A Girl Called Rosie (17 page)

She stayed by the window, watched him as he emerged from the house, crossed to his motor, climbed up into the driving seat and reversed away from the sweet pea hedge. As they manoeuvred Helen turned to him and said something which made them both laugh. The motor set off down the drive and disappeared.

Rosie thought her cousin Helen was quite the loveliest and liveliest person she’d ever met. She was sure Richard thought so too.

When Rosie went to say goodbye to her grandmother the next morning she found her weary and not quite her usual self, though Rose hugged her warmly and said she was to come and see her as soon as she could manage it. Aunt Hannah was still trying to persuade her to go back to England with them, if only for a short rest. In direct contrast, when she went to the kitchen, she found Mrs Love completely restored to her normal good spirits, tackling two weeks’ washing on a morning with exactly the kind of fresh breeze she liked to give her the best of drying.

Rosie left Rathdrum in her grandfather’s motor with Aunt Sarah at the wheel. On her way to Armagh to visit her former brother-in-law, James Sinton, who’d been too ill to come to the funeral, Sarah said how glad she was to have her company. As they set off down the hill they agreed how grateful they were, to be driving briskly under a wide, cloud-strewn sky after the confinement of the last days, the first pink
and gold leaves of the chestnut trees suggesting a touch of autumn even this early in August.

‘So what now, Rosie?’ Sarah asked as they headed for Banbridge. ‘We’ve not had much chance to talk, but Ma told me in a letter you were keen to do a year’s training for textile design.’

‘Yes, I was. It was something we talked about in Kerry, but I don’t think it’ll happen now.’

‘Why not?’

Rosie sighed, not sure where to begin. The more she thought about it the more complicated it all seemed.

‘Well, to begin with, Da can’t afford the fees himself. Or rather, even if he could, he’d not be happy about it, because he wasn’t able to help the boys to do apprenticeships. He thinks it might not be fair if he were to say yes and let Granny and Granda help me.’

‘That sounds so like my dear brother Sam,’ she said sharply. ‘Did he
ask
the boys if they wanted to be apprenticed?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure any of them did. Except perhaps Sammy. But he’s doing so well now I don’t think it matters any more. He likes his boss and he’s had two pay rises so far, so he’s earning far more than an apprentice. He’s saving up for a motorbike,’ she added smiling.

‘And he’s planning to ride in the T. T. races in the
Isle of Man whenever he’s got enough experience, isn’t he? I had a few minutes with him yesterday and I heard all about it,’ Sarah replied. ‘I like your Sammy,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘How do you feel about staying at home?’

‘I don’t really know. I was dreading it when I came back from Kerry, but it wasn’t as bad as I expected. Ma had been very down on me before …’

‘You had your accident with the door that jumped up and hit you. Ma told me all about that as well.’

Rosie took a quick look at Sarah, her eyes focused on the road ahead, her motoring hat pulled down firmly over her ears.

‘When I came back she was different,’ she explained. ‘Mostly, she ignores me, but quite often she sends me out. Messages and so on. She even suggests I go and visit people. Lizzie or Miss Wilson, or some of the other girls I went to school with. I can’t think why she’s suddenly changed, but it does make things easier. Especially if I can’t go to Belfast.’

‘What do you think might have made the change?’

‘I really wish I knew. Lizzie said she thought Da said something to her while I was away. He was very upset when—’

‘Shrewd guess of Lizzie, I’d say,’ Sarah interrupted, glancing at her briefly. ‘The thing about
your da is that he seems to do nothing, and do nothing, and then, quite suddenly, he acts. I used to get so cross with him when I was your age, the way he put up with things I’d never have stood for for five minutes. I suppose now I’ve achieved the incredible age of forty either I’ve learnt patience or I’ve finally accepted that other people work differently from the way I do,’ she said, laughing. ‘Sam bides his time. And I must say, though I never became a Quaker, even when I was married to one, I
do
respect their principles. Not
always
, but mostly. Your dear father
always
tries to be fair, even if he gives himself a bad time in the process. Had you noticed?’

‘Emily says Da is a good man, but he thinks too much,’ Rosie replied, laughing herself.

‘Yes, that’s perfectly true,’ Sarah agreed. ‘But rather that than these people who never think at all. What
is
the state of play on your going to train? Don’t the courses start in September?’

Rosie nodded.

