The Woman from Kerry (23 page)

‘I still don’t know how ye ever give up that place for the likes of me. I’ve never seen the equal of it, all that water and sky, an’ the evenin’s that warm ye’d never think of a jacket. I know we niver did hear the nightingale, though Sir Capel swore there was one, but sure there were all the wee water fowl and the swans. D’ye mind tellin’ me when I asked ye that ye went up that bit of mountain to hear the lark sing.’

She smiled weakly and nodded, her mind so full she could find no words to speak of her loss, even to John. In a handful of golden days, she and Lady Anne had each found the love of their life. Perhaps that’s what made the news so poignant. The sharpest memories you have are when you meet that person, but those memories dim with the passage of
the years. You treasure a piece of a dress, a faded photograph, a handful of dusty pressed flowers to convince you it really did happen as you remember it. We all lose the time when we first loved. But we don’t always lose the place.

Even if all her plans to return to Currane Lodge had come to nothing in the end, knowing its life went on, just as she had left it, was a solace and a hope. A hope that one day, she would stand again by the water’s edge or climb her favourite hillside. Now that hope was gone, extinguished for ever. Currane Lodge had become a big, empty house in a far country, its vibrant life dispersed for ever and with it some of the most precious of her memories.

‘I wonder what’ll happen to the retired staff that live on the estate,’ said John slowly. ‘They’d no pensions, but they had their house and their turf and Sir Capel saw they never went short. D’ye think yer man’ll do the same.’

She shook her head sadly.

‘They’re not
his
people. They’re just people in houses he may want for other purposes. He owes them nothing.’

‘Like ourselves the other year at Annacramp?’

‘Just like ourselves indeed, love.’

They fell silent as the long, dim evening finally faded to dusk.

‘Will I light the lamp, or have ye done enough?’
he asked quietly, his tone shot through with a sadness she knew he didn’t know was there.

‘Yes, light it for me. I want to see you properly,’ she said firmly.

‘An’ what d’ye see, Rose dear?’

‘I see there’s something you’re not telling me,’ she began. ‘I’ve told you my sadness, now you can tell me yours.’

He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. It was always a bad sign. She waited.

‘Yer man from Cabragh has bought the cart manufactory like he said he woud,’ he began. ‘He’s a man and his son comin’ to start it up at the beginnin’ of June,’ he went on, his voice as colourless as the darkening evening sky.

Throughout the month of June the cart manufactory took from them the business of Lodge members just as John and Thomas had expected. Some of them still came to have their horses shod, but the stone circle for rimming the wheels remained cold. Amongst the men who used to sit so comfortably on the bench inside the door, exchanging the news, there was a wholly new sense of unease and constraint.

The weekly income dropped predictably and they reckoned it would drop further as soon as the manufactory was able to offer machine and tool repairs along with its work on carts and traps. At its best, the summer income would be little more than half what it had been when the two men started out together, some five years earlier.

During slack times in the previous years, Thomas and John had tried various ideas for keeping up their winter takings. They’d approached Turners and Hillocks, with the possibility of making implements for them. They were listened to most courteously, but
it was made clear the price either firm could afford to offer for handmade tools would barely cover the costs of making them. They’d be in direct competition with machine made tools, they said, and machine made tools were cheaper and did the job just as well.

At the end of June, the decisive moment came. The partnership between Thomas Scott and John Hamilton was ended, as it had begun, in friendship and mutual respect. Their good neighbours found it hard to tell which of the men was more distressed, Thomas by the prospect of having to go on alone, or John, who now faced the daunting prospect of finding work elsewhere.

For Rose, the first week of July took on a nightmare quality. Each evening the Lambeg drums thundered out on the warm air, an unhappy reminder of the previous year’s bitter agitation. The vigour of Lodge members drumming so late into the night, underlined the hurt done to both men, the veiled threats now become a reality.

They lay awake, talking in whispers, light still in the sky as the longest evenings of the year began to shorten imperceptibly. She knew John dreaded the morning. She could guess only too well how he would feel walking past the forge, greeting Thomas as he went. Harder still to bear was what she knew he must feel walking into Armagh, a man looking for work.

He’d been so happy at the forge. Despite the periods of Thomas’s depression and withdrawal,
and the troubles that had finally driven him out, he’d always been at ease there. He admitted he’d sometimes found the work repetitive but it had never troubled him. Only a month ago, he’d talked openly about it.

‘Ach sure when I’m making the fortieth horseshoe, I’m thinkin’ about what I read in the books ye bring me. That’s how I manage it. Figurin’ things out, an’ imaginin’ things. Wonderin’ how long it’ll be before we have horseless carriages and ploughing machines. Aye, an’ maybe flyin’ machines,’ he added with a smile.

‘Do you really think there’ll ever be flying machines, or are you just teasing me?’ she’d asked.

