For Many a Long Day (14 page)

Rose had suggested they keep in touch after their lunch together the previous October and Ellie had been very happy to agree. She enjoyed writing and found it very easy to write to Rose because she remembered what she’d said about missing conversations with young people. So she wrote about the shop, about her friends, about their jokes and outings and the idiosyncrasies of the customers. In return, with only the slightest encouragement from Ellie, Rose wrote about her family and whatever thoughts or memories came to mind as she read her young friend’s letters. She told a good story and she too enjoyed writing.

It was Rose who suggested on one occasion that given all the practice they both had corresponding with the far-flung members of their families, they ought to embark on an epistolatory novel which could be published in weekly parts like Dickens’s novels had been, until the entire ramifications of their two families had been laid out for the entertainment of their devoted readers.

Ellie had never heard the word
epistolatory
before but it wasn’t too hard to guess what Rose meant. She’d laughed, thinking of the wide spread of her own brothers and sisters and intrigued by the even wider spread of Rose’s much larger family. In her next letter, she’d asked her if she could tell her all the places she had family. She had a reply almost by return.

Ellie often entertained herself on her journeys in and out of Armagh by trying to construct a family tree
for Rose. Constructing such trees was, of course, a normal pastime in the forge. Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d listened to visitors engaged in ‘placing’ someone.

‘Now would those be the Taylor’s of Hockley, that had the farm down the back of the wall? The eldest girl was a teacher and married an Armagh man.’

‘Not at all, man dear, they’re a different family entirely. These Taylor’s lived over by Maghery and he was the land steward for Sir Capel Molyneux. The daughter went to New York and married some man with pots of money. They bought a big house in County Down for their holidays, but yer man couldn’t stand the rain, so they went to Arizona or Mexico, I forget which …’

What Ellie found so extraordinary was the way people moved around, emigrating perhaps to Australia and then moving on to Canada. Some got rich and came home, wanting to spend their last years in the places they had once loved like Rose’s younger brother, Sam McGinley. Others simply disappeared from view. They may have died, of course, or just never felt the need to keep in touch.

Rose had told her that John had had two brothers who went to America and never came back, though it looked as if one of them had left a son in Liverpool. He, poor child, had been sent as an orphan to Canada with his name on the collar
of his coat, but he’d come back to Ireland looking for his family. He’d found them too, married a local girl, and was now living in her own old home at Rathdrum.

Life was so full of these extraordinary stories of people travelling thousands of miles and meeting up with people from just down the road. It might not be thousands of miles, but her own meeting with Rose in Belfast was just such a story. Indeed, she’d heard from Charlie about how pleased her father was to retell it for the entertainment of visitors to the forge, though he’d never told it when she’d been present.

But an even better story than Ellie’s meeting with Rose was already on its way to Salter’s Grange. Before the apple blossom was well in bloom, Ellie had a letter from Polly, so thick she’d had to use a whole row of stamps to cover the postage.

It had happened like this. Jimmy had offered to look after the boys while Polly went to the shop, as long as she took the baby with her in the pram, for he didn’t think he could manage if the wee one cried with his teeth. Taking Ronnie with her was no trouble to Polly. Apart from the teething, he was the most good-tempered baby. He’d sit outside the shop and wave at the passers by and with the carrier underneath she’d not have to carry home the potatoes.

It was only a short distance to the corner shop, but Polly set off as if she were going for a long, leisurely walk. It was as good as being out on her own, walking in the sunshine with no Eddie and Davy pulling at her skirts and asking for sweets.

The Corner Store was a small, overcrowded shop full of the mixed smells of soap and candles, cured bacon and ham, spices and ginger cookies. Polly always enjoyed going there. She parked the pram where she could see it through the window, waved at her youngest child, who smiled and waved back.

‘Good mornin’ Mrs McGillvray. How are you the day?’

‘Good mornin’ Jim,’ she said, returning his greeting, smiling at the familiar phrase, ‘the day’ and the faint trace of an Ulster accent living in Canada had not entirely removed. Peterborough was full of people of Scots or Irish descent, but however often she met them she was still touched when she heard the sounds of home.

‘No Rebecca today to help you? Is she all right?’

‘Aye fine. She’s away to our eldest granddaughter. Wee one due any time,’ he said smiling. ‘My son’s giving me a hand, though he’s supposed to be on holiday from Quaker. He’s out the back fillin’ up the paraffin cans.’

Polly had almost finished her shopping. She’d taken the potatoes out to the pram and found Ronnie happily entertaining a neighbour. She
was busy fitting packets of tea and sugar into her shopping bag when suddenly a young man walked through the door from the back premises.

He nodded politely and said, ‘Good Morning.’

Polly opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. She stood staring at him, her mouth still open till Jim caught sight of her and asked if she was feeling all right.

‘Jim, your son here,’ she said, putting a hand to her throat. ‘He looks so like my brother Bob, I thought I was seein’ things.’

‘They do say we all have a double somewhere, ma’am,’ said the young man cheerfully.

His accent had not a trace of Ulster in it, but when he smiled he looked even more like Bob.

‘Jim, you wouldn’t by any chance be a Scott?’

‘Aye, surely. I’m Jim Scott. Did ye not know that?’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘I heard everyone callin’ you Jim and you didn’t seem to mind, so I called you Jim as well. There’s no name on the shop and I never thought to ask. I’m Polly Scott. My father’s Robert and you must be his brother James that went away.’

‘Well indeed, you might be right,’ he said very slowly. ‘In fact you
are
right, there’s no two ways about it,’ he said, scratching his balding head, which now that she thought about it did look just like her father’s. ‘An’ you and I seein’ each other near every
day this last year or more,’ he added wryly.

‘So what you are saying, ma’am, is that, not only do I look like your brother, I
am
your nephew. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?’ he added, laughing and shaking his head at his father who had begun to smile himself.

At that point Polly had had to suspend her furious scribblings because she knew she couldn’t get any more pages into the airmail envelope, but it was clear to Ellie from what she’d already written, that Jim was not in any way displeased to have been found. Whatever the reason for his departure from Ireland and his failure to keep in touch, he and his son had welcomed whole-heartedly the discovery of this totally unexpected family connection.

As Ellie had expected, Rose also thought it was a wonderful story and wrote straight back asking her to let her know how things worked out with the Peterborough Scotts. She was sure it would help Polly to have relatives literally round the corner and she wondered if Jim’s wife, now revealed as Polly’s aunt, might give her some help with the children.

Rose and Ellie had agreed Polly had been too easy with the boys and being easy with boys was never a good idea. It left her with seldom a moment to herself. Indeed, more than once she’d admitted having to write her letters late at night when even Jimmy was in bed.

Rose’s letter continued:

Ellie smiled. Not just one opportunity, but two, to wear her new dress. As her father so often said ‘It never rains but it pours.’

On Monday the eighth of May, sunshine poured down on the busy streets of Armagh as Sam Hamilton roared into the city. He slowed smoothly to a walking pace as he came level with Sleators, dismounted, and wheeled his motorbike round the back to its parking place on the edge of the servicing and repair area. Today, was his twenty-seventh birthday.

He was in good spirits. He loved the sunshine and the warmth of the morning and his journey to work from the family home beside Richhill Station had been memorable. The bike always went better in dry air and today it had simply flown, the engine sweet, the road still fairly empty at this early hour.

Like people, machinery responded to the conditions in which it had to function, but it wasn’t simply weather that affected them. There were motors he’d serviced that had nothing specifically wrong with them, but they’d still run badly and one look at their owners had told him why. Impatience,
heavy-handedness, irritability, all had their effect on even the most robust systems. On the newer models, with their more delicate tuning and timing, it could be disastrous.

Yet you couldn’t deny the air itself
was
a factor. No damp today, he thought, smiling to himself, as he peeled off his jacket and hung his helmet on a hook, ready to tackle whatever the day might bring.

‘Rich … Rich …’

He laughed quietly to himself. Peggy had just got engaged to a young schoolmaster. All his colleagues agreed she seemed like a different girl. She beamed at everyone, dressed even more smartly and said
please
when she wanted something done. Two things though hadn’t changed. She was even more particular about her shoes, and neither love, nor the prospect of marriage to an educated fellow had done anything to soften the sharp edge in her voice.

‘Rich, will you
please
take out that Chevrolet over there. It’s not right. Here’s the book and a note of what the chauffeur said to Mr Richard last night. He’s not in this mornin’,’ she explained, handing him the papers and the ignition key. ‘’An if you don’t mind me sayin’, you’ve got oil on your bottom.’

‘Thank you, Peggy,’ he said, trying hard not to laugh out loud. She now said
bottom
instead of
backside
.

‘Would you have a newspaper?’ he asked politely.

She disappeared below her desk and re-emerged
minutes later red in the face and irritated.

‘I don’t know where all the old newspapers go. Do yous eat them out there in the yard?’

‘Not guilty, ma’am,’ he replied, interested to see how a little fluster brought back the old way of speaking.

The Chevrolet started perfectly. He slipped out into the traffic without any difficulty. Not unusual, even with an under-performing motor, it didn’t tell him anything. What he needed was to get up speed, so he could test acceleration and cornering. He eased his way down College Street, turned right along The Mall and decided to head for Hamiltonsbawn.

Of all the roads leading out from the county town, this one had the steepest slopes. Besides, he hadn’t driven it for some weeks. He made a point of varying the road he chose for test drives, so he could keep his eye in. Roads radiated out of Armagh like a spider’s web, so you had plenty of choice and the circle of outlying villages provided parking or an easy turn round.

He drove steadily, his ears tuned, his eyes free most of the time to enjoy the sparkle of Lowry’s Lough and the view out over stretches of green countryside as he climbed higher. Driving to Hamiltonsbawn he always thought of the unknown ancestor who must have founded the village and a favourite story his grandmother told about Aunt Sarah. Once, when they were staying with Lady Anne, over in England,
at Ashley Park, she’d provided an extended history of the Hamiltons.

Apparently a Lady Something-or-other had asked Granny which branch of the Hamiltons she came from, assuming a landed family with a coat of arms. He’d always loved the way Granny admitted she hadn’t a clue what to say. She’d heard of the Hamiltons of Clandeboye, but John Hamilton of Annacramp was unlikely to be any relation of that affluent and titled family and it was obvious this woman expected a full family history.

She was only sixteen at the time, but Sarah had upped and given her one. She’d started with the Plantation of Ulster and explained how the Hamiltons had undertaken to plant good Protestant settlers and build fortified houses, known as bawns. She’d held the floor for goodness knows how long and when, at the end of it, your woman asked her if they
were
related to the Hamiltons of Clandeboye, Sarah had just said rather sharply that their branch of the Hamiltons, the Hamiltons of Ballydown, had been in Ireland
far
longer than them.

As soon as he got to Hamiltonsbawn, he turned round and drove back towards Armagh at top speed on the empty road, did an emergency stop, then slid into a space by the roadside that fishermen used when they were going down to the lough. He checked under the bonnet and shook his head. It certainly shouldn’t be as hot as that. He could do
nothing more till the engine cooled, so he walked away, leant over a nearby field gate and looked about him.

This soft green countryside was beautiful. Damp in the bottoms between the little hills, but if it was, at least it was never other than green. He’d seen pictures of other countries with hot summers and parched, beige land. Not for him. He’d never really wanted to leave his home, but he’d come very near to it last year.

What had happened between him and Marion had hit him so hard he just couldn’t believe it. One day he was on top of the world, going down to Rountrees to buy the furniture for their new home, wanting to surprise her that he’d done so well, saving up enough money for all they needed, the next, she was making excuses, wanting to put the wedding off. Then she refused even to talk to him. Then she threatened him with her father if he came looking for her again.

Both his sisters had tried to talk sense to him. Each said the same thing quite independently, that he wasn’t to think it was his fault. There had to be someone else. Well, now he knew there had been, he’d had to admit they were right, that it was Marion who’d let
him
down. But just knowing still hadn’t helped him.

That’s when he’d decided the only thing to do was go away and make a new start. He’d gone
to the Guardian office and spoken to the woman there. Very helpful she was. She thought at first he wanted to go on holiday and gave him a brochure. New Zealand, the Land of the Long White Cloud, it said. That was what the Maoris called it. When he explained he wanted to emigrate, she was even more helpful. Told him skilled people were much in demand. There’d be no trouble at all with an assisted passage provided he was single and in good health.

Well, he was certainly single. Perhaps he wasn’t as fit as he’d been when he and Marion played tennis at the club in Portadown, but that was easily put right. His wee cousin Daisy had been at him to join the RUC Club. He could take out his racquet again while he was making all the necessary arrangements.

‘Son dear, do you think you’re doin’ the right thing?’ his father had asked, one evening in the workshop in the barn, the pair of them sitting on two empty cans of lubricating oil.

‘I know you’ve had a hard blow, but you’re young and has every hope before you. You’ve your two sisters in particular who’d miss you terribly … and, of course, your Ma,’ he added quickly. ‘I wouldn’t stand in your way if it was what you wanted, but I’m not sure it would take away that pain in your heart. The only way with grief and loss is to turn and face it. If there’s a hole in your life you must see what you can do to fill it.’

He’d looked hard at his father. He had a fair idea he was speaking from his own experience. He was grateful too that he never once mentioned God or faith whenever he tried to help him. Being a Quaker, his father had a deep commitment to his beliefs, but to his credit he never tried to push them at other people. His advice was always kind and practical and meant to help them, not to make himself feel he’d done the right thing.

‘You know it might only be some wee thing at first,’ he’d gone on. ‘Maybe a small success. Something you’re good at, like your job, or maybe somewhere you always wanted to go, or making a few new friends. You’ve been so long with the one person, you might have forgotten men and women you used to know. Would you not give it a wee while yet and see if anythin’ comes that might lift your heart?’

