A Girl Called Rosie (24 page)

‘Yes, please.’

He laughed and shook his head.

‘Good. That’s great. That’s what I like. A woman who knows her own mind.

‘Now let me fill you in on the time scale of the whole operation. The snow might be falling down next week, but what we’ll be looking at is June the fourteenth. That’s the second Monday in June and the trade fair runs for six days. We start in February
with publicity and invitations and I’ll need a lot of your work as early as that …’

It was the middle of January before Rosie quite caught up with what her new job would entail. Initially, the main difference was that she now spent half her working week painting. Sometimes she stayed at home for a whole day, so that she could use her own workbench in the barn. At other times, it was more convenient to work in a small room at the back of the Portadown showroom where blooms from the greenhouses could be brought fresh to her each morning. It was entirely up to her to decide what suited her work best.

When she set out in the New Year she was anxious lest she wouldn’t be able to turn out watercolours as good as those of Margaret McGredy, for she’d always thought that those were the best she’d ever done. But soon she discovered she need not have been anxious. The more she worked, the easier it seemed to be and she was enjoying painting even more than before.

She had to keep reminding herself she could now afford to buy all the tubes of paint she needed. Instead of managing with just a few brushes, she could add to her range, acquiring larger brushes for background washes and a number of very fine ones, one in particular so minute it made shading much easier. And then, as if that were not pleasure enough,
she had a polite request from Mr Sam’s secretary for a note of the cost of her art materials. Whatever she spent, the secretary explained, she’d be reimbursed at the end of each month.

‘And now ladies and gentlemen we approach the main staircase that leads to the circular gallery from which you will be able to examine the classical paintings more closely and also to look down upon the impressive entrance hall …’

The voice of the guide echoed through the high-domed space as they followed him up the shallow carpeted treads of the staircase. It was late March and bitterly cold. The first daffodils had just managed to make an appearance in the half barrels outside the front door at home, but a stiff breeze blew dust whirling round the farmyard and the trees showed not a sign of leafing.

Here in Belfast, in the huge interior of the City Hall, there was no wind, but the chill of acres of marble seemed to intensify the cold, so that it penetrated even her heavy winter coat. Rosie was grateful now for the welcome warmth of the silk scarf she’d set inside the collar, although all that was in her mind when she dressed was the patterning of its delicate colours.

Other members of the large group of owners and exhibitors looked even more pinched and chilly
than she did, their eyes focused on the tall pillars, the echoing spaces, the fall of light. She tried to concentrate on what the guide was saying but gave up after a short while. An account of the classical paintings, the sources of the marble, the time taken to build this impressive edifice, its cost, or even an outline of its recent function as the seat of parliament for the recently established state was not actually going to help her very much when it came to displaying the very best that McGredy’s could produce. What mattered was her getting a feel for the actual place where the McGredy stand was to be located.

They tramped the circuit of the marble gallery in one direction, returned to their starting point and then set off in the opposite direction. Not an entirely helpful itinerary, she thought, remembering the sketch plan she’d been provided with. As far as she was concerned everything would happen on the ground floor. The area designated for McGredy’s was clearly marked and it wasn’t even visible from the circular gallery.

‘We are now approaching the Banqueting Hall …’ The voice boomed on relentlessly.

‘Not much point, is there, if we’re not being given a banquet,’ her colleague, Brian Singleton, whispered in her ear.

Rosie nodded and smiled encouragingly at the
smartly dressed young man who had long since put away the notebook he was rarely seen without.

‘Can’t go on
much
longer.’

She was beginning to wonder if she had misread the itinerary they’d been given. She’d been quite certain that somewhere it had said ‘Tea’.

Fifteen minutes later, the Banqueting Hall having proved to be as impressive, bleak and empty as the entrance hall below, they were shepherded into a smaller room where tall, metal urns hissed out clouds of steam into the cold air and created the smell of warmth if nothing of the feeling.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the Mayor and Corporation I welcome you to the City Hall …’

‘Oh, not more talk …’

Brian was beginning to sound quite desperate.

‘… the minister for Trade and Industry, the Secretary for Industrial Development, the Prime Minister’s secretary and members of the City Council, all of whom will be moving among you and be able to answer any questions you may have.’

