For Many a Long Day (7 page)

Ellie folded the pages carefully, slipped them back in their envelope, put the letter down on her chest of drawers and started undressing. She shook out her skirt and brushed it, hung it over the back of the chair for the morning, then examined her blouse. She noted the dried out marks of perspiration under her arms and caught the stale odour. It would have to be yet
another
clean blouse tomorrow.

It was always like this before the July sale. The top back room at the shop got the sun in the afternoon and that was where she prepared stock for the sale, labelling garments with reductions and cutting and folding remnants of the fabric brought in especially. The room got so hot, she could often smell her own perspiration, but she couldn’t open the window because the sash cords had long since perished.

She didn’t think she’d like the heat in Indiana. She wasn’t sure she’d even like the heat in Toronto or Peterborough, but she was sure she’d get used to it if that’s where she and George were to make their home.

She felt steadier now. She hadn’t realised how much she’d come to rely on Polly’s letters. It was just a stroke of bad luck she’d been too busy with the move to manage more than a few lines in the very weeks she’d been waiting for George to write.

For five years now they’d been writing to each other almost every week. They’d always been open
with each other even when Ellie was a little girl and her big sister really did seem so
very
much older. But the gap between them had shrunk to nothing over the years and though Polly was a married woman with children, only a month ago it seemed Ellie would soon be married too and the first wee one on the way. Now all that had changed so rapidly she still couldn’t take it in.

But what hadn’t changed was that Ellie did have someone she could talk to. She gave thanks yet again that she had someone with more experience than her dear Daisy. Polly wasn’t all that good at sorting out her own problems and Ellie had long thought she just wasn’t firm enough with her two little boys, but that didn’t stop Polly seeing someone else’s problem quite clearly.

Ellie unhooked her bodice, slipped off her knickers, stepped out of her slippers and walked up and down the tiny space between the chest of drawers and her wash stand. She stretched her weary body from side to side and rubbed the marks the waistband of her skirt had left behind. She smiled to herself as she slipped on her nightdress. It wasn’t often you could stand naked in this room. For most of the year she tried to get into bed quickly before she got cold, or frozen.

She pulled the curtains back before she got into bed. There was not a wisp of cloud in the clear sky, the air perfectly still. It would be fine again
tomorrow. She had always hated dark rooms, waking in the night and not knowing where she was or what time of night it might be. She climbed into bed, stretched out between the cool sheets and lay on her back looking up at the pale, whitewashed ceiling, every knot and vein in each individual board familiar, all twenty-nine and a half of them.

Polly, Mary, Florence. They had all gone away and none of them ever spoke of coming back. To see new places, find out about a whole different world. Was that what she wanted too? She’d never really thought about it before. She’d just assumed that a woman went where her husband could find work, enough to support her and their children and keep a roof over their heads. Just like Polly, she assumed wherever it was she would make the best of it.

How many hoes was it Peter Robinson gave to each family? Three. One each for a man and his wife and perhaps the oldest child. Or perhaps the man worked on the land alone, so hard he’d wear out one hoe after another. Grain and seed. But what would they eat until the crops grew and they had a harvest? Birds and wild animals. Rabbits, perhaps. Wasn’t it turkeys the Americans found when they first came to North America and now ate for that very reason at Thanksgiving?

Back and forth her mind moved in the gathering dusk. Polly walking along by a lake under trees with Davy and Eddy and little Ronnie in the pushchair.
Perhaps she would walk there too with
her
children and George and Jimmy would talk together about their work and their bosses … all the things men talked about …

She’d read Polly’s letter again in the morning and tell Daisy about Scott’s Plains and Peterborough. She’d enjoy that. It would make up to her for the letter from George where there was really nothing very much to share with anyone.

She turned on her side, her arms folded across her chest, the way she’d slept since she was a little girl. And tonight she slept peacefully, some deep anxiety resolved though she had no idea at all what it had been and what had resolved it.

‘Rich! Ri-ii-itch.’

When the familiar, high-pitched voice finally got through to him, Sam Hamilton raised his head from the collection of small parts he’d laid out on a square of tarpaulin underneath the elderly Austin. Not an attractive voice by any means, he thought, but it certainly did the job.

Although the June morning was fine and dry, the sun glancing off the white-painted walls of the work area, Peggy stood peering out of the showroom door as if the rain were teeming down and one step further might find her soaked to the skin. But it wasn’t the weather Peggy feared, he knew that by now, it was the prospect of getting even a speck of oil on her smart new shoes.

‘Aye,’ he shouted, peering round the offside of the motor jacked up in front of him.

‘Boss wants ye.’ she called. ‘Ten minutes, he sez. Test drive.’

‘Right,’ he replied, lifting a hand in
acknowledgement, a small smile touching his lips and adding a sparkle to his bright blue eyes.

He glanced down again at the pieces in front of him, picked up two that bore signs of rust and put them in the right-hand pocket of his dungarees. He’d leave them in stripper while he cleaned himself up and did his demonstration run to Richhill and back. He wondered if it would be the new model Austin or the Lagonda. He knew which he’d prefer.

‘Row, Ro–oooo-ooh.’

Peggy was in such good voice that Sam Keenan, sanding a piece of metal at the workbench behind him, had jumped a couple of inches when he’d heard his call.

‘My goodness, we’re busy this mornin’,’ he thought, as he scrambled quickly to his feet and made sure he’d left nothing, neither parts nor tools, where anyone could trip over them.

Sam smiled wryly to himself as he recalled the March day he’d come to Sleators to be interviewed for the job. Senior mechanic. A step up and quite a bit more money. It was Harry Mitchell’s suggestion he try for it. He didn’t want to lose him from his own cycle and motor-cycle business, he’d said, but in fairness he was worth more than he could pay him at the moment, and after all these years it wasn’t right to stand in his way when the job at Sleators would add to his experience.

Harry’s encouragement couldn’t have come at a
better time with him getting married as soon as he and Marion could find somewhere to live. If he got the new job, they might think of a place in Armagh. Marion said she wanted to be near her parents, who lived on the Portadown side of Richhill, but so far they hadn’t been able to find anything in Portadown that she liked at a rent they could afford. Armagh might be better.

Sam remembered climbing the stairs to the large, untidy office on the first floor. The door was open and John Sleator was sitting behind a dust-covered desk piled high with invoices and receipts, his back to the uncurtained windows that looked out over the showroom’s narrow forecourt and across the road to the handsome, stone-built terrace known as The Seven Houses. To his amazement the owner of Sleator and Son, Motors was wearing a pair of dungarees.

Admittedly they were a very clean pair of dungarees, but for Sam it was a great encouragement. He’d taken a real liking to the short, grey-haired man who came barely up to his shoulder when they stood side-by-side at the window working their way along the vehicles lined up outside on the forecourt below, sizing them up and sharing their experience of their weaknesses.

It was not very surprising Sam should take to John Sleator. He and Harry Mitchell had been friends since their schooldays and Sam had served
his apprenticeship with Harry Mitchell in Scotch Street. Later, when he was more experienced and could have made a move, he’d stayed with Harry and taken the place he’d offered him on his support team when he raced in the Isle of Man.

Sam thought he remembered meeting John Sleator in the pits at the T.T. race some years earlier. And so indeed he had. The older man recalled that particularly hot summer and his friend Harry’s near-miss on one of the notorious bends. One reminiscence led to another and Sam’s interview had ended up being a long discussion of bikes and riders. If Sam had paused to wonder why John Sleator didn’t ask him about his qualifications, he might well have realised that Harry Mitchell would already have told his friend all he needed to know, for Harry had never made a secret of how much he valued Sam. ‘
A wee puncture, or stripping down a whole engine, its all the same to Sam. He’ll never be satisfied with anything other than a good job
,’ was what he used to say.

Once they’d agreed wages and hours, holidays and overtime, John Sleator held out his hand.

‘Well Sam,’ he said, as he shook the young man’s hand firmly, ‘you’re welcome to Sleators and I hope you’ll be happy with us. I have only one difficulty with you,’ he went on, smiling broadly.

‘An’ what’s that, sir? asked Sam, smiling himself, pleased he’d got the job and pleased that his new
boss was the sort of man you could talk to, as easily as you could talk to Harry.

