A Girl Called Rosie (14 page)

Before she’d set foot on the ground, a distraught figure ran from the back door, her skirt and apron flying with the speed of her movement, like a great bird about to rise into the air.

Alex and Sam paused, their faces immobile as Mrs Love clutched at Rosie and enveloped her in a fierce embrace.

‘Ach, you poor chile,’ she said, overcome with emotion. ‘Yer granny said ye might come. Sure Granda was talkin’ about ye this mornin’ before he was took bad.’

She released Rosie, looked at Alex and Sam with red-rimmed eyes and made some small effort to collect herself.

‘How is he?’ Alex asked, the words coming out one by one without the slightest trace of his
Canadian accent, which had survived unmodified all these years since his return.

Tears poured down her long, wrinkled face.

‘He can’t speak right, but the pain’s gone. It was somethin’ desperate,’ she went on, wringing her hands together. ‘The doctors is with him now. Maybe they’ll tell us somethin’ better when they come down.’

Rosie had never before seen Mrs Love so utterly distraught. She was one to get upset over even tiny domestic disasters but she’d never been like this before. The poor woman was beside herself.

‘Have ye’s had yer tea?’

The question took them all by surprise. Food was the last thing any of them were thinking about.

The two men shook their heads and Rosie observed the sudden change in the anxious figure.

‘Sure, you’ll need a bite to eat,’ she insisted, as she led the way back into the kitchen.

‘I’ll give you a hand, Mrs Love,’ said Rosie. It would keep her occupied till the doctors had gone. Then she might see her granda. Granny would be with him, for she knew she wouldn’t leave him.

Making sandwiches for anyone who might be able to eat them, Mrs Love became a different person. She talked all the time, as she always did, but this time Rosie paid close attention.

John Hamilton had been to one of the mills in
the morning, she began. Although officially retired for some two years now, he’d been pleased when the directors asked him to give them the benefit of his long experience. Since he’d had some trouble with chest pain before his retirement, he no longer did any of the work himself, but after all the years he and Alex had worked together that didn’t present any problems.

‘An’ he had his lunch, just as usual, he an’ your granny, in the conservatory. Though, mind you, I had to pull a couple of the blinds for it was gettin’ that hot. An’ then, after he reads his paper, he goes out to the motor an’ starts up the engine.’

Rosie felt herself grow tense. Standing here in the kitchen, imagining him outside, bending over the engine as she’d seen him do so often, made it so immediate.

‘An’ the engine runs an’ it runs. An’ I wonder to myself what he’s doin’ to need it runnin’ for so long. An’ after a wee while I look out an’ I can’t see him. An’ I know he wouldn’t go away an’ leave an engine runnin’. So I take a wee walk out to see where he is, an’ he’s lyin’ up against the back wheel behind the motor with his eyes shut an’ his han’ up to his chest.’

Rosie had to stop buttering, because her hand was shaking so much she was afraid she’d drop the knife, but Mrs Love continued quite matter-of-factly.

‘To tell you the truth, Miss Rosie, I thought he was dead. But he opened his eyes when yer granny came an’ she sent me down to Missus Emily Hamilton to get help, for she cou’den lift him.’

‘But Aunt Emily couldn’t come, could she?’

‘Ach no, not the way she is. Sure she’s over her time already. But as good luck would have it, the breadman was there an’ the minute he heard, he came up an’ helped us get yer granda to bed. An’ then he went down to Ballievy an’ got the office to phone for the doctor and get your Uncle Alex back from Lenaderg. Sure, they couden do enough to help when he tole them what had happened. An’ he’s a new breadman too, only a young chap with ginger hair, and looks as if he couldn’t lift a pan loaf. But he was tougher than he looked, good luck to him,’ she added, firmly, as she started slicing the ham, ‘we cou’den a done wi’out him.’

The sandwiches were made and wrapped in a clean, damp cloth. Rosie began washing up the knives and plates they’d used making them and Mrs Love stopped talking long enough to step into the hallway and listen to see if she could find out what was going on.

‘Yer da and Uncle Alex are sat in the sittin’ room. There’s not a word outa them. An’ there’s no sound at all from upstairs,’ she reported, striding noisily across to the kitchen window and staring out at
the three motors parked by the sweet pea, her face twisted into an anxious grimace.

One look at her and Rosie decided something would have to be done.

‘Do you think we should make some tea, Mrs Love, to go with the sandwiches?’

After the way in which time had sped up on their journey from Banbridge station, Rosie was now having difficulty with the way it had slowed down again. Despite the audible click the large hand on the kitchen clock made when it moved, it seemed as if it had stopped. It reminded her of her days at primary school and the last half hour of the afternoon. Sometimes it seemed as if three thirty would never come. She had to keep reminding herself that in the end it had. Sooner or later, they’d hear footsteps on the stairs.

But the first thing they heard were voices in the hall.

‘Rosie!’

Placing cups of tea carefully on a tray, she was startled by the soft voice, familiar, yet quite unexpected. She glanced up and found Richard Stewart standing in the doorway gazing at her in surprise.

‘Auntie Rose said she thought you might come,’ he said, moving out of the way when Mrs Love picked up the tray and headed for the sitting room.
‘She’ll be so pleased to see you,’ he added, coming round the kitchen table to stand close to her.

‘I’m so sorry, Rosie,’ he said softly, taking her hand.

She looked up at him, surprised and almost amused to see he was wearing a dark, herring bone tweed suit, the accepted uniform of a country doctor. Despite its heavy formality, he actually looked younger than he had in the shirt and flannels he’d worn coming to meet them at the station just two weeks earlier.

‘Is there no hope, Richard?’ she asked quietly, amazed the way the words seemed to speak themselves.

She saw him press his lips together, pause, then run a finger round under his stiff collar. His face was damp with perspiration.

‘Could we just step outside, Rosie? I’m boiling over in this jacket.’

She nodded, opened the door and led the way across the yard and into the garden itself. A slight evening breeze had begun to stir the tall perennials. She stopped by a seat, hesitated, then sat down.

‘Would you mind?’ he asked, catching his lapels.

‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘Even in a blouse I was too hot,’ she added as he took his jacket off. ‘Or maybe I’m so hot because I keep forgetting to breathe.’

‘You were very brave to come.’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ she protested, shaking her head. ‘I just couldn’t bear not to be here. I may not be much use …’

She looked at him closely and wondered why taking off his jacket made him look so much more vulnerable.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ she reminded him.

‘I was trying to think of the best way of putting it. No, there isn’t much hope. Sometimes Father and I disagree, but not this time. We both knew Uncle John had angina and it was getting worse. That’s why we persuaded him not to attempt the long drive down to Kerry.’

‘But he drove a lot in Kerry while we were there,’ she said quickly. ‘He so loved driving. One morning when we were deciding what to do, he said he didn’t mind what we did as long as it was a long drive away.’

‘We must both remember that then, mustn’t we?’ he said firmly. ‘They so wanted to go to Kerry and they managed it, and enjoyed every moment of it.’

‘But he’s going to die, isn’t he?’ she insisted, trying to say the words without letting tears come into her eyes.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘What will happen? Will it be like what happened this afternoon?’

‘How do you know about that?’ he asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘Mrs Love. She gave me a detailed picture.’

He looked away hastily, studied a rose bush which had shed a pile of pale petals on the well-trimmed grass path, and then turned back to her.

‘If we’re lucky it shouldn’t be as painful. The heart is already weak. It won’t be able to take much more if there’s another one. Or rather,
when
there’s another one.’ He paused. ‘Are you
really
going to stay?’

‘Yes. Unless Granny needs my bed for someone else. Auntie Sarah or Auntie Hannah, if they can come.’

He nodded briskly and reached for his jacket.

‘I’m staying here tonight. After that, Father and I will take it in turns. Mother will come tomorrow. I’m glad you’ll be here … for your granny’s sake.’

He stood up, took her hand and led her back into the house.

On the day of John’s collapse, July’s oppressive warmth and heavy cloud had been left behind and August began, a month which Rosie had always liked for its maturing colours and more varied weather. For once in her life, she didn’t even notice the change. It was true no one turned over the page on the kitchen calendar to reveal a new Irish landscape, but everyone’s concern for John’s wellbeing, along with the disappearance of the regular activities that usually marked the passing days, was more than enough to account for it.

On Saturday, Alex took Rosie to do Friday’s shopping. On Sunday, no one went to church. Mrs Love thought it not proper to do the weekly wash on Monday and Elizabeth Stewart’s regular Tuesday visit was postponed, because Elizabeth herself had sat with Rose and John through most of Sunday and Monday and needed a day at home in Dromore.

At first, Rosie found the days at Rathdrum strangely extended. Sitting with her grandmother
on Saturday evening, while John slept peacefully, she felt she’d been there by his bedside for so long, the bustle and noise of shopping in Banbridge that morning was so far away it felt like something she’d done on an earlier visit. But as a second, and then a third day passed, with no visible change in John’s condition, time seemed to speed up again.

The news of John’s illness had spread quickly. Even before the minister of Holy Trinity and the local priest had both said prayers for his recovery on Sunday morning, visitors had called to make enquiries or leave gifts. On Monday, the manager of Ballievy arrived seeking the latest news even before Rosie had begun her breakfast. He told her the other mills had asked him to keep them closely informed, so he would send messengers up at regular intervals to see if there was any improvement, or if there was anything the household might need. He himself would see to the dispatch of any telephone messages or telegrams they needed to send.

After that, visitors arrived throughout the day and into the early evening. Some came in by the back door, like Alex and her father, or Elizabeth and her doctor husband and son, greeted her and went straight upstairs. Others knocked at the front door, people of all kinds and conditions, from directors to delivery men, and had to be brought into the
sitting room while she ran upstairs to ask what her grandmother would like her to do.

There were so many who wanted no more than to shake hands with Rose at the bedroom door. They would look at the sleeping figure, call blessings upon him or cross themselves. Of their wishes for his speedy recovery there could be no doubt at all.

Almost always, Rose said that the various callers might come up to see him and for each one she had a smile and a gentle word.

‘Yes, he’d had a peaceful night. No, he was no better. Yes, we must hope for the best.’

Rosie heard the words so often, she almost began to believe that there was indeed a best to hope for. That if they all went on living this strange life of quiet vigil upstairs and continuous activity downstairs, then some miracle would bring John back from the faraway place where he slept so devotedly.

On Tuesday evening, as Rosie was preparing a supper tray for her grandmother, she heard a motor stop over by the sweet pea hedge. Last night it had been Dr Richard Stewart himself. Tonight it was Dr Richard P. as his mother called him. He came through the kitchen door, looked around warily for Mrs Love and dropped into a chair when he saw and heard no sign of her.

‘How’s Uncle John?’

‘No different from when you left on Monday
morning,’ she said, observing him closely, to see if his expression would tell her anything.

But he gave no sign apart from a small smile when he looked up at her.

‘Is that good or bad, Richard?’ she asked.

‘Neither. We can only guess what’s going on. The heart can’t repair itself,’ he said sadly. ‘Too well we know that, but in a state of rest, the deterioration might be slow. We’ll be able to tell better when he recovers consciousness.’ He paused and looked down at the floor. ‘That is, if he
does
recover consciousness.’

‘You mean he might not?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And you still don’t think he
might
recover?’

‘What do you want me to say, Rosie?’

She stared at him, puzzled by his question, then glanced down at the tray she’d just completed.

‘I must take this up before the pot of tea gets cold. I’ll make some more for you when I come down.’

‘Is Auntie Rose on her own?’

‘No. Da and Emily came over after work. They’re with her now,’ she explained, as he stood up and held open the kitchen door for her.

All was quiet as she brought the tray into the big bedroom where her grandparents slept. Rose sat on one side of the bed, her hand gently resting on
John’s, which lay inert on the bedspread. Her father and Emily sat on the other side, Emily’s face taut with distress, her father outwardly as calm as ever.