‘Here you are, Rosie. Nice cup of tea. Let’s bag one of those little tables. Billy and Trevor must have got separated. Mr Sam is talking to one of the ministers.’

The tea was hot, the scones and cake homemade. Gradually, given a large party and the relatively small room, a little warmth was generated and Rosie
and her three colleagues began to feel warm again.

‘I need to go downstairs again,’ she announced, ‘but don’t let me spoil your tea. I’ll be back shortly.’

‘Don’t get lost,’ said Billy, winking at her.

She smiled across at him, the sight of him in a suit and a stiff collar still something she couldn’t quite get used to.

‘Are you sure you don’t want one of us to come?’

‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’

The buzz of noise receded almost immediately as she stepped out into the circular balcony where one or two small groups of people had come to have more private conversations.

As she descended, she was the only person on the wide, shallow staircase leading down to the entrance hall.

A bit like Cinderella, she thought to herself, as she paused for a moment to look up at the immensity of space above her, the inside of the great green dome she’d only ever seen on picture postcards.

She continued to walk downstairs very slowly, trying to visualise the place filled with stands and crowds of people. She stopped a moment and took the ground plan of the layout from her pocket, so absorbed she didn’t notice a tall, dark-coated figure glance over the balcony, walk slowly down the staircase behind her and wait patiently till she’d finished. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’

He held out his hand and said something so quickly the only bit she caught was ‘Trade and Industry’.

‘Thank you. I’m just trying to imagine what it will be like in June.’

‘Warmer, I should think.’

Rosie laughed.

‘Not
too
warm, please. Roses don’t much like heat, not when cut at any rate.’

‘McGredy’s, I presume.’

She nodded and decided from the handsome cut of his heavy winter coat and his practised manner that he must be one of the important people who’d been announced upstairs before tea. She’d a feeling she’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t think where it might have been. He was quite tall and slim, rather broad in the shoulders, with reddish hair beginning to recede. Alone among the pale, winter faces, he looked tanned and very fit as if he’d spent a long time abroad.

‘Do you live in the Portadown area?

‘Richhill, actually. Down by Richhill Station. Do you know Richhill?’

He smiled and bowed his head slightly.

‘My job is to know everything,’ he said pleasantly.

He ran through a list of local Richhill firms. She was surprised and impressed it included businesses as small as that of Lizzie’s father.

‘My father worked at Fruitfield,’ she offered. ‘But he’s now with Pearson’s Haulage. My younger brother’s there too. And Charlie’s with Irish Road Motors.’

‘And your father is …?’

‘Sam Hamilton.’

‘And you are?’

‘Rose.’

As she told him her name, the one all her friends and colleagues at McGredy’s used, her mind filled with a totally unexpected image, the young man with creamy skin and red hair who had kissed her in an empty room in Kerry when she was barely sixteen.

What a long, long time ago it seemed. Wherever he was, she hoped Patrick Walsh was safe and well. Not entirely adjusted to the real world, she decided, looking back, remembering the girl she was then and his letters, full of literary references, artistic flourishes and phrases in Irish.

‘
You’ll be a rose when you’ve grown up just a little bit more
.’

She smiled to herself. It looked as if he’d got that right after all.

‘Rose,’ her companion repeated. ‘How very appropriate.’

He turned away and glanced up the wide staircase as if he were expecting someone to come and join him.

‘When you come up in June, will you be staying in town or travelling home each evening?’

‘Oh, I shall stay. We have to be here
very
early in the morning. I have a friend in digs I can stay with for the week.’

‘I suspect you’re going to be very busy in the next two months. If you have any difficulties with arrangements for the stand I may be able to help. I have an office here.’

He reached into an inside pocket, took out a notecase and handed her his card.

‘J. Slater Hamilton,’ she read. ‘Hamilton,’ she repeated, beaming at him. ‘As my grandfather always used to say: “A good Ulster name and there’s a lot of us about”.’

‘Used to say?’

‘He died a year and a half ago.’

‘Sad for you. And for your grandmother. Is
she
still alive?’

‘Oh yes, very much so.’

He held out his hand.

‘It’s been nice meeting you, Miss Hamilton. Let me know if I can be of service.’

With which, he turned away and strode up the shallow stairs two at a time.

‘Oh Lizzie, what a lovely big room.’

‘Aye, it’s nice isn’t it? Bit of luck I had there. It’s really for two, but Auntie Maggie is gettin’ fed up with boarders, so I’m the last. She’s goin’ to make this a sittin’ room when I finish.’

Rosie put down her suitcase and hurried across to the tall bay windows that looked out upon the quiet, tree-lined avenue. A short walk from Queen’s University, the elms that gave their name to Lizzie’s address were in full leaf, but still kept the softness of early June before the month’s growth strengthened the leaves and took away their delicate translucence.

‘I though of stayin’ up this weekend to keep ye company, but Hugh would go baldy if I diden come home on Friday night. He misses me terribly. Mind you, I miss him too, but it’s not as bad when you’re busy an’ we’ve these exams at the end of the month. Not that they matter all that much. I don’t need the bit of paper, I just need what they taught me.’

‘Any progress on the shop?’

‘Aye, Da’s been great. He’s bought a house in Richhill that’s in a bad way and has started doin’ it up. He’s going to rent it to us for the shop. He says we can use the upstairs for storage, but I’m thinkin’ if we got married we could live up there. Ye couldn’t swing a cat the bedrooms are so small, but we could manage. It’s just across the square from yer Uncle Henry …’

She stopped, a wicked smile on her face. ‘He knows there’s to be a shop but we didn’t let on what kind an’ he thought maybe there’ll be competition. He’s been tryin’ every way to find out what we’re planning. But it was
him
give us the idea.’

‘What idea, Lizzie? I can’t imagine Uncle Henry giving anybody anything for free.’

Lizzie laughed and threw herself down on the large sofa fitted comfortably into the width of the bay window.

‘We were helpin’ Da the weekend before last an’ we sees the Ford go off. An’ a while later he comes back with a pile of newspapers under his arm. “That’s it,” says I. “Newspapers, magazines, confectionery and bits and pieces you can’t get over the road at yer man’s, like buttons and elastic.” Imagine goin’ to Armagh or Portadown for a bit of knicker elastic.’

Rosie laughed and hugged her friend.

‘Oh Lizzie dear, I’m so glad it’s all going so well. I
saw your ma and da out for a walk the other evening when I was coming home and your ma was looking just great. I got a big smile, but I didn’t stop because it was nearly eight o’clock and I was starving.’

‘Did ye get any supper?’

‘Would you believe it, I did? And not dried out in the oven either. A soup plate over a saucepan of water and a lid over that. I don’t know what’s been going on, but something’s brought her round. Long may it last,’ she added, dropping down on the sofa beside her.

‘So what’s happenin’ tomorrow?’ Lizzie asked.

Rosie laughed, opened her handbag and took out a small sheaf of papers held together with a large clip. She read the first few items from the list on top of the pile.

‘Collect postcards from the printers. Collect the blouse that had to be altered. Go to the newspaper offices with details for their feature page …’ Rosie then stopped and explained, ‘We can’t get in to the City Hall till seven on Sunday morning, but we have to have everything else done by then, for it’ll take the whole of Sunday to set up the stand. It has to be absolutely perfect for the roses arriving at seven on Monday. We open at nine-thirty.’

‘That’ll keep you outa mischief. Has Brian Singleton asked you out again?’

‘Yes, he has.’

‘An’ why don’t you go? He’s nice-lookin’. D’ye not fancy him?’

‘I like him as a friend.’

‘What ye mean is ye don’t fancy him.’

The weekend was warm and dry. Rosie was grateful that Lizzie had gone home as usual on Friday evening leaving her the large, quiet room. She had so much on her mind, she was finding it difficult to sleep, but a telephone call to Billy late on Saturday afternoon was reassuring. All the bushes they’d earmarked together would have blooms at the stage they needed for picking in the very early hours of Monday morning, plus enough buds coming on to provide replacements for later in the week.

Billy was not much impressed with the BBC’s new weather forecasting service which Mr Sam’s secretary posted on the information board each day, but his mother’s corns were grand. They’d never let him down yet. They always gave trouble before rain and heavy rain was the last thing they needed.

By early evening on Sunday the work of constructing and furnishing the stand was finished and the City Hall’s own staff were wanting to lock up and go home. It had been a long, long day from a very early start. There’d been wearing hours when they could do little but watch while carpenters, carpet layers, or electricians finished their section of
the work, making sure it was exactly as planned, but it had been worth it. The finished result was just what they wanted.

‘It really does look good,’ declared Brian Singleton, stepping back and narrowing his eyes.

Everyone agreed, collected their belongings and headed towards the back exit.

‘Can I give you a lift home, Rosie?’

‘Thanks, Brian, that’s very kind, but I’m staying in Belfast with a friend tonight, so I can be down on time in the morning.’

‘I could drop you there,’ he persisted.

‘Actually, I need the walk. I’ve had a bit too much of sawdust and the smell of glue and paint all day.’

Sitting alone in Lizzie’s room some time later, a large pot of tea on a tray beside her, she did wonder quite why she was continuing to say no to such a nice young man as Brian. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like him. She did. He was a reliable colleague on the job and good company when the job was done. As she emptied the second mug of tea, she decided that she’d think about Brian seriously when the trade fair was over and she felt her mind was her own again.

After all these busy weeks, it was strange to find herself on her own in Belfast on a pleasant summer evening with no work to do. She was too tired to go for a walk and certainly too tired to paint, even if she’d had her box and brushes with her. She lay
on the sofa and fell asleep briefly. Waking up, she was so comfortable, and so reluctant to move, she lay and watched the light fade as the sun moved west. Voices of couples walking past below floated in through the open windows.

In a week, it would all be over. Mr Sam’s secretary had reminded her she was now entitled to a week’s annual holiday with pay, plus some extra days in lieu of overtime. After all the intense work and effort, it would be so good to have time to herself again. She’d go and see Granny.

Since those winter days just before Christmas her visits had all been too short. In the last couple of weeks, she’d not been able to go at all, though she
had
spoken to her on the telephone, a strange and frustrating experience. The connection was so perfect they might as well have been in the same room, but the context of the general office in the Portadown showroom meant her call could only be brief and rather impersonal.

Suddenly and unexpectedly Rosie found herself thinking of J. Slater Hamilton, the tall man she’d met on her first visit to the City Hall. Mr Sam had been most impressed when she’d produced his card and relayed his offer of help should it be needed. ‘Secretary to the Minister for Trade and Industry. A Cabinet Minister, no less,’ he’d said. ‘A very useful contact.’

They’d had no need to take up his offer of help, as it turned out, but she’d found herself puzzling over their conversation more than once. In fact, she’d been so puzzled she’d mentioned it to her grandmother on one of her visits back in April.

‘We don’t have a distant relative called Slater Hamilton, do we, Granny?

‘Why, dear? Have you met a possible one?’

‘Hmm. Nice man. He was at the City Hall, one of the government people sponsoring the whole thing. He knew Richhill and Pearson’s and Fruitfield and Rountree’s. Though, of course, he said it was his job to know everything like that.’

‘Well, you’d have to be pretty knowledgeable these days with the state of business so depressed. The new government has no money to invest and neither has Westminster. Uncle Alex says we’re heading for real depression if something doesn’t change soon.’

She paused and thought for a moment.

‘What did your Slater Hamilton look like?’

Rosie described him as best she could. She’d even mentioned that he’d looked familiar, but she couldn’t think where she’d seen him before, especially as she thought he’d been abroad.

‘He certainly didn’t get that suntan in Belfast last winter.’

‘Red hair?’

‘Well, yes, but it was a bit thin on top. And it was receding, like Da. He was quite old, probably forty or more. Maybe even fifty.’

Rose laughed heartily and shook her head.

‘Oh Rosie, my love, you do make me laugh sometimes. Not
at
you. At myself. Forty seems so
young
when one gets to seventy. But it must seem so ancient when you’re just about to be eighteen.’

They hadn’t said any more about him, but in May, Rosie remembered to bring his business card to show to her. She’d put her spectacles on, looked at it closely and asked if she thought she would see him again in the week of the trade fair. She’d said she probably would and put the card back in her handbag.