His father
had
been right. He’d found there were good things. He’d met Richard Sleator through work, as great a follower of motor-racing as he was himself. They’d become friends and together met a whole lot more people at the Tennis Club. He thought immediately of Ellie Scott. He’d told his father at one point that he thought he’d never even dance with a girl again, but he’d danced with her and if she’d not been spoken for, he might even have got as far as asking her to go to the pictures. But that, he hadn’t told his father.

Rosie said he was too soft. It could be a nice fault in a man if he found the right woman, but it would cost him dear if he took up with someone who wasn’t as kind-hearted as he was. Like his father, only she put it more bluntly, she didn’t think New Zealand would solve anything. He’d still have the pain within him and maybe no one to take the place of their father or Emily and herself to help him live through it. He might end up even more lonely without all the familiar things one can hold on to in bad times.

He looked all around him at the burgeoning freshness of spring. This would always be something to hold on to. The little green fields, the hawthorn hedges sprayed with creamy white blossom. This elegant motor was his till he handed it back, the better for what he’d be able to do for it when he got the engine stripped down.

He opened the driver’s door. Disturbed by the light breeze from the open offside window, Peggy’s newspaper slithered from the driving seat and fell at his feet. He picked it up, looked to see if there
was
an oil mark from his backside and found Marion’s name in the Family Announcements.

Prentice – Ritchie. To David and Marion Prentice, nee Ritchie, a son, Richard David. Born 7 January 1933 at The Carlton Maternity Home, Portadown.

He had to read it through three times before it finally sunk in. January. For a moment the date made
no sense. Then he heard his mother’s voice. How often had she stood in the middle of the kitchen, the newspaper in her hand, and declared, ‘
Another premature baby. Sure you could hardly believe how many of them there are these days. The hospitals must be run off their feet.
’ Dropping her sarcastic tone, she would then count up on her fingers and say. ‘That must’ave been after the harvest home,’ or, ‘that was the holiday they had before they were married.’ Sometimes she would say, ‘Well
they
didn’t waste much time.’

He had never paid any attention before, but now what he saw were her fingers. Long, bony fingers, the joints enlarged with work and arthritis. Counting up to nine.

For the first time in his life, he did the same. And what he found was that Marion Ritchie, his fiancée, had conceived a child with David Prentice before he had gone out to buy the furniture.

He put the newspaper back on the seat and slid his oily backside across it. It was a small gesture to make, but it eased the anger welling up in him. He drove back to Armagh so slowly he picked up another fault he would never have expected to find in a motor of this quality.

Ellie too had set off to cycle to work in the best of spirits. Not only was the countryside shining in the sunlight, the dandelions opening bright eyes all
along the hedgebanks, but on her way past Riley’s Rocks she met the Stevie McQuaid.

‘Aye,’ said the postman, getting off his bicycle before she’d even asked. ‘There’s one from your sister and one from that young man of yours,’ he went on, beaming cheerfully, as he pulled his mailbag over his head, undid the buckles and went through the small bundles. ‘I’ll not give you the bill for iron from Shillington’s, I think it would be more use to your Da.’

She slipped the two letters into her handbag, thanked him and sailed on, her good spirits buoyed up yet further by the thought that she could slip upstairs and read the one from George at the first quiet moment in the morning.

It came as a surprise to her when a mile or so later, walking up the steep slope from the Mill Row past the asylum, she discovered she was no longer feeling happy. By the time she’d remounted, pedalled past the small stone cottages of Gillis Row and bumped her way over the level crossing into Railway Street, she knew she’d grown anxious.

She’d thought by now she’d adjusted to the fact that George was no letter writer. At school, when they were asked to write ‘compositions,’ he could never think of anything to say and she’d often had to help him out. It ought to be different between them now, but even when she asked quite specific questions, hoping they would help to get him going,
he didn’t answer them, or said so little he might as well not have bothered.

She still knew almost nothing about the camp, how it was organised, where they slept, or where they ate. As for the trees they cut down all day and every day, all he said in answer to her questions was that they were coniferous. She wasn’t all that well up in trees herself, but she did know the difference between larch and spruce and if he’d told her about other varieties, she’d have been able to go to the library and look them up.

Every time a letter came, she’d open it full of the same excitement and pleasure and almost always ended up with the same disappointment, as if she’d been looking once more for something that just wasn’t there. She had no idea what she could do about it.

Monday morning was always busy in the shop. It was not specifically customers, for that varied with the season and the weather, but the window and the aisle displays had to be changed first thing. Mr Freeburn was always in his office for the whole morning and frequently there were deliveries which meant at least two staff were needed out at the back to help with the unloading and checking the bill of lading.