A Girl Called Rosie (4 page)

Miss Wilson had hired a charabanc and taken them to visit the two cathedrals and the museum in Armagh. They’d climbed up the tower of the old cathedral and looked out over the whole city, then walked down the hill, through the Shambles and climbed all the dozens of steps up to the new cathedral to marvel at its exotic decorated interior, full of the strange, unfamiliar smell of incense. Afterwards, they’d been so glad to go and sit under
the trees on the Mall, eat their sandwiches and watch the nursemaids with their large perambulators and the groundsman cutting the grass in front of the little cricket pavilion.

It was last February she’d gone to Portadown. Her friend Lizzie was one of the guides in the Guard of Honour that lined up outside the station when the Duke and Duchess of York had arrived on their visit to the province. Mr Mackay had cleaned up his timber lorry and she’d gone with Lizzie and her mother and some of their neighbours to see the Royal couple.

It had been a very different sort of day. No great buildings or old stone houses, but crowds of people, bands and parades. The Duke and Duchess smiled and waved, the Duchess wearing the longest gloves she’d ever seen and one of the new cloche hats. She and the Duke had seemed so happy together. The crowd had roared and clapped and waved their handkerchiefs and scarves, but she hadn’t. She’d fallen silent and felt her eyes fill with tears, but she’d never worked out why she should have felt like that.

‘Come in,’ she said quickly, as she heard a foot on the landing and a knock at her door.

‘Ach, yer awake. Are ye feelin’ better?’

‘Yes, I am, Granda. I don’t know why I keep falling asleep. I’m sorry I’m being such a nuisance.’

‘Not a bit of it. Sure that was a nasty accident
you had,’ John Hamilton said, shaking his head. ‘We’ll have Dr Stewart over tomorrow to have a look at you. Granny was wondering if you’d be able to come down for a wee while. Sammy says its time he and yer da were going back, so he can return the motor.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ll just put my shoes on.’

‘Don’t hurry yourself now. I’ll away down an’ tell them yer comin’.

Just in time, Rosie remembered not to bend over quickly. The last time, she’d nearly passed out again. She pushed her toes into her shoes, stood up, then tied them carefully one after the other by putting her foot up on the edge of the low windowsill and holding her head as high as she could. She stepped out on to the landing, saw the afternoon sunlight streaming into the house through all the open doors and heard the sound of voices from the sitting room.

‘Oh, Rosie dear, you
are
looking better,’ her grandmother said, as she slipped into the room and stood smiling at them.

Sam Hamilton stood up, his glance casual as he watched her come back into the room. Only his mother noticed the change in his face as he saw his daughter smile.

‘Granny says you can stay here for the week,’ he said, giving her a kiss. ‘We’ll see how you are then.’

‘But what about Miss Wilson?’

‘I’ll walk up tonight an’ have a word with her,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sure you could go an’ see her yourself when you come home, couldn’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I could.’

She turned towards her grandmother and grandfather.

‘She’s been so good to me,’ she added, ‘I couldn’t possibly leave without thanking her.’

Rosie didn’t see the glance her grandparents exchanged as Sammy moved forward to give her a quick hug.

‘I’ll see them off,’ said John firmly, as Rose was about to get up.

‘Your granny has a bad back, Rosie. See if
you
can keep her sittin’ down,’ he added, giving her a wry smile over his shoulder.

He followed his son and grandson into the hall and turned towards the back door and the former stable yard where Harry Mitchell’s motor stood waiting.

‘I’m sorry about your back, Granny. Were you gardening?’ Rose laughed as her granddaughter sat down in the armchair opposite and pushed her dark hair back from her face.

‘No, not guilty this time.’

She straightened herself awkwardly in her chair.

‘It just takes a notion to itself from time to time. It’ll go away if I behave myself. But what’s good for us isn’t usually to our liking, is it?’

‘I know you’re not much good at watching the weeds grow,’ Rosie replied, grinning at her.

Even as she spoke, Rosie was aware what a relief it was to talk to someone who didn’t criticise, someone who listened to what she said and actually asked questions when she didn’t understand or wanted to know more. It was nearly a year since her last visit to Rathdrum and she had almost forgotten that her grandmother loved her and cared about her whatever her faults and failings. The awareness was such a shock, she
forgot completely what she was going to say.

‘Have you still got the headache, Rosie?’ the older woman asked quietly.

‘Yes, it’s still there, but I hardly notice it at all if I keep still.’

Even before her grandmother spoke, the silence had filled up with unwelcome thoughts. She could hear her mother’s nagging voice, the high-pitched tone that warned her there was trouble ahead, that she’d best stay silent and unobserved if possible. If she had to work under her eye then the tone warned her she’d be well advised to work faster and yet more vigorously, even if it exhausted her.

If she was scrubbing the kitchen table, or washing the stone floor, her mother would be sure to say, ‘Don’t hurt yourself now.’ It was the sarcastic, cutting edge in her mother’s voice that gave the meaning to the words. No matter how hard she’d worked or how clean the result might be, she could be sure of a hurtful comment. If she paused, even for a moment, to work out what it was best to do next she’d be told off for ‘standin’ there daydreamin’.’

‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a nuisance,’ she said, when she realised she’d fallen silent again.

‘You mustn’t say that, Rosie,’ her grandmother replied, looking quite shocked. ‘You’ve had a very nasty accident and you need to rest until you feel
better. We’ll get Dr Stewart to come over and see you tomorrow.’

Rosie opened her mouth to protest, but her grandmother was ready and waiting.

‘He’s very nice,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Rather good-looking too,’ she continued, raising an eyebrow and hoping to get a smile. ‘Besides, he’s my godson and I don’t see him as often as I’d like.’

‘I thought Dr Stewart was quite old.’

‘Yes, he is. We are
all
old now. Richard and Elizabeth, your granda and me. Richard has almost retired.
My
Dr Stewart is his son. He’s Richard as well. James Richard Pearson Stewart,’ she added. ‘Elizabeth has always called him Richard, or Richard P. when his father is there as well, but I remember thinking it was such a big name for such a tiny baby. Then, of course, two month’s after he was born your Auntie Hannah and Uncle Teddy had their first child and they called him Frances John Molyneux Harrington, which is even longer.’

‘Why do you think parents give babies long names like that?’ Rosie asked suddenly.

‘When you and I got just plain Rose?’ her grandmother retorted, her eyes twinkling.

Rosie laughed and sat back more comfortably in her chair.

‘It’s partly a matter of social class, I suppose. Certainly the Molyneux family all had long names
made up of important ancestors. I remember when I first met your granda down in Kerry, he was working for Sir Capel Molyneux from Armagh and I was working for Sir Capel Molyneux in Kerry. Capel was a family name so they both had it. It was very confusing at times. I suppose little Frances was lucky he didn’t have Capel as well.’

‘And why didn’t he?’

‘Do you know, I don’t know. Or maybe I did know and have forgotten!’ she said, laughing again. ‘Oh dear, Rosie, I do keep forgetting things these days. I hope I’m not going to grow into a silly old woman.’

‘No, of course you’re not,’ Rosie protested vigorously. ‘I don’t see how one can possibly remember everything. There wouldn’t be space in your head if you remembered absolutely everything, would there?’

‘Well, I certainly hadn’t thought of that,’ Rose said levering herself cautiously to her feet, ‘but it’s a much nicer idea than thinking I might end up being silly.’

‘Can I help? Can I fetch anything for you?’

‘No, my love. I need to stand up from time to time. Besides, I’m supposed to be looking after you, and
you
are very pale and have big dark circles under your eyes. Do you want to lie down again and let Granda bring you up some supper on a tray?’

Rosie shook her head.

‘What I’d really like is to go out into the garden and sit on your seat,’ she replied, as she got to her feet and stood looking down at the small, compact figure who regarded her so closely.

‘You’ve grown, Rosie. I can’t look you straight in the eye any more. I won’t be able to scold you,’ she declared, her tone light and teasing.

‘But you never
have
scolded me, Granny. Never ever.’

To the surprise of both of them, Rosie dropped back down into the armchair, burst into tears and wept as if her heart would break.

‘Is she reading?’ Rose asked, looking up from her knitting as John came back into the sitting room.

He bent down and put another log on the small wood fire he’d lit when the long summer evening began to grow chilly under a pale, yellowing sky with not a trace of cloud.

‘I think that was the intention all right,’ he said, nodding as he sat down gratefully in his comfortable armchair. ‘But by the time I’d got her the towel and the wee cake of soap you asked for, she was asleep. I had to take the book out of her hand. But she looked very comfortable. Apart from that big bruise.’

‘What do
you
think happened?’ Rose asked, catching his eye.

‘Oh, I think it
was
an accident. Our Sam wouldn’t
tell us a lie. He’s very particular about that sort of thing. But, as you would say, I don’t think he told us the half of it.’

‘So you think it
was
Martha?’

‘That wumman’s capable of anythin’.’

Even if she hadn’t glanced up at him, Rose could tell he was badly upset. Over his many years as a director of Bann Valley Mills, dealing with people of all sorts, fellow directors, customers, foreign buyers, machine builders, bankers and insurance assessors, John had lost much of his Armagh country accent. The one time it really came back was when he was seriously upset.

‘Sure she’s fit for anythin’,’ he went on hastily, ‘an’ you know she picks on Rosie. Sure Emily as good as told us that the las’ time the pair of them were here.’

‘But why Rosie?’ she asked, bewildered. ‘I know Martha’s a law unto herself, but Rosie’s the most willing, good-hearted girl. She’d do anything to help anyone. From what I can see she just about runs that house now Emily is out at work. Martha’s never there. When have we ever called to see them and Martha’s been there?’

‘That’s only because she knew
you
were comin’,’ John replied promptly. ‘Any time I’ve had to go to Armagh and dropped in to deliver something or other she’s been there all right. Usually with some
neighbour clocked by the fire,’ he added, surprised that Rose hadn’t read Martha’s absences for herself.

‘Me?’

‘Aye, you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed she’s afraid of you?’

‘What?’

Rose dropped her knitting on her knee and stared at her husband not sure what to make of the small smile on his lined and weather-beaten face and the firm set of his shoulders.

‘She’s afraid of you, because you might just tell her what she doesn’t want to hear. She’s a greedy, selfish wumman and the likes of her can’t stand those that aren’t the same way as herself.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said quickly. ‘When I think of the neighbours she’s so thick with, they’re just like her. Money and gossip. And yet I think she’s always looking over her shoulder to see what they’re saying about her. She’s not a happy woman, John.’

‘An’ you’re right there. She doesn’t spread much happiness around her family either,’ he said bitterly. ‘Which brings us back to the wee lassie upstairs. God bless her.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Rose replied as she picked up her knitting again. ‘But you haven’t answered my question. I asked you why you think Martha picks on Rosie?’

‘Ye mean to say ye don’t know?’

‘No, John, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking,’ she said shortly.

‘It’s because she’s like you. Sure she’s looked like you since she was barely able to walk. And she just gets more like you all the time. Except maybe for the odd bit of crabbitness that they say comes with age,’ he added, with a sly smile.

Rose laughed aloud. She hadn’t heard the word ‘crabbit’ for years, a word John’s mother had used, long ago now, when her arthritis was bad and she felt herself being sharp with her grandchildren.

It was typical of John that he’d make her laugh when she’d been sharp with him. It had been like that through all their long years together. She’d never been able to be really cross with him, or if she had, she’d not been able to keep it up for very long.

The room had grown dim and shadowy, the corners dark except where the lively flames reflected in the well-polished furniture or the small diamond panes of the china cupboard. Beyond the tall windows, the trees stood motionless against the pale sky, heavy now with the darkness of full leaf. The hush of evening had descended on the farms and fields. No sound at all flowed into the quiet room. Apart from the flicker of the fire and the small whisper of ash settling from a glowing log, the silence was complete.

