The Hamiltons of Ballydown (26 page)

‘It’s just a question of giving it time,’ she said to herself, thinking of what her mother would say.

She’d got used to standing all day and running up and down that steep staircase in the tall, narrow building looking out over The Cut, when she first started work. Other girls did it. So could she. She spotted a cab, waved her handkerchief and was grateful when the driver tipped his whip in acknowledgement and manoeuvred his way towards her.

The Abercorn Studio comprised two floors above a chemist’s shop and wasn’t nearly as elegant as it claimed to be in its advertisement. But it did have its own entrance, a familiar steep, narrow staircase. Clutching the bag with her albums in one hand and picking up her skirt with the other, she
climbed up to a landing where she was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fixer.

A number of doors opened out of the landing. None of them were labelled and it was not immediately clear where someone coming for interview should apply. Knowing she was early, she sat down on a hard wooden chair to consider her next move. Hugh had been quite right. The albums were heavy. She’d never noticed that before, but then, she’d never before carried them around all at once.

As she sat collecting herself, a woman emerged from one of the adjoining rooms. She swept past without taking the slightest notice of her. On her return, Sarah stood up.

‘Excuse me. I’ve come to see Mr Abernethy. I have an appointment at three o’clock.’

‘He doesn’t see sales people in the afternoon,’ she said disagreeably, her eye lighting on the albums as she looked her up and down.

‘I’m not a sales person,’ she replied coldly. ‘My name is Sarah Hamilton. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell Mr Abernethy I’m here.’

The superior being moved on with a swish of skirts, the only acknowledgement of her words a slight tilt of the chin. Some minutes later Mr Abernethy himself appeared.

‘Ah, Miss Hamilton,’ he boomed jovially, as he extended his hand. ‘Please come into my office.’

He waved her into a large room filled with heavy furniture, bookcases full of ledgers, large pot plants with very shiny leaves, a collection of plaster pillars, cherubs heads and velvet drapes.

‘Do sit down,’ he said charmingly, as he retreated behind his desk and took up the letter she had written in reply to his advertisement.

‘You are eighteen, Miss Hamilton,’ he said, looking at her sharply with small, dark eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said, looking straight back at him.

Her birthday wasn’t for another two weeks, but she was determined not to miss this opportunity for the sake of a fortnight.

‘You say you have quite a lot of experience, though your last employment was only some eight months,’ he continued, his joviality beginning to grate, his manner wearing rather than pleasant.

‘I’ve been taking pictures for almost four years. I’ve brought some of my work to show you.’

‘Ah excellent. Excellent,’ he said, as she took the albums out of her bag and placed them in front of him.

He flicked through the pages of the first one.

‘Of course, we seldom have much need of landscape pictures,’ he said in the same genial manner. ‘We don’t do picture postcards,’ he added, by way of explanation as he slid the album aside and began on the next.

‘Hmm, most interesting,’ he said, leafing through marginally more slowly. ‘We
do
sometimes
have commissions from manufacturers, but more often for
exterior
pictures. For advertising, you understand,’ he said, nodding to her.

She watched him closely. For all his avuncular manner, there was something unpleasantly calculating about him. He knew exactly what he wanted and if he didn’t think she could provide it, he’d escort her to the door within the next three minutes, still as charming as ever, and forget her before she’d even set foot on the stairs.

He’d reached the third album now. She knew by the cover it was her first one, the pictures from the summer of ’97 at Ashley Park.

‘And what did you use to take this one?’ he asked, smiling at her over the first double page.

‘That’s the only one I
didn’t
take,’ she said steadily. ‘I got that from a friend who borrowed a rotating camera. I wanted it as an introduction to the rest of the pictures. I took
all
of them.’

Mr Abernethy peered at the panoramic picture Teddy had taken and turned the pages more slowly. He came to an abrupt halt at the study of Hannah and Teddy under the rose arch.

‘And these pictures were taken at …?’

‘Ashley Park, in Gloucestershire.’

‘And how, may I ask, did you gain access there?’ he enquired with a confidential bow.

‘My mother and Lady Anne, the countess, that is, are old friends.’

‘Ahh,’ he said, nodding vigorously, as if that fact explained the quality of the pictures. ‘We do a lot of portraiture for the gentry. In fact, we rather specialise in engagements and wedding photography. Such interesting work, don’t you think?’

‘I’m very interested in portraiture, that’s why I applied to you. There
are
some wedding portraits in the fourth album, but they’re only first attempts with a Kodak. I didn’t have my plate camera then,’ she added slyly, as she saw the way his mind was working.

‘Charming. Quite charming,’ he said. ‘May I ask who this beautiful young woman is?’

Sarah could see exactly what he was thinking. With her face as straight as she could manage and a cool, slightly off hand tone, she replied to his question.

‘Oh, that’s my sister Hannah, Lady Cleeve.’

‘Delightful picture,’ he enthused. ‘But, as you say, a first attempt with a Kodak. I’m sure you’ll find our resources will give you much more scope. Now about your hours and remuneration …’

‘So you said “yes”,’ Rose asked uneasily, as Sarah finished her story some hours later.

‘I did,’ she replied, drinking her mug of tea gratefully. ‘The hours are just as long, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.,’ she went on. ‘But the wages are
much
better. Stockings
and
tram fares,’ she said laughing. ‘They
are
well equipped, though. They’ve got stuff I’ve never even heard of.’

‘I don’t much like the sound of the boss.’

‘I probably won’t see much of him,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘I think he does the money. It’s Mrs Cheesman is the real horror. “
How do you do, Miss Hamilton
,” she went on, mimicking the over polite tones of the woman who had previously swept past her on the landing. ‘She’s the kind of woman who gives you her hand and it feels like a dead fish.’

Her mother laughed and shook her head.

‘Honestly love, I
cannot
see much to recommend this job, I really can’t. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ she said, trying not to sound anxious.

‘No, I’m
not
sure,’ she said honestly. ‘But there are things I want to find out. I know nothing about living in a city, or being a working girl in lodgings, or being away from home and family. Jamie did it. Hannah did it. Then Sam did it. I feel I have to do it too. If it’s awful I won’t pretend it’s not, but I think I can learn a lot at the studio. Abernethy is a real snob,’ she continued, her tone contemptuous. ‘I could see his mind working. If he gave me the job he could put big enlargements of Hannah and Teddy in the studio and just casually refer to them when he’s showing customers in. I agreed, of course. It won’t do them any harm and I’ll get a close look at what he calls “gentry”. All part of my education, Ma,’ she ended with a sigh.

‘Yes, I can see that side of it,’ Rose replied,
looking at her carefully. ‘I admire your courage, to be honest. I’m just thinking how much Da and I will miss you. And so will Hugh, I’m sure.’

‘But I’ll be home every week,’ Sarah protested.

‘Well, perhaps,’ replied Rose, thinking of Sam.

‘Of course, I will. Saturday afternoon, by the first train. You just wait and see,’ said Sarah firmly.

The first weeks of the new job went well. Despite the long hours and the fact that Mrs Cheesman treated her like a servant, she was so intrigued by the work she simply didn’t allow her behaviour to upset her. The other assistants, all young men in their twenties, were friendly enough, given to silly practical jokes, but good-natