A Girl Called Rosie (13 page)

‘An’ how wou’d you upset me for goodness sake?’ Lizzie demanded. ‘Sure we never fell out in the whole year we were up at Miss Wilson’s, did we?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ agreed Rosie, taking her hand. ‘But I so hate upsets and arguments and I wouldn’t for the world upset you of all people. Oh how I wish we could just all say what we wanted and agree to differ if we couldn’t agree in the first place,’ she went on, releasing Lizzie’s hand to sweep stray hair back from her cheeks.

‘Sure there’s people thrive on argument,’ Lizzie came back sharply. ‘It’s just you’re not one of them. It’s one reason I like you.’

She looked away and studied the lane ahead. There was nothing out of the ordinary anywhere on the lane ahead, but Lizzie was sure she’d seen tears as Rosie brushed back her hair, tears that had come unbidden, prompted by the very thought of ‘argument’.

They could see the gate to the strawberry field stood wide open as they came round a bend in the lane and gazed across to the sloping fields where the pickers had been at work day after day. The freshly gathered fruit was sent down by the cartload to a special halt on the railway line used only during the short strawberry season, or direct to the factory at Fruitfield.

‘C’mon, Rosie. I think they’re still pickin’,’ Lizzie cried, surging ahead enthusiastically.

Rosie had just spotted a flourishing clump of blue Scabious in the hedgerow and was lost in thought, wondering if she should take some home to paint. It was some moments before she collected herself, hurried after her friend and almost collided as she shot out of the field, red-faced and flustered.

Lizzie pulled her away from the gate and back into the lane.

‘Whatever’s wrong, Lizzie?’

‘There’s someone there. A boy. But I don’t think he saw me,’ she went on. ‘He was lookin’ up at the sky.’

‘But what was he doing?’

Lizzie blushed yet more deeply.

‘You know,’ she said, nodding her head, as if her meaning was perfectly plain. ‘In the hedge.’

‘You mean he was having a pee?’

Lizzie was so upset, all she could do was nod again.

Rosie slipped an arm round her waist and gave her a little hug.

‘It’s all right, Lizzie. Boys go behind hedges all the time. If you had brothers, you wouldn’t pay any attention. Mine used to have contests to see who could pee the farthest or go on the longest, or hit a tin can or knock the clock of a dandelion. Why were you upset?’

‘He might have seen me,’ she said breathlessly.

‘And why does that matter?’

‘Well, he might have been annoyed if I’d seen him.’

Her voice faltered and her face crumpled as she bit her lip.

‘Lizzie dear, he might not have been bothered at all. He’d probably have pretended you hadn’t seen him. But even if he knew you had, what does it matter?’

‘I don’t know, Rosie. I don’t know,’ she replied, near to tears.

‘Now, come on Lizzie. We can go back home or we can go and see if there’s any strawberries. He’s only a boy and he can’t hurt you if I’m with you. Did something frighten you?’

‘No,’ she admitted, collecting herself quickly. ‘Let’s away an’ see if there’s any left.’

When they went into the field, Rosie recognised the boy at once, one of the Loneys of Tullygarden.
He was stacking wooden boxes inside the gate and looked up as he caught sight of them. A tall, ginger-headed lad with blue eyes, creamy skin and freckles.

He nodded in a friendly way to Rosie, whom he knew by sight from bringing tools to her father’s workshop and turned shyly towards Lizzie who’d recovered her usual liveliness.

‘Are ye’s lookin’ for strawberries?’ he greeted them easily. ‘The field’s finished,’ he explained, ‘not worth the pickers comin’ again, but there’s plenty o’ wee ones if ye know where to look. I’ll give ye’s a hand,’ he went on, addressing himself to Lizzie.

‘So you’re still open to sell?’ asked Rosie.

‘Ach no,’ he said, shaking his head and looking puzzled. ‘I asked Mr Lamb what to do if people came and he started to tell me this story about a woman in the Bible called Ruth. She was a cleaner, he said. But then he got called away, so I didn’t hear the end of it. But as he was goin’ out the gate, he called back that if anyone wanted fruit for their own use they were welcome.’

Rosie tried not to smile, but Lizzie burst out laughing.

‘Have you never been to Sunday School?’ she demanded.

‘Not unless I could help it,’ he replied, beaming at her cheerfully.

‘Well that would explain it. Ruth was a gleaner, not a cleaner.’

‘An’ what’s that, when it’s at home?’

‘It’s someone who gathers up what’s left after the pickers have been.’

‘Like we’re goin’ to do now?’

She nodded her head and waved her hand at him, waiting for him to lead the way to whichever part of the field he judged most promising.

Rosie hitched up her skirt and got down on her knees in the dry, sandy soil. Other people might bend over to pick, but she found it made her back ache. Besides, she liked the feel of dry soil, even if it got into her shoes and she loved searching for the small, bright berries hidden under the ribbed leaves.

To her surprise, she found late flowers and green berries on the plants as well as the sweet-tasting strawberries. As she dropped the shiny, red berries into the punnet Hugh Loney had provided, she thought of placing dark, pointed leaves behind the fragile white flowers with their yellow stamens and then adding in some long, curling tendrils with their hint of pink.

She’d always loved flowers. Even as a very little girl, she’d picked twigs and leaves and whatever blooms or berries the season offered to put in a jam pot in the workshop or a vase in the kitchen window. She’d taken flowers to her teacher at Richhill Public
Elementary and at Miss Wilson’s she’d won little prizes for the best arrangements of flowers from the large, rambling garden behind her house. But she’d never thought of painting flowers.

During those first days in Kerry she’d taken out the paint box her grandparents had bought her. She’d worked on both landscapes and seascape, but although she loved the idea of painting, and thought longingly of her cousin’s watercolours at Rathdrum, she admitted she couldn’t get the feel of either. It was then her grandmother suggested she try her hand at painting flowers in the hotel garden. Once she began, it came so easily, and now, everywhere she looked, she saw shapes and colours she longed to paint.

From a little distance away she heard the sound of laughter. She glanced up, but immediately dropped her eyes again. Sitting on either side of a row of plants, their hands reaching across the small distance between them, mouths and fingers stained with juice, Lizzie and Hugh were dividing strawberries with their teeth and passing them across to each other in some private attempt to find the sweetest fruit.

Rosie felt her spirits rise so much she felt happier than she could ever remember. Completely overwhelmed by a sudden and unexpected joy, she got up and moved further away from Lizzie and
Hugh, so bound up in themselves they didn’t even notice her going. She settled herself again on the warm earth, her eyes moving over the receding lines of plants as they followed the curve of the hillside and led her eye down to the valley below.

The shadows were lengthening as the afternoon moved on, but the sun was warm on her hands and face, the far hillside patched with pale gold where the stubble left from the hay harvest had not yet sprouted new growth. Further away, beyond orchards and stretches of woodland, a finger of stone stood on the flattened summit of a green hill, its sharp outline gleaming in the sunlight as it pointed up at the clear blue sky.

‘Rarely, rarely comest thou, Spirit of delight,’ she whispered to herself, laughing at the picture she must present, a girl sitting in the middle of a strawberry field, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, the warmth of the sun on her face. Even as she whispered the familiar line, the dark shadows which had clung to her through these two long weeks back at the farm dissolved into warmth and laughter.

Reluctantly, as the sun dropped lower in the sky, Rosie collected her thoughts, picked up her punnet and waved to Lizzie and Hugh. It would be a pity to anger her mother by not being home in time to prepare the vegetables for the evening meal.

Lizzie caught her eye, waved back and came running towards her, followed more slowly by Hugh. He was carrying in both hands her punnet, now full to overflowing with gleaming, ripe fruit.