Rosie sat up and decided she was hungry after all. The idea of scrambling some eggs in Lizzie’s little kitchen was suddenly very appealing.

Although the trams were already running, the city itself was still quiet when she set out for the City Hall on a lovely summer morning, the sky almost a perfect blue except for little white clouds over the Cave Hill and Black Mountain. The hill slopes were ablaze with gorse, reminding her of the rather different blaze of colour she was hoping to create when the lorry arrived from the rose field. Part of her felt anxious, another part felt confident they’d
taken account of every eventuality, but she knew she wouldn’t feel better till she had buckets of roses at her feet and blooms in her hands and knew neither the pickers nor the weather had let her and Billy down.

Everything went exactly to plan, down to the last printed label, the name of each rose encircled by garlands made up of tiny, painted portraits of the rose itself. To her great delight the blouses worn by the girls who would be at work on the stand all through the week looked quite stunning.

When she’d discussed the question of dress for the week with them, their response was immediate.

‘Sure we always wear the same, black skirts and white blouses.’

She’d been horrified at the though of
white
blouses, almost the worst colour for any girl to wear next to her face, especially as these girls were not professional models, skilled at make-up, but the girls who ordinarily worked in the fields, or the showroom and therefore knew something about roses.

She’d argued for colour and it had been accepted. When she met the girls chosen for the trade fair, she’d put forward the idea that each girl should choose a rose and match her blouse to it.

Not surprisingly, there’d been problems, even before a suitable dressmaker had been found.
Some girls had chosen colours that didn’t suit their complexions and she’d discovered how tactful she could be. In the end, they’d worked out a colour for each girl, the blouses echoed the blooms against which the girls would move. As for the skirts, there was nothing wrong with black, because the outfit was completed by a moss green overall embroidered with the McGredy crest. Some of the men had been uneasy about wearing pale pink shirts instead of white, but again, worn with black trousers and moss green blazers the same shade as the girls’ overalls, they’d had to admit they did look very smart.

A few minutes after nine o’clock, staring at the finished effect of staff and blooms and wondering if there was anything more she needed to do before the doors opened in half an hour’s time, she turned to find Slater Hamilton on his way to work, a bulging briefcase in his hand.

‘Well, are you pleased? You ought to be.’

‘Yes, truly I am. Though I think I’m more relieved than pleased at the moment. When I’ll be really pleased is when I see full order books after all the hard work.’

‘Some American buyers are scheduled for today. I may see you again later,’ he said, turning away.

‘Just a moment. Mary, would you bring me Patience, please.’

He stopped, somewhat taken aback, as she
spoke to a rather plump, round-faced country girl wearing a pale, pastel-pink blouse under her green overall.

‘You are our first visitor,’ Rosie explained.

She took the rose Mary passed over to her, a small spray of foliage already in place and handed it to him.

‘It may fit your lapel. If not, I have a pocketful of pins.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, tucking it into the lapel of his elegant grey suit. ‘That will be most helpful for my day’s work.’

Within minutes of the doors opening, the vast marble hall was full of people. She was kept busy answering questions, providing buttonholes for the gentlemen and postcards for purchasers. A glance across at Brian Singleton, his head bent over a clipboard suggested that orders were flowing in already.

There was little respite from the stream of interested viewers until halfway through the afternoon. A member of the City Hall staff appeared suddenly and cordoned off the stand with dazzling white ropes suspended from highly-polished brass supports. Moments later, the Americans, including a very influential rose-breeder from California, appeared, escorted by Slater Hamilton and two of his dark-suited colleagues.

When they were followed by three photographers, who grouped and regrouped the Americans, their hosts and Mr Sam, Rosie moved behind one of the display stands and slipped off her shoes for a blissful ten minutes. Fortunately, she’d just put them on again when Mr Sam asked for her. He wanted a photograph with all his staff and he insisted she stand beside him.

‘Your boss obviously thinks very highly of you,’ Slater Hamilton observed, as he and his colleagues waited politely for the Americans to finish their conversation with Brian Singleton and Mr Sam.