For Many a Long Day (5 page)

As he made his way back down the hill, he wondered if she was the midwife. Then another thought struck him, much more important than the impending birth. It occurred to him that the next time he and his father went up to visit his mother’s cousin and give the two boys a bit of a hand on the farm, he could just ask Daisy Hutchinson who was her friend with the fair hair, the one that worked with her in Freeburns.

Ellie was tired. As she approached the low hill that ran up past the entrance to her own lane, she found she was pedalling more and more slowly. It even struck her that perhaps it was no bad thing George was otherwise occupied this evening, accompanying his uncle on a visit to some relatives in Portadown. She’d been upset about it last night, but then, last night she’d been upset about everything.

Sometimes she got off her bicycle and wheeled it up the steepest part of the hill, other times she made the extra effort and stayed on till she turned into the lane and had to give way to the sharp stones and random fragments of metal created by the traffic to and from the forge. Tonight, she had no option. She got off much sooner than usual, perspiration breaking on her forehead.

Before she reached the lane end, she caught the familiar smell of smoke moving on the slight
evening breeze. She glanced across at the forge, half-hidden behind the massive pear tree at its gable end. The smoke was the smoke from a fresh fire. Her father was back at work. She hoped he’d had some dinner and that a covered plate would await her in the oven or on the back of the stove. She was very hungry, the hastily made sandwich she’d eaten amid the cardboard boxes of the
staff-room
at midday seemed a long, long way away.

‘Ach, hello. Yer late the night. Are ye not goin’ out with George?’

Despite the bright sunlight outside, the forge was beginning to grow shadowy. Robert Scott had to peer at her when she’d propped her bicycle outside and came to sit down gratefully on the bench opposite his anvil. He was not happy with what he saw. Although she looked up at him and smiled, he knew she was more than just tired out. Something was wrong and George the most likely source. The trouble was that he never knew what to say, or what to ask her. It was one thing when she was a wee girl and fell down and hurt herself and he could lift her up and set her on his knee, but she was a young woman now, about to be married. She’d have we’ans of her own before long.

‘Did yer man keep you late?’

‘No, Da. I had an ice-cream with Daisy. She’s in a bad way. They’re so far behind with the rent, they’ve had a letter about the bailiffs.’

‘An’ her mother still poorly?’

She nodded miserably, too tired to explain the details any further.

‘Shure I thought puttin’ people out was a thing o’ the past. The las’ time I heerd tell of people put out was when my friend Sam Hamilton was a wee boy and his mother and father brought the four we’ans into the old house that was over the way. John Hamilton, the father, wrought here with my father in them days an’ the place was derelict even then, but they’d nowhere else to go.’

‘You mean where our hen house is?’ asked Ellie, a look of amazement on her face.

‘Aye, an’ where ye have your wee garden,’ he said nodding vigorously. ‘That bit of a gable wall with the climbing rose up it, wouda been their kitchen,’ he explained, ‘And our hen house was their wash house, but after the roof fell in one of the landlord’s men came an’ took away a couple of loads a’ stone from the walls for somethin’ or other they were building on the estate. That’s a brave few years ago now.’

‘So that’s how you know the Mr Hamilton of Liskeyborough that came to Granny’s funeral.’

‘Aye, he was reared in that house with his brother James and the two sisters, Hannah and the wee one. I fergit her name just fer the minute.’

‘I never knew that,’ she replied, a flicker of pleasure lighting up her grey eyes.

‘Ach it’s many a long day since I thought about it but Sam Hamilton called last night after ye went off with George and that put it in m’ mind. Ye’d hardly credit his mother managin’ to make a home outa that house if ye’d seen the state of it. So Sam said. Ah hope you an’ George ’ill have a better start than that, though I know things is not goin’ well fer you at the moment findin’ a place.’

Ellie dropped her eyes and said nothing. She’d been thinking all the way back from Armagh how she would break her news at home, whether to face them both or to make sure she told her father first. But now at the mention of George and a place to start, any sensible plan she’d made had flown away.