‘I could stay here all day,’ said Rosie, smiling at them, as she stood waiting on the grassy margin near the open gate, ‘but there might be no dinner if I did.’

‘An’ Ma would wonder where I’d got to,’ added Lizzie.

Hugh let them go through the gate before he swung it closed behind him and tied it with a piece of rope.

‘What’s the rope for?’ Rosie asked, puzzled as to what possible use it might serve, tied in a loose knot that wouldn’t keep anyone out.

‘Ach it’s just to say to certain people that they’ve no business to be pickin’ to sell. Sure any like yerselves knows just to climb over.’

They moved along briskly. By the time they reached the forge and turned down the hill, Rosie noticed Hugh had managed to take Lizzie’s hand. Moments later, the winding lane leading off to Tullygarden, his quickest way home, was passed without his giving it so much as a sideways glance.

‘Goodness, is that the time?’ Lizzie asked, as they approached the level crossing at the foot of the hill.

The gates were closed, the signal down and from far away they heard the long drawn out whistle of the approaching train.

‘Aye, that’ll be the five-twenty from Portadown, due Armagh five-forty,’ declared Hugh confidently. ‘It takes a brave while to pick strawberries,’ he went on, his eyes on Lizzie, before the roar of the oncoming train drowned out his words as it rattled through the station without stopping.

The smoke and steam cleared. The long white gates swung slowly back and dropped into place with a loud clack as Rosie said goodbye to them both.

‘I might see ye again tomorrow, Rosie.’

They paused by the open gate to her own farmyard.

‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘Shopping in the morning.
And I haven’t baked today, but I’ll probably get up some time on Sunday if Billy comes home …’

She broke off as she caught sight of a figure moving out of the wash house halfway down the yard. It was her father in his braces, with a towel over his arm.

‘See ye then,’ said Lizzie. She and Hugh continued up the hill, Hugh’s arm now firmly round her waist.

Neither Lizzie nor Hugh had registered the look of anxiety that passed across Rosie’s face, for she’d turned away too quickly, her eyes fixed on her father, who had stopped at the door of the barn the moment he’d caught sight of her.

Something was wrong. She was
quite
sure of it. Normally her father wasn’t home till after six. He’d freewheel down the last of the hill, turn into the farmyard and park his bicycle against the wall of the barn. But it was nowhere near six and there was no bicycle to be seen.

As she ran to meet him, he walked towards her, moving slowly, as if he was overcome by fatigue.

‘Da, what’s wrong?’ she demanded, as she came up to him.

He glanced at the punnet of strawberries. For a moment, she was sure he was not going to answer. Then he reached out and put his arm round her.

‘Yer granda’s had a bad turn, Rosie. He might not do,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m catching the next train over.’

For a moment, all Rosie could think off was the sand in her shoes, the working clothes she was wearing and what she was going to do with the strawberries. She looked up at him. Of course he’d have to shave before he went as he normally shaved at bedtime. She guessed too, that his boss had brought him home, which was why there was no bicycle against the wall of the barn. His boss was a Quaker, and Quakers helped each other. Working out the answer to these puzzles gave her time enough to resolve her own problem.

‘I’ll need to come with you,’ she said matter-of-factly.

He looked at her, his features immobile, giving nothing away. She watched his large grey eyes flicker round the farmyard, pause at the open door of the house and move back again to meet her anxious gaze. He glanced down at her dusty clothes and the pink stains of strawberry juice on her hands.

‘Aye. I think ye might maybe help yer granny more than me,’ he said, nodding. ‘The train’s in fifteen minutes.’ He paused and then went on. ‘She might well want you to stay. Take a few things with you. Pack a wee case while I go an’ get changed m’self.’

In the last few days of July the kitchen of the south-facing house had become dim and shadowy at this hour. Dolly sat by the stove reading
Girl’s Own
,
Jack was hunched over the end of the table nearest to the door studying the assembly instructions for a model biplane, the pieces laid out in a row in front of him.