Her grandmother looked up as she heard her come into the room.

‘Did I hear Richard P. arrive?’ Rose asked easily.

‘Yes, just now. I was going to make him some tea, unless you want him to come straight up.’

‘No, no need. If we want him, he’s close by and I have two good messengers here.’

Rosie arranged her grandmother’s supper on a small table, poured cups of tea for her father and Emily and hurried back to the kitchen.

Richard was waiting for the kettle to boil on the gas, pot and tea caddy at the ready.

‘When did you last look in the mirror?’ he asked, before she had time to speak.

‘Why?’ she replied, laughing. ‘Have I got a dirty mark on my face?’

‘No, you look entirely respectable. Neat, trim and businesslike, a credit to the household.
But
,’ he went on, ‘you are at least three shades paler than when I left you yesterday morning. When did you last see the light of day?’

‘Saturday, I think,’ she said honestly.

He laughed, poured water into the teapot and set up another tray with cups and saucers and a jug of milk, as if it was something he did every day.

‘Have
you
had any supper?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t feel like any. But I did have a proper lunch. Casserole and vegetables followed by prunes and custard. Mrs Love insisted.’

‘Where
is
the formidable lady?’ he asked, as he cast his eye over the cake and biscuits tins, picking them up one by one and shaking them gently to see if there was anything in them.

‘Granny sent her down to help Emily. She’s started and her friend Nellie hasn’t arrived yet to look after the little ones.’

‘Poor old Alex. His best friend dying and his wife in child-birth. Sometimes life is very hard. Has he been up today?’

‘Yes, twice. Emily is very upset she can’t come herself. She’s always been fond of Granda and Granny and the two little girls adore him. Even the baby can say “John”, though she can’t manage “Granda”. She calls him Ganda,’ she added, an undisciplined tear threatening to cloud her vision.

‘Come on young lady, outside,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’ll be sun on the far end of the garden. Open the door and lead the way. I’ll carry the tray.’

To Rosie’s surprise, it was warmer outdoors than in. The kitchen had been in shadow and she’d spent a long time working there, clearing up and making tea for the familiar stream of visitors. Her back ached from standing and her hands had gone icy
cold. She felt suddenly so grateful for the sunlight, filtering through the trees and shrubs, soft and golden as the sun dipped in a cloudless sky, and for the gentle movement of air stirring the herbaceous borders and archways of roses, releasing their mixed perfumes.

They walked right to the end of the mown grass path and sat on her grandmother’s favourite garden seat from which there was an uninterrupted view of the mountains outlined in the paling evening sky. Richard had poured her tea and passed her a piece of cake before she’d managed to draw her eyes away from the distant prospect, never mind collect her thoughts.

‘You’re doing my job,’ she said lightly, as he poured his own tea.

‘And I could say you’ve been doing mine. Providing for the needs of an anxious family is part of good doctoring. At least I think it is.’

She thought about what he’d said, began to consider a reply, but found she couldn’t concentrate. What kept coming back into her mind was the question he’d asked her before she went upstairs: ‘What do you want me to say?’

Suddenly finding the effort of explaining too much for her she simply repeated his words and then went on.

‘But what can you say about him, except to tell
me the truth? You haven’t got a choice of things to say, have you?’

To her great surprise he laughed and shook his head.

‘Oh Rosie, Rosie, if only you knew how little people want to hear the truth,’ he said quickly. ‘Not just about dying. About living, about making a life, about creating a world fit for us all to live in. Truth is very unfashionable these days. But some people appreciate it. They’re the ones who’ll be most sadly deprived by Uncle John’s loss, though they probably won’t know exactly what they’ve lost.’

She thought of the stream of callers, the bulletins posted up in the mills, the letters and cards and gifts.

‘Is that why Granda is so loved?’