‘Da, George is goin’ back to Canada with his uncle. He’s leaving on Sunday week,’ she began quickly. ‘He says he’ll send me my ticket or come back for me when he’d saved up enough for a house.’

She only just managed to get the words out before she burst into tears.

When Ellie Scott looked back on that last week before George’s departure for Canada she couldn’t believe how quickly the time had gone. One Sunday afternoon they were taking their usual walk down the narrow road past her great-aunt’s house in Ballybrannan and round to Cannon Hill, climbing the steep slope and gazing out over the surrounding countryside, the very next they were catching a last, brief half hour in the lane that ran up between the orchards to emerge on Church Hill.

With all the visiting and activity of the week, George said he still had to finish his packing before the taxi came to take them to the Belfast train in time to catch the Liverpool boat.

‘You could come to the train with us, if you like, Ellie,’ he offered, glancing at the new watch his parents had bought him as a going-away present.

‘No, George, I couldn’t do that. It would only make it worse,’ she just managed to say, shaking her head and trying not to cry. But the tears came
unbidden, running down her cheeks, splashing unheeded to disappear amidst the pattern of small flowers on her best dress.

‘Shure I’ll be back in no time at all. Ye won’t notice the time goin’. Ye’ll be sewin’ dresses for your trousseau an’ puttin’ stuff away in your bottom drawer for settin’ us up,’ he said, taking her in his arms.

He kissed her vigorously, then hurried her back down the bumpy lane, his arm tightly round her waist lest she should trip and delay them further when he was late already.

With a hasty kiss and squeeze, he left her standing beside the horse trough at the foot of the lane, the mid-point between their two front doors, the place they’d met since they’d been children going up the lane to school beside the church. She stood and watched him as he strode away, but he moved so quickly he’d disappeared into the farmyard before she’d collected herself enough to respond to his parting wave.

An hour later, sitting by the well in the orchard, she heard the taxi come up the drive and stop in the wide, bare space outside the garden gate. From where she sat, she could hear voices on the clear air, hear the throb of an engine running, hear a crescendo of shouted Goodbyes. Then the usual Sunday quiet flowed back as if it had never been disrupted.

She looked down into the sunlit waters of the well, saw her own pale face reflected against a background of cloud and blue sky. She dipped her hand into the cool water and saw the picture shimmer and disappear as she splashed her tear-stained face and dried it with her handkerchief. It would never do to show a tear-stained face.

She got to her feet, took a deep breath, and began to walk back through the long grass. The pink and white petals of the apple blossom fell like confetti all around her. Despite all her effort, such an aching space opened in front of her, she wondered how she would ever fill it.

The kitchen was dark and stuffy as she stepped through the propped open door. Her mother was nowhere to be seen. Her father sat at his usual place at the table, the
News of the World
spread out to catch the light from the small back window.

‘Is he away?’ he asked, his eyes flickering anxiously towards her as she sat down on the settle.

‘Yes, he’s away,’ she said steadily. ‘He’ll be in Liverpool in the morning and off on the
Minnedosa
tomorrow night. Quebec in six days and then Peterborough.’

‘Whereabouts would that be?’

Ellie could hear the note of relief in his voice. She stood up and pulled the kettle forward on the stove.

‘I didn’t know either,’ she said, smiling at him as
she reached up to the mantelpiece for the tea-caddy. ‘I went into the Guardian office and asked Miss Trimble. She’s always very helpful and I was sure she’d have an atlas.’

‘Aye, she’d need one in her job, wi’ people goin’ for cruises and the like. Them that has the money, that is.’

‘She got it out for me and the shop was quiet so we had a good look at a whole lot of places I’d only heard off from Polly. You know Toronto is on Lake Erie. Well, if you come a bit to the right of that and go inland away from the lake, that’s where Peterborough is. It’s about eighty miles from Toronto on the train.’

‘That’s a brave bit, isn’t it?’ he said, a startled look flickering across his face as he closed his newspaper. ‘An’ is that the same Peterborough that Polly mentioned in
her
letter?’

‘Yes, it is. A real coincidence isn’t it? But she didn’t say if Jimmy was goin’ to take the job there or not. The cost of moving might leave them worse off than they are, unless Quaker Oats are offering him more money.’

He shook his head sadly.

‘I’ve seen so many go off, Canada or the USA, an’ they all think they’re goin’ to make their fortunes. Aye an’ a few do, ah have to admit, but there’s more doesn’t. It’s hard being poor in yer own country among yer own family an’ friends, but it’s harder
still I wou’d think in some of these places away. D’ye think our Polly’s all right, or does she just tell us the best of it an’ leave the rest to one side?’

The kettle boiled and Ellie was glad of the brief diversion to collect her thoughts. She knew how her father turned things over in his mind in the long hours working in the forge and he often read and re-read the letters that came from her sisters, but she seldom had much idea as to what he thought about their news, he said so little most of the time and almost never asked her a question

‘I think Polly herself always makes the best of things whatever’s happening to her,’ she said carefully, as she poured him a mug of tea and fetched the milk and sugar from the corner cupboard. ‘But she’d never
not
tell us if things were bad. She told us when they had to give up the house and go into digs, didn’t she?’

‘Aye, she did,’ he said, nodding and drinking gratefully.

‘I’m sure she’ll tell us if Jimmy does take this new job. I know she likes Toronto and has lots of friends there, but Polly could make friends wherever she went. She might even be able to see George when he’s down in Peterborough staying with his uncle.’

‘Indeed now, she might,’ he said quickly, getting up to go and visit the privy in the orchard.

Ellie smiled to herself. She’d managed it. She
had mentioned George’s name to her father without crying and the look of relief on his face made it well worth the effort it had cost her.

To Ellie’s amazement, she slept peacefully that night, neither brown bears nor falling trees troubling her rest. When she woke at her usual time, it was Daisy Hutchinson who immediately came into her mind, though she did do a quick calculation to work out exactly where George would be at this early hour and what he and Uncle George planned to do during the time in Liverpool before the
Minnedosa
sailed on the high tide.

Poor Daisy. She’d had to work through a long, hard week without any respite from the worry of that letter sitting on the mantelpiece behind the clock. Each day, they’d spoken in whatever quiet moments they could find, Ellie encouraging her to be sure they’d think of something. Twice, when Miss Walker was up in Belfast inspecting stock for the July Sales, they’d risked having their lunch break at the same time, leaving Harry, the youngest and most good-natured of the young men, to stand in for half an hour. Harry Wright would do anything for Ellie, Daisy declared. He’d been sweet on her since his very first day when she had been so kind to him. ‘I’ll even sell a pair of knickers for you,’ he’d said, grinning broadly, as they slipped out the back door.

They’d hurried down to The Mall and sat side by side on a stone bench under the trees eating their sandwiches and watching the well-dressed ladies go by accompanied by equally well-dressed children or well-groomed little dogs. Much of the time they sat in silence, for Daisy had no more to tell and try as she might Ellie could think of nothing new to suggest. She’d offered Daisy her own small savings. The idea that Ellie should offer without telling George had really upset her. Besides, the sum itself didn’t go far enough towards the arrears to be worth arguing over.

But now on this bright, May morning, Ellie had made up her mind. She had come to the conclusion there was only one person with the necessary knowledge and experience to help Daisy and although she was very anxious indeed about approaching him, she knew she had to try.

A few minutes after ten o’clock, when Mr Freeburn said ‘Good morning’ to each of his staff in turn, she took a deep breath, replied to his greeting and asked if she might have a private word when it was convenient. He’d looked so startled by her polite request it made her even more anxious. Nor did it help that, rather than ask her to follow him to his office, he suggested she come to his office at eleven-fifty. An interminable two hours followed before she could go up and knock on his door, as firmly as her shaking hands would allow.

‘Come in, Miss Scott,’ he said briskly.

She stepped into the large, light room, its three tall windows framing the bustle of activity in the street below. Once the family sitting-room, but now piled with stock along two of its walls, it still had an air of elegance about it. The ceiling was high and decorated with a large plasterwork rose, a delicate chandelier hung from its centre.

She walked across the worn carpet and stood in front of the huge mahogany desk, its polished surface gleaming except where neat piles of papers were lined up and held secure with equally
well-polished
brass paperweights.

Mr Freeburn himself, his dark figure silhouetted against the central window, appeared even darker and more solid against the light and movement outside. He appeared to be absorbed in watching the traffic in Thomas Street. She followed his gaze. In the right hand window, she could see the front of the Co-op and the gleam of the three gold balls on the pawnbrokers next door. In the left-hand window, the darkened upper windows of the large public house stared blankly back across the street.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Scott?’ he asked, turning towards her, his tone not unfriendly, but distinctly crisp.

‘I wanted to ask your advice, Mr Freeburn.’

This was not at all what Charlie Freeburn had expected. A request for a private word from a female
member of staff inevitably meant she was giving notice. In the case of some, he’d known before they spoke it would mean no more than the obligatory week. He would expect Miss Scott to be more considerate, but nevertheless the immediate thought of losing her had quite spoilt the morning and the good spirits with which he had greeted the week, the grandfather of one more flourishing grandchild in Abbey Street.

‘Do please sit down,’ he said, so taken aback he could hardly contain his relief.

‘I have a dear friend, Mr Freeburn, who is in danger of losing her home because of debts which she cannot pay,’ she said, as soon as she had lowered herself into the chair he had placed for her. ‘The debts are not her fault,’ she went on quickly, seeing the look on his face. ‘but there is no one else to pay them.’

‘And how can I advise you?’

‘Well, I’ve thought and thought about what one could do, but I have only a very little money myself, not nearly enough to be useful, and I can’t think of anything else one could do.’

She paused and smiled suddenly.

‘It’s all very well in stories. Someone always has some old piece of jewellery or some family heirloom they can sell when their friend is in difficulties, but apart from a Coronation teaspoon my great-aunt gave me as a christening present I don’t have
anything
like that.’

‘And do you think I might have the equivalent of some saleable object? Something that would provide for the financial needs of this young woman?’ he asked, wondering what she would reply.

He had a good idea the girl in question must be Daisy Hutchinson. He’d noted how well the two of them got on and how often he’d seen Miss Scott helping her out when she was in difficulties in the shop.

‘No, I didn’t think that,’ Ellie replied honestly. ‘People must often ask for financial help, because they know you have a profitable business. I expect you have to say ‘No’ to many requests, but I wondered if you could use your influence with the landlord. Perhaps if Dais … my friend’s family had a little time, they could get back on their feet again. Something might come to help them.’

‘I take it we are talking about Miss Hutchinson?’

Ellie nodded sadly.

‘What makes you think anything ever comes to help us except the effort we make for ourselves?’

It was not said unkindly, but Ellie felt discouraged. Most people said that Freeburn was mean. That he gave nothing away. He was a self-made man and being what other people could only see as mean was what had made him so successful. But he had asked a question and she must try to reply. It wouldn’t help Daisy much if she just gave up now.

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. ‘I suppose I think
that while there’s life, there’s hope. It’s something my father often says when people are poorly. Losing a home and a farm is just like losing a person. If it goes it might as well be dead. You can’t get it back again even if later on you
do
have money.’

‘You could buy a better one.’

‘Yes, you could,’ she agreed.

She wondered why he was watching her so patiently, waiting for her to say something more. She’d no idea what he might want her to say and even less of what she could say herself.

‘It’s
now
that matters,’ she said suddenly. ‘In a few months her brother might be able to find work when he leaves school, or her mother might improve and be able to do more to help on the farm. Or Daisy might marry someone with a lot of money. There is
some
hope, if only there were a little time.’

‘If Miss Hutchinson were to marry then I would have to train up a new assistant and I assume I shall be losing you in the not too distant future,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Oh no, Mr Freeburn,’ she said quickly, shaking her head. ‘It will be at least two years now before I can be married. My young man has gone to Canada with his uncle. He hopes to send for me when he has somewhere for us to live.’