Rose put down the matinee coat she was knitting
for her young neighbour’s expected baby, the light now too poor to see. She was about to ask John to light the gas lamps when suddenly, as clearly as if she were a girl of sixteen again, she remembered what it was like to be a servant. To be at the beck and call of senior servants, themselves answerable for the order of the house. It had been a hard life. Long hours and heavy work. But then she had always had her mother to help and comfort her. Whenever she was tired, or anxious or upset, she knew there would be reassurance, a kind word, a cup of tea.

With a clarity she thought had disappeared with advancing years, she saw just how right John was. Martha had always disliked her, avoided her, disparaged her behind her back. Now she was treating Rosie like her servant.
Mistreating
her, in fact. When what she should be doing was helping her to grow into womanhood, a hard enough task for any girl.

‘John, what are we going to do?’

Even as she spoke, Rose was suddenly aware the question she’d asked was the one he’d so often asked her whenever there was some crisis. Now it was the other way round. But why not? Why shouldn’t that change like everything else?

If there was one thing she had come to accept in these last years, so full of the distress and anxieties of the long years of the war and all the heartache
that had come after for their own land, it was the way things could change, at any moment, for good or ill. Nor could you tell to begin with which way it was going to go.

‘I don’t know, Rose. I leave these things to you,’ he said steadily. ‘But you tell me what you think’s best an’ I’ll go along with it. It’s a long time since I saw our Sam so anxious. He’d break his heart if anything hurt that wee lassie.’

‘Well, we’ll not let that happen,’ she said softly, knowing that there was someone other than their son who had lost his heart to a slip of a girl called Rosie.

‘Here y’ar, miss. A nice boiled egg and toast. Yer granny says to eat it all up an’ she’ll be up to see you after the doctor comes. She said she could do the stairs once in a morning but not twice. Though she’s better, mind you. I see an improvement since Friday …’

Rosie had been awake for some time, but she’d felt so easy and been so comfortable she’d gone on lying with her eyes closed just listening to the familiar sounds of the house and the rapturous song of a blackbird in the garden.

She sat up in bed and watched Mrs Love, the housekeeper, fuss around the room, putting down her breakfast tray, drawing back the curtains, straightening the cushion on the big armchair by the window.

Mrs Love talked all the time and once she got
going she was very hard to stop. She always reminded Rosie of the Ancient Mariner in Coleridge’s poem. But Mrs Love was such a kind-hearted soul that even when Rosie longed for quiet, like this morning, she did her best to pay attention.

‘Yer granda went out early and drove over to Dromore so ye’ll maybe have young Dr Stewart here before too long. Would you like another pot of tea?’ she demanded, as Rosie poured a second cup and drank thirstily.

Rosie reassured her that she never had more than two cups at breakfast. What she didn’t say was that she’d be lucky to get a second cup if one of the boys hadn’t emptied the pot before she got to it.

‘I suppose yer sister’s working away. She must be nearly saved up by now.’

Rosie nodded, her mouth full of toast.

She was intrigued by Mrs Love. She talked all the time and appeared never to hear anything you said in reply, yet weeks or months after you mentioned something it would come up in conversation as if you’d been talking about it only the previous day. It was almost a year since Emily had said she planned to go to America as soon as she had the money for her fare and enough in her pocket to satisfy the immigration authorities.

‘Maybe you’ll go too now yer finished the wee school?’

Mrs Love always referred to Miss Wilson’s school in Richhill as if it were not quite proper. Having learnt to read and write and do sums, which she was willing to admit came in handy for getting a job when you were young, she could see no point in reading novels, reciting poetry or speaking French.

‘But I have no money saved up, Mrs Love.’

‘Sure if you went to America you’d have your grandmother’s people to go to,’ Mrs Love replied. ‘Her brother Sam’s family. God rest him. The McGinleys. I know they’re Catholic, but I’m sure any relative of your granny would be a decent sort and good to you. There’s good and bad in all sorts as my dear husband used to say. He had a great friend who was a theosophist. I wouldn’t know one of those from a horse and cart on a dark night, but he was so kind to me when Billy passed on. Ye have to keep an open mind about these things,’ she added, as Rosie despatched the last of the toast and emptied her teacup.