‘Yes, I think they do. I might be too late already to sign up. When we came back from Kerry three weeks ago Granny spoke to Da. He told her, he didn’t think he could give to one of his children what he hadn’t been able to give to all of them. But he did promise her he’d take counsel and consult his conscience.’

‘But wasn’t it Granny and Granda who were going to put up the money?’ said Sarah frowning.

‘Oh yes, it was their offer, but only if Da said yes.’

Sarah nodded and concentrated on overtaking a long trailer carrying a huge metal object like a giant flowerpot being pulled at a snail’s pace by a road engine.

‘Perhaps Granny will be short of money now Granda has died,’ said Rosie anxiously, the thought having just occurred to her.

‘No, don’t worry, she’ll be fine,’ Sarah reassured her. ‘But there are always tedious things about money when anyone dies. Probate, for example. She may not be able to get at what is actually hers until the solicitors produce the papers. More to the point, Rosie, is that even when she’s got access to her money, your father may not be able to let you go.’

‘What do you mean, Auntie Sarah?’

‘Much as I love Sam, I have to admit he’s not exactly made a happy marriage. He works hard, he does his best for his family, but there’s not a lot of joy in his life. If you go, he’s got even less. He could never admit that you’re probably the best thing in his life. But that’s why he may not be able to let you go, especially just now when we’ve lost Da.’

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Rosie saw her father standing on the empty platform at Portadown when they’d waved from the Dublin train. He’d looked so
solitary, so alone, she’d been overcome by a dreadful feeling she might never see him again.

‘So you think I should stay at home?’

‘No, by no means. You must do what is right for you. When I remarried, I had to leave Ma and Pa after being close by for ten years. I knew it would be hard on them, losing me and Helen and Hugh as well, but they’d have been even more distressed if I hadn’t gone. Ma always said a woman
must
move on. She must leave her father or mother when the time comes, otherwise she never grows up to become the person she has it in her to be.’

Rosie took a deep breath. Sometimes things suddenly became clear. Aunt Sarah had known him all her life and what she said about him waiting, and waiting, and then acting, made perfect sense. She was sure now he had indeed spoken to her mother and found a way of ensuring she no longer treated her so badly.

But as for leaving him, that was a different matter. She felt so confused. Her aunt had said he might not be able to let her go, yet she’d also said a woman must leave her father or mother when the time comes otherwise she never grows up properly. How did you reconcile the two?

She wondered if going to Belfast was still a possibility or if her grandfather’s death had in fact taken it away for the moment.

‘You’re looking very thoughtful, Rosie,’ Sarah said, as she drove slowly through Richhill. ‘I hope I haven’t said anything to upset you. I still have the Quaker habit of speaking when the spirit moves me. Or perhaps I just use them as an excuse,’ she added, her eyes sparkling as she laughed at herself.

‘No, you haven’t upset me,’ Rosie said, shaking her head. ‘You’ve helped, just like Granny does. I wish I had someone to tell me the things I need to know. Miss Wilson was very good. I miss her.’

‘Couldn’t you go and visit her? She might miss you too.’

‘I never thought of that,’ she admitted. ‘She told Da she’d like to see me when he went to explain about my not being able to come for the last week at school, but I haven’t managed it yet.’

‘Then you must. I know things haven’t been easy for you. I’m sure there are good things ahead but you mustn’t be shy about going after them.’

She slowed down, swung left into the farmyard and did a neat manoeuvre to leave the car pointing outwards.

‘You won’t mind if I don’t come in, Rosie, will you? I never was a favourite with either your mother or your dear Uncle Joe,’ she explained, leaning over and kissing her cheek. ‘Write to me when you can spare the time. I’m back in Sloane Square for the foreseeable future. Berlin was just one of Simon’s
assignments and he’ll be back himself in another two weeks.’

Rosie picked up her case from the back seat.

‘Good luck and give my love to your dear da.’

Rosie had not been expecting a welcome when she returned home and so she wasn’t disappointed. Apart from a kettle boiling its head off on the stove, there was no sign of life as she walked through the open door. The kitchen was empty, dim and muggy with the warmth of the day and the steam from the kettle. She put her suitcase down and moved the kettle back from the heat.

She looked around, noted the general untidiness and the accumulated layer of dust and crumbs under the table. A couple of large bluebottles buzzed in the bucket where scraps for the hens were kept, the lid having fallen off and not been replaced. She guessed there might well be two weeks’ washing awaiting her out in the wash house. There was nothing to be done except change her clothes and pick up where she had left off.

Some time later, going down to the orchard to hang out the first instalment of working shirts and dungarees, she met her mother coming towards her carrying a bucket of eggs in each hand.

‘That brown hen is laying away again,’ she said shortly, barely pausing in her step as Rosie lowered her heavy basket of wet washing to the ground. ‘I’ll
hafta get Dolly to look for her nest when she comes back from Loneys. She’s a great han’ at finding nests,’ she added, continuing on her way, speaking to herself as much as to Rosie.

She pegged out the first of her brothers’ shirts and looked up at the bright sky, the white clouds streaming out of the west, the sun warm on her damp hands. The breeze was brisk. She thought of Mrs Love and the garden at Rathdrum and smiled to herself. Her washing might well be dry by now.

‘Hallo, Rosie. Are ye back?’

Rosie turned hastily to see a tall, ungainly figure standing behind her, looking her up and down.

Their closest neighbour on the uphill side of the farm, Maisie Jackson, was one of the few people in the immediate vicinity Rosie actively disliked. The rolled up magazine Maisie held in her hand indicated she was on her way to visit her mother, the disorder of her lank, straggling hair a sign she’d now taken to using the hole in the hedge the children had made as a shortcut between the orchard and the Jackson’s overgrown back garden.

‘Shure ye’ve had a time of it this last while. I’m shure yer granny was glad to have you and her so fond of you, but what’ll she do now, the poor woman?’

Maisie’s daily bread was gossip. She stood now, her face a study in sympathy, her large, cowlike eyes
wide with concern, her mouth twisted in distress. Now thirty-five, the eldest of her large family at work, the younger ones left to amuse themselves, Maisie had recently become one of her mother’s closest cronies.

‘I really don’t know,’ said Rosie, shaking her head.

‘I’m sure ye’ve had a time of it, Rosie dear, and you with your own future to think of. D’ye think you’ll like it at Castledillon?’

For a moment, Rosie couldn’t think what she could possibly mean. Then she remembered her father had warned her about her mother’s plan for getting her out of the house by sending her into service.

‘I haven’t heard any more about it,’ she replied warily, trying to stick as near to the truth as possible.

‘Maybe you should have a rest before ye look for a wee job, Rosie. What does that nice-lookin’ woman who brought you home in her motor think? Is she the one that’s a ladyship or is it the other one?’

‘They both are,’ said Rosie, not seeing how to avoid the question. ‘Auntie Hannah is a countess and Auntie Sarah is now Lady Hadleigh.’

‘Oh, isn’t that just lovely, Rosie?’ said Maisie, pressing her hands together in an exaggerated gesture of felicity. ‘I’m sure you must be thrilled to be able to speak to people like that. Maybe one of them will give you a job and you could marry some
sir or lord yourself. An’ you could sit all day doin’ nothing, like they do.’

The thought of either of her aunts sitting all day doing nothing was so ludicrous she couldn’t think what to say, so she bent quickly to the ground, picked up her father’s dungarees and stretched up to pin them on the line.

‘Ach, here dear, let me do that,’ Maisie said quickly, laying down her magazine on the grass. ‘Sure I’m taller than you an’ better able for it. I’m sure you’d far rather be readin’ one of them books of yours than doing the washin’,’ she went on with the sort of laugh that she used to encourage confidence.

‘Miss Wilson says you’re a very clever girl, so I’m told,’ Maisie went on, twisting her head to see how this piece of information would be received.

‘There are lots of people much cleverer than I am who can’t get a job these days, Mrs Jackson. Emily was one, for example. All my brothers and sisters are clever,’ she said, trying her best to keep her irritation to herself.

‘Yes, indeed they are. I often say that to your mother. What a clever family she has and what a credit they are to her. But not all of them as clever as you, Rosie,’ she said coyly. ‘No wonder your granny looks after you and buys you nice dresses. Though maybe she won’t be able to do that any
more. Wouldn’t that be terrible sad after the good time you’ve had?’

Rosie handed her a clothes peg, then another. After the dungarees, there were only a couple of pairs of underpants left at the bottom of the basket.

‘Bereavement is such a terrible thing,’ Rosie said suddenly, turning to Maisie as she handed her the next garment. ‘You really have no idea what is happening or what people are going to do. Haven’t you noticed that yourself, Mrs Jackson, with all the people you’ve gone to help at times like that? They just don’t know what is happening,’ she said sadly.