‘I think so,’ he said soberly. ‘In fact, I’m sure that’s why. You see he’s always been himself. There’s never been any pretension about him. He’s never tried to impress or be something he wasn’t. One of my patients mentioned him to me this morning. When he found out I knew him, he told me a couple of little stories. He ended up saying, “Even when he got on in life and had to wear a suit to the boardroom, John Hamilton would still get down on his knees to fix your motor if he came on you stuck on his way home”, and that just about sums up your grandfather.’

Rosie smiled. It wasn’t just the words themselves, it was the broad country accent Richard had used.
Sometimes he seemed so sober and solemn, but then, she thought, being a doctor can’t be easy. People would expect him to be sober and solemn, but his dark eyes twinkled when he made her laugh and that she loved.

‘Do you think you could persuade Granny to come out for a breath of air? She only leaves that room to go to the lavatory or to wash.’

‘No, I wouldn’t even try, Rosie,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not many men are loved as John has been loved. I wouldn’t deprive them of a moment of their being together. Would you?’

Rosie just shook her head. If Richard said John would die then he would. What she could not yet come to terms with was the fact that his death would separate her dear grandmother from the love of her life.

Richard left on Wednesday morning soon after his mother and father arrived and the two men had spent some minutes with John. His pulse was stronger, they agreed, but there were still no signs of him opening his eyes.

‘Be a good girl,’ said Richard lightly, as he tramped through the kitchen where Rosie was already at work. ‘Up and down the garden as often as you can and a nice sit in the sun when Mrs Love comes back.’

He paused and looked at her with mock severity.

She returned his look and sensed how tired he was. This was the third night he’d spent dozing in a chair beside John’s bed and now he was driving back to Dromore to take his surgery before going out on his calls.

‘You haven’t had breakfast,’ she said accusingly.

‘No, but I
do
intend to when I get home. I
always
have breakfast, I promise you, but that’s because I don’t always get lunch,’ he confessed with a wry glance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She smiled and nodded and felt strangely sad as she watched him stride across the yard and drop his leather bag into the back of his motor. Minutes later he was gone. Before the sound of the engine had faded from the fresh morning air, she heard the doorbell. The day had begun and it was not yet eight o’clock.

Slowly and quietly the hours passed. They were surprised when Mrs Love did not return, but Elizabeth did arrive and insisted on cooking lunch and Rosie went and sat with her grandmother until it was ready. They ate it together at a small table at the foot of John’s bed.

Rosie had never met Elizabeth before, though Rose had spoken of her dear friend so often. A tall, stately woman, her hair iron-grey, her face still soft and given to smiles. When she laughed, her large,
grey eyes lit up and Rosie was startled to discover how beautiful she still was.

There were fewer visitors today though the messenger from Ballievy arrived at regular intervals. It was he who told them Emily was now well advanced in labour, that her friend had not yet arrived from Belfast and that Mrs Love was fully occupied with the three lively little girls, the youngest just starting to crawl.

Rosie did as Richard had asked and walked out into the garden whenever she had a free moment. It gave her the chance to pick sweet pea and put it in vases in the sitting room. There were creamy pink roses just opening which she arranged with spikes of lavender and the shiny leaves of magnolia for the hall table. She took a single, short-stemmed rose in a small bud vase up to the bedroom where Elizabeth and Rose sat in companionable silence. It was still tightly rolled with only a small tip that told her what colour it would be, but it was beautifully shaped, plump and perfect. In the warmth of the sunlit room, it should open very soon.

She examined the rosebud carefully next morning as she sat by John’s bed while Rose washed quickly and changed her clothes and Dr Stewart drank a cup of tea in the kitchen before he went home. Though she could smell its rich perfume already, to her surprise it had still not opened.

As she sat watching her grandfather’s face, she heard voices in the kitchen and a step on the stair. It was not Dr Stewart, for she’d hear his motor on the driveway and it was certainly not the young man from Ballievy who always came to the front door.

She had just stood up, wondering if she’d be needed, when Rose appeared from the bathroom at the same moment that Alex reached the top of the stairs.

‘How is he, Rose?’ Alex asked, as they came into the room together.