‘Oh goody, strawberries,’ exclaimed Dolly, eyeing the basket of fruit greedily.

Jack looked up, said hello and returned to his instructions.

‘Where’s Ma?’ Rosie asked quickly.

‘Out,’ Dolly replied.

‘Don’t know,’ said Jack, at exactly the same time.

Rosie walked over to the dresser, placed two saucers on the table and put a generous handful of strawberries in each.

‘Here you are,’ she said, handing them a saucer each. ‘And
no
more. The rest are for Ma. She may want to make jam. Jack, will you see to it, please.’

‘All right,’ he said promptly, popping a berry into his mouth and watching her as she dipped the edge of a dish cloth into the rainwater bucket and rubbed at the stains on her hands.

Moments later, she shut the bedroom door behind her and drew out from under the bed the smart leather suitcase her grandfather had bought her.

She touched its shiny surface, surprised it hadn’t yet acquired a patina of dust. But then, she reminded herself, as she peeled off her old red blouse and her
everyday black skirt, it was only two weeks since she’d packed that same case to come home.

She took her nightdress from under the pillow, borrowed some of Emily’s knickers, because her own were hanging on the clothesline in the orchard and dressed in her old Sunday best. She brushed her hair hastily, tied it back and found the ribbon pulling so tight she had to loosen it and tie it all over again.

He may not do
.

Her father’s stark words rang in her mind. She tried to silence them but they wouldn’t go away. Granda was not just ill, he was so ill he might die. If he died there would be a funeral. What would she do then?

Unbidden, a thought came to her. If she took her very best dress, the one he had bought for her, she wouldn’t need to wear it, because he wouldn’t die. She took the dress from the wardrobe, shook it vigorously to disperse the smell of moth-balls, folded it gently and placed it in the half-empty case. At the same time, she remembered her new shoes which she’d put away wrapped in the tissue from the shoe shop in Cahirciveen. She added them, her hairbrush, some clean hankies and the tiny bottle of scent Emily had given her for her birthday. She took a deep breath and snapped closed the catches.

As she came back out into the kitchen, she caught sight of her father crossing from the barn.
He was wearing a clean shirt and his Sunday suit. She hurried outside to meet him before Dolly started asking questions. If she stopped to answer them they might miss the train.

‘Ma and Uncle Joe have started the milkin’, but I’ve had a word,’ Sam said, as he took the suitcase from her hand. ‘Yer ma’ll tell the children later where we’ve gone and I’ll speak to them tomorrow,’ he continued, striding out so fast she had to run to keep up with him as they heard the whistle of the approaching train.

They said little to each other on the way to Portadown. It appeared her father knew nothing beyond the brief message from Alex his employer had given him when he’d arrived back from a delivery earlier than usual to carry out the regular Friday afternoon maintenance.

Rosie glanced across at him as he sat looking out of the carriage window, his eyes fixed on the sunlit landscape. She was sure he was seeing no detail of the familiar fields and hedgerows now bathed in golden light. From the set of his body and his even more pronounced stillness, she decided he was praying. He wouldn’t be asking God to spare his father, but rather, asking to know His will and for the strength to do what was required of him.

She thought of the way Emily had declared two
weeks ago that their father was a good man. Yes, he was. But she knew he was not a happy man. How could he be, when he slept in the loft over the barn rather than with the woman who had borne his children?

That made her sad enough, but she felt all the sadder when she compared his solitary life with the close companionship of her grandparents, Rose and John. She could quite easily imagine them as a young couple, like Lizzie and Hugh, walking hand in hand along the lane from Currane Lodge to the lakeside. Yes, they were Granny and Granda, old in years, but she had been with them and she knew they still loved each other.

She’d seen them sit talking often enough, heard them discuss what to do next, tease each other. Laugh at the mention of some shared memory or old contention she herself couldn’t possibly understand. Day by day, they shared their life, the good times and the bad, each of them appreciating whatever the other one did to make their time together as good as it could be.
To love and to cherish
, indeed. Just as it said in the prayer book her mother never used.