‘Well, I thought I had a problem having two men called Sam in my workshop, Sam Deisley and Sam Kennan, but what are we going to do with
three of you
?’

Sam laughed aloud and went on smiling as the older man continued: ‘Mind you, my father was John and his father before him. And my eldest son is John, as you know, and if the wee one on the way in Abbey Street is a boy there’ll not be much doubt about what
his
name will be.’

‘I think there’s a lot of families like that in this part of the world,’ Sam replied easily. ‘My father is Sam too, though my grandfather was John, but I remember Granny telling me that when her family was young
they
had two Sam’s, one was her brother, the other my father. Apparently my youngest aunt, Sarah, christened her uncle,
Uncle Sam, America
. And that was all very well. But then he came home and bought a wee farm in Donegal.’

John Sleator laughed heartily and shook his head. ‘Ach dear, you’d think we could organise ourselves better than causing all this confusion. But the three of you may sort it out between yourselves. If I have to call someone in a hurry, I can’t afford for all three of you to come running.’

He’d taken him back downstairs, asked Peggy to make them all a mug of tea and led the way out
to the yard and workshops to show him round and introduce him to his new colleagues.

‘Sam this is Sam Deisley and this is Sam Keenan,’ he began, his face perfectly straight, though his pale eyes were twinkling. ‘This is
Sam
Hamilton.’

‘Dear aye, what are we goin’ to do now, boss?’ demanded Sam Deisley, the older of the two men.

Short and plump with huge, hairy forearms projecting from rolled up sleeves, he crushed Sam’s hand in his own, looked up at him, took in his broad shoulders and then directed his gaze to Sam Keenan, the apprentice, a young man of barely medium height, lightly-built, with pale skin and deep, dark eyes that dropped shyly when the older man looked towards him.

‘Where are ye from, Sam?’ the older man demanded, turning back to the newcomer.

‘Liskeyborough.’

‘Well that’s no good,’ he said dismissively. ‘That’s near Richhill, isn’t it?’

‘Aye it is, near enough.’

‘An’ this good-looking lad here is from Mill Row,’ Sam Deisley continued, to the great embarrassment of Sam Keenan who blushed furiously and studied the ground at his feet as if he had lost a nut or a washer.

‘So what are you going to come up with, Sam?’ John Sleator asked, a broad grin beginning to spread across his face. He looked from one to another in
the small group as Peggy appeared, carrying a tray with four mugs of tea and picking her steps with great care.

‘Sam Richhill and Sam Mill Row,’ he replied. ‘
Rich
and
Row
for short. Wouldn’t that do rightly?’

‘It would indeed, Sam, but what about yourself? You live on Workhouse Hill, don’t you?’ John Sleator asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

‘I was christened Sam a brave while ago,’ Diesley replied firmly, ignoring the smiles of his namesakes. ‘Before either of these two were born or thought of. They’ll need to show a bit of respect,’ he said severely. ‘If I catch either of them callin’ me Wee Sam there’ll be trouble.’

Sam Hamilton never knew whether Sam Deisley really meant it, or whether it was part of the joke, but from that day forward Wee Sam was exactly what everyone called him. But not to his face.

‘Rich’ he’d been nicknamed and rich he felt as he walked briskly down Scotch Street to tell Harry Mitchell that he’d got the job. As he climbed back into his dungarees, with Harry’s congratulations and good wishes still echoing in his ears, he felt that something great had happened. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d had the chance to test out the timing on Harry’s motorbike the night before the big race, two years ago, and had come within a few minutes of the lap record itself.

It wasn’t just getting near the record, though he’d been excited enough over that, it was the feeling of freedom, of moving effortlessly through the air. It was almost as if he were flying, swooping along the winding course he’d got to know over the previous years, using all his skill and memory to keep up speed even on the notorious hairpin where Harry had skidded and on the dangerous right-hander.

He was going to be married to the girl he’d loved and had courted for over four years now. With the bigger pay, they’d be able to find a house she liked and soon there’d be a wee girl or a wee boy. Maybe one day his own son might be able to race, if that was what he wanted to do. It wasn’t just money you needed to race. Even if you did have the right temperament, you had to have someone behind you, someone to encourage you.