‘No, I’m perfectly serious,’ he said promptly. ‘I’m sure James and Sam will live to see road vehicles, even if I don’t. Think of it this way, Rose,’ he said, looking at her so directly she was almost startled by the brightness of his blue eyes. ‘It was 1825 when George Stephenson created Locomotion No. 1. An’ it was 1851 when the railway got to Armagh. Now its 1887 and there’s railways all over Ireland, with bigger engines and better power weight ratios. They’ve come on so fast ye could hardly believe it.’

Then he’d laughed unexpectedly.

‘Sure my father told me that some people thought that the railways would bring on the end of the world. They said the birds would die with the smoke and the cows lose their milk with fright. But sure
nothing happened at all and now anybody can travel anywhere, if they’ve the price of a ticket, that is.’

‘Now there was a time, Rose, when people like Stephenson were experimentin’,’ he went on, warming to his story. ‘Ye see, ye hear nothin’ about all that until there’s somethin’ to try out. But the work’s goin’ on all the time. Some day we might look back and think “Sure had we but known it, So and So was inventing the steam plough or the steam thresher or the flying machine an’ now they’re as common as the train.”’

Although her main worry was the loss of the job and what they’d do for money if John couldn’t find work quickly, she couldn’t help being sad at the two men being separated just now, when they’d been getting on famously since Thomas recovered from his accident. There’d always been good fellowship between them, but it had become something deeper and created a light-heartedness which brought pleasure to even the hardest days. Tending her plants in the front flowerbeds, she’d hear them laugh. Now, poor Thomas had lost his friend and colleague through no fault of his own, just as he’d freed himself from the burden he’d long carried.

In the event, she need not have worried, for John found a job immediately. She couldn’t quite believe it when he arrived home at midday on the Tuesday of his first week of looking for work.

‘Well,’ she said, as he came in and sat down at the table, a look of relief on his face.

‘Well, we’ll not starve yet a while,’ he said soberly.

‘You’ve got something already?’

‘Yes, second place I tried,’ he replied, nodding. ‘Drumcairn Mill. Maintenance and repairs. Eight in the mornin’ till seven at night. A week’s annual holiday for the Twelfth. Good money and steady each week. Unless the demand for cotton drops or the management go bust, that is. Not very likely at the moment from what I heard. Every spindle going and a full order book.’

‘But what’ll
you
be doin’ John?

‘Oh, mendin’ boilers. Fixin’ the looms. Makin’ new parts, I expect, when they’re past fixin’. There’s a big workshop out at the back with anvils and suchlike. An’ they’ve a stable o’ horses for the drays that do the deliveries to the weavers. They’ll need to be shod. An’ the drays kep’ runnin’ forby.’

‘So you won’t be indoors all the time?’

‘I woulden think so.’

‘An’ when do you start?’

‘The morra,’ he said promptly. ‘That’s the whole point ye see. They’ve a man off sick and they’re desperate. They diden even ask me if I knew one end of a loom from another, though I did tell’em I’d worked in Doagh fifteen years ago.’

‘Oh John, are you sure you’re doing the right
thing?’ Rose asked, suddenly full of an unease she couldn’t explain.

‘Sure it’s a job, love. Haven’t we got to earn our keep?’

She had to admit that having a known amount of money coming in each week would be a great relief. She hadn’t really realised what a burden she’d found it trying to guess how much she needed to save in the summer months to get them through the winter and last winter she hadn’t managed it. Even with Hannah helping her with the seams and hems of the babies’ dresses and Sam and James fetching the water and doing the dishes to give her more time, it had still been a struggle to turn out enough to keep food on the table and fire on the hearth.

By Christmas, she’d even regretted renewing her subscription to the library. When it became due in October, things hadn’t looked too bad, but two months later the five shillings yearly subscription seemed like an extravagance she should not have allowed.

‘Well, it’ll be different this year,’ she promised herself, as she got ready to go into Armagh on a pleasant October morning, leaving the house tidy and empty behind her.

She still hadn’t got used to Sarah going to school, but Sarah behaved as if she’d never done anything else. She loved school and was already showing signs of being able to read far more quickly than
any of the other children. With no reading book of her own, she couldn’t wait to try out her day’s work on Sam’s as soon as she got home.

‘Pity there are no children’s books,’ she thought, smiling a little at the idea of asking for fairy stories or animal tales at The Armagh Natural History and Philosophical Society, the actual name of the library. ‘When they’re a little older, I’ll can pay the extra two and sixpence and let them come with me. We could all read the magazines in the reading room together and go and look at the cases of birds eggs and the samples of rock when we got tired of sitting down.’

She wondered if she might try some volumes of poetry for Hannah, but the books John enjoyed puzzling over still seemed a bit difficult for James and most certainly were for Sam.

As she walked into Armagh, a train passed just where the line ran close to the road. As the train whistled and let off steam she looked up and saw a red-headed child wave its hand from a carriage window. She waved back, smiling, as the carriages rolled on, towards the complex of sidings and engine sheds at Armagh Station.

She tried to remember what ambitions her brother Sam had admitted to when he was as young as his two nephews. Going fishing with Old Tom seemed more to his taste than trains, but then he’d never seen a train. No, what Sam really loved was books. He’d had the run of Sir Capel’s library from
the day the old man caught him sitting on the bottom step of a ladder, so engrossed he hadn’t even noticed him coming into the room.

Dear Sam. In a few weeks he’d be with them again and this time, he’d be able to stay two nights, for he had a whole week in Belfast. The thought of his coming filled her with excitement and anticipation. He’d have so much to tell about his four crossings of the Atlantic, his visits to New York and Boston and the small towns of up country Pennsylvania. His letters had been brief for him, but she knew there was much he preferred not to put down on paper lest it fall into the wrong hands.

She laughed at herself. ‘You’re as bad as the children,’ she said aloud.

In his brief visit last year, Uncle Sam had made such an impression on them, they were talking excitedly already about all they were going to ask him. He’d kept his word and a few weeks after his visit, a large parcel arrived for them. There were books on railways for James and Sam, ribbons and a little brooch for Hannah, and for Sarah, a frame with brightly coloured beads to help her with learning to count.

She walked on, enjoying the morning, till she came to Mill Row. She remembered the very first time she’d gone into town. She’d waved to some children playing in the dust and they’d stared at her unblinkingly. Though the doors of the tiny houses
stood open, there was no one about. As she passed the mill itself, she heard the roar and clatter of the looms in the great four-storey building and thought what John had once told her about it.

‘Drumcairn and Gillis,’ he’d said. ‘Gillis was where the brothers worked till they got the money for America. Powerful noisy things looms, ye’ll hear them as ye go past on yer way inta town. The spinnin’s not so bad for noise, but the pouce fillin’ the air is worse than the roar of the looms, I’d be thinkin’. The brothers used to say the forge was dirty work, but sure that sort of dirt you can wash off.’

As she looked up at the rows of windows she wondered just where he was and what exactly he’d be doing. And whether, once again, he’d told her the half of it.

From the moment Sam arrived on Saturday afternoon to the time he left for the six o’clock train to Portadown on Sunday it seemed he’d always one more good story to tell. The children were insatiable. What was it like on a ship? Where did he sleep? Was it stormy? Was he frightened? Did he see any whales?

Rose laughed as she moved back and forth preparing a tasty stew for the evening meal. She’d always been proud of her brother. As a little boy she’d helped him with his lessons and been pleased when he’d turned out to be so able. Now she was just
as delighted with Sam, the model uncle, impressed by his willingness to answer honestly whatever they asked, and equally ready to ask his own questions in return.

Not surprisingly, he found it easier to talk to the boys. She listened as he described the new railroads stretching right across America and the differences between the modest engines they’d seen in the maintenance sheds in Armagh and the very much larger ones that steamed across the continent. As she listened, it surprised her to discover just how much James and Sam knew already. She’d seen John, sitting at the table explaining things to them, making sketches for them at the back of the notebook where he made his own notes, but she’d hadn’t appreciated what a good teacher he must be.

What touched her particularly was the way Sam talked to Hannah and Sarah, making sure they had as much of his time and attention as the boys. He’d remembered what they’d said to him on his last visit and he did his best to find out what interested them now.

‘Now then, bedtime for all of you,’ she said firmly, as Sarah leant against Hannah with her eyes closed and James and Sam fell silent at last. ‘Uncle Sam will be here in the morning, if you haven’t worn him out completely.’

She lit the candle while they all went out to the privy and gave it to Hannah when they came back,
one by one, shivering from the chill of the dark starry night.

‘I’ll come in five minutes to tuck you in,’ she said, as she swung out the crane and hung the kettle on its chain over the glowing fire.

‘Not a sound out of them,’ said Sam a little later, as he took his cup of tea from her hand.

‘Are ye surprised, Sam?’ said John laughing. ‘Sure, they’ve never stopped since ye arrived. I hope ye didn’t think ye were comin’ to get a rest from the big city.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, honestly. ‘I came to tell you all the things I didn’t feel I could put in a letter. The good and the bad.’

Rose saw a shadow pass over his face as he said ‘the bad’ and was immediately anxious. So often these days, even now life was so much easier than a year ago, she still found herself worrying over trifles, imagining misfortunes that might yet befall them.

‘America is extraordinary,’ he began. ‘It’s the best and the worst, full of opportunity, yet riddled with poverty and disease. You always hear about the good things when people write home, and I think I understand why they do it, but I’ve seen things in New York that upset me far more than when I was helping poor souls evicted from their cabins.’

They sat silent, surprised at the whole change in Sam’s tone and watched as he collected himself.