She turned and looked over her shoulder as they entered a cutting. A road bridge over the line cast a sudden deep shadow. She used the moment to wipe away her tears, so as not to attract her father’s attention.

But he was a long way away. His prayer complete, he had put his trust in the Lord. Feeling free now to think about his father his mind had moved backwards in time. The image of his mother came to him, singing to him as she washed his face before he set off for school. He saw himself trundling an egg on a windy, sunlit hillside, his father and mother watching, cheering him on. There was bag of sweets as a prize, but he couldn’t remember who won, for the sweets had been shared among them. James and Sam, Hannah and Sarah. His brother and sisters.

The long drawn out whistle of the train as they approached Portadown Station caught him unexpectedly. For the time it took for the train to slow down and come to a halt by the platform, he was back in another train on a summer morning, the Methodist excursion to Warrenpoint.

It was James who saved them. Leaning out of the window he’d seen the men divide the train, putting stones under the wheels to stop the separated carriages from running backwards. He hadn’t understood himself what James was saying about the vacuum brake being off, but then he’d said the carriages would run back into the oncoming passenger train and he’d seen the look on his face. His mother had understood immediately. She’d made them jump out and take shelter from the sun under a hawthorn bush.

He remembered how she’d gone back along the line to look for her friend, but her friend was dead. But he and James, and Hannah and Sarah, had walked all the way home to the house opposite Robert Scott’s forge at Salter’s Grange. They had been spared, when all around them friends and neighbours had been killed and injured. He sighed deeply. The will of God was hard to understand.
God protect you, James, if you are still with us, and keep your soul if you are not
.

They changed trains at Portadown and continued to Banbridge, silence still heavy upon them.

Rosie wondered if dying was easier if you were old. Not the actual process of dying, but getting used to the fact that it was bound to happen. Was it something you could get used to, like not being able to read without spectacles, or having difficulty bending down, or your teeth falling out.

She knew of many people who had died. Neighbours whom she had sometimes seen in the workshop, but more often people who were just names she’d heard. So and so from Kilmore or Kilmacanty, Cloghan or Cornascreeb. Familiar names of local townlands, even if she’d no very clear idea exactly where they were. News would come and then, on Sunday, after Meeting, still wearing his suit, her father would walk to some neighbouring church for a service at two-thirty or three o’clock
and come home looking sad and solemn.

But it being John Hamilton of Rathdrum was very different. Not an unknown person in an unknown place, but her own dear grandfather.

Banbridge Station itself was busy and Rosie found herself jostled and struggling as she tried to keep alongside her father against the press of people trying to board the train even before they’d had time to get off.

‘There’s your granda’s motor,’ Sam said, as he stood outside the station scanning the busy street.

For one single moment, she thought everything was all right. There’d been some mistake and Granda was here in his motor to meet them, after all.

She felt a sudden light touch on her arm.

‘Uncle Alex,’ she said, turning to the familiar figure who’d been waiting for them on the platform and missed them in the crowd.

She was completely taken aback by the look on his pale, drawn face. No, there was no mistake.

‘I thought you might be on this one,’ he said flatly, as he turned to Sam, caught his hand and pressed it in both of his. ‘He’s still with us,’ he added, in the same lifeless tone. ‘Or he was an hour ago. I met the last train as well, just in case.’

They said no more as they drove off, for the Friday evening crowd paid no attention to the odd
motor and wandered at will, back and forth across the main road.

Once out of the town Alex put his foot down and sped along the now empty road. He swung up the hill at Ballydown with practised ease. Suddenly, they were passing between the open gates and under the dense shade of the limes. Rosie could hardly believe they’d arrived so soon as they drew up beside the two other vehicles parked facing the hedge of sweetpea that divided the yard from the garden beyond.

‘Ach, there ye’s are, God bless ye.’