He thought of his sister Rose over in Banbridge and how happy she and Richard were with their little family. Two lively boys and now the baby, the wee girl Richard had wanted so much. It was not that his brother-in-law didn’t love his two sons, but when he’d gone over to see the new baby, Richard had told him that he’d been an only child himself. Never having had a brother or a sister, he wanted a real family. Now his boys had what he’d have so loved for himself. And the wee girl would have brothers to depend on, just as his beloved Rose had her Emily and Sam.

It was two weeks later, at the beginning of April, that Marion had given him back the ring. At first he simply couldn’t believe it. She didn’t give him any reason and he tried desperately to see what might have gone wrong. Could it be the nerves one was supposed to have before a wedding? But then, the date of the wedding wasn’t yet settled so it could hardly be that. There were Canadian cousins coming over in the summer and Marion wanted them to be there, so they must wait till they heard when it would be. That was perfectly reasonable. But now she told him they weren’t coming after all.

He hadn’t grasped what was happening until in despair he decided to call and talk to Marion’s mother, a woman who’d always made him welcome whenever he went to the house. From the minute she opened the door, he could see she didn’t want to talk to him. She wouldn’t answer any of his questions and she kept referring to what Marion’s father said and what he thought. She’d even tried to tell him that perhaps Marion was a bit young to be settling down. He could hardly believe his ears. His birthday was in May and Marion’s in December. They’d both be twenty-seven before the year was out. You could hardly call that young, could you?

Things had been bad for a week or more. She’d said she didn’t want to see him, but he couldn’t let it rest. He’d called at the house each evening after work and asked to see her. Her mother had said she
was out and closed the door firmly in his face.

Finally, he could stick it no longer. He asked for a day off, got up at his usual time and cycled through Richhill and out the Portadown road early on a bright April morning. As he’d expected, this time Marion herself opened the door. She hadn’t wanted to let him in, but he’d insisted she owed him that much. He’d asked her again what was wrong. Was it really about him buying the furniture when he only wanted to surprise her? Did she think she didn’t love him enough? Or did she think he didn’t love her enough? What was it had come between them after all this time?

She wouldn’t give him a proper answer to any of his questions and in the end she’d lost her temper. She told him bluntly she’d made up her mind she didn’t want to marry him. She never wanted to see him again. If he came bothering her or her mother anymore she’d have to speak to her father.

She was so vehement, he could barely believe what he was hearing, for this was the girl he’d loved for so long, the girl he’d worked so hard for, so that he could give her the very best his efforts could buy. Her face contorted with anger, she was now looking at him as if she hated him. He’d turned away and stumbled from the house, the tears tripping him, not knowing where to go, or what to do.

The road outside the smart new bungalow was busy with people going to work, but he wasn’t fit
to be seen at the garage in this state. If he went back home, there’d be no sympathy at all from his mother. She’d told him often enough he was far too generous with Marion, giving her presents as well as taking her out, when he was paying so little at home for his bed and board. His father would be at Irish Road Motors. He couldn’t face the thought of the empty workshop in the barn or going upstairs to sit on his own bed waiting for him to come home.

In the end he’d gone over to his sister Emily. He knew it was Rosie he needed, but she’d only just had the wee baby and Emily was nearer, just outside Richhill itself. He’d found her baking bread and she’d come and put her arms round him before he said a word. She’d got flour all over his best jacket though he never noticed at the time. That night, he went out with his brother-in-law and got so drunk in Lavery’s that Kevin had to ask a neighbour to drive him home to the farm by Richhill Station because he couldn’t even walk.

Sam wiped his hands on a piece of cotton waste and headed briskly for the wash room. He scooped cleanser from the tin, rubbed his hands vigorously, examined his nails and picked up the stiff brush. Some lubricating oils were harder to get off than others, but you couldn’t drive a brand new motor and get oil on the steering wheel. The boss was very particular about that. Rightly so, he thought
to himself, as he went on scrubbing. It was several minutes before he was able to reach for the clean towel.