asleep when she heard John’s footstep on the garden path.

‘Hallo, love. Have you come home to your idle wife?’ she asked, stretching and yawning hugely.

‘Were ye havin’ a bit of a rest?’ he said, kissing her. ‘An’ why woulden you, an’ you worked so hard this last week.’

‘And so did you,’ she said firmly. ‘But there are no rocking chairs in the forge. Are you still as busy?’

‘Aye, Thomas is still at it, but he made me come home. I worked on while he had his dinner at midday. Fair’s fair, he said.’

‘I hope you ate your piece.’

‘’Deed I did. I was ready for it,’ he said, as she moved to the stove and took out their meal of bacon and cabbage.

‘D’ye not want me to wash before I eat?’ he asked, as she tipped potatoes from a saucepan into a dish.

‘Just your hands,’ she said easily. ‘It’s very late, you must be starving. You can wash properly before we go to bed.’

They ate in silence, hungry now the food was in front of them. Thoughtful too, as the weariness of the long day swept over them. They’d often sit silent over their meal on these long summer evenings, even before the last week had come to tax them both.

It was only when Rose put the tea caddy back on the mantelpiece after making a pot of tea that she saw the white envelope behind the clock.

‘I nearly forgot. Peggy gave me this for you from Monroe’s. She says she hopes it’s not an increase in the rent.’

She saw the sudden look of apprehension on his face as he took it and began to feel anxious herself.

‘If it’s the rent, you’re not to worry,’ she said hastily, as she watched his eyes race back and forwards over the single, thick sheet. ‘We can easily afford a few more shillings.’

John shook his head and looked at her blankly.

‘Ah don’t understand this at all,’ he said flatly. ‘There’s some mistake. He says he wants to put us out next week.’

Rose read and reread the carefully written letter while John sat, his head in his hands, his tea untouched beside him. It didn’t seem to her that there was any mistake. Rather, there had indeed been a mistake, but it had been made so many, many years ago, there was nothing to be done about it now.

‘John dear, try to remember,’ she began gently. ‘Was there a new name put on the lease when your father died? You’d maybe have noticed because there’s a penalty for putting on a new name and it would be a fair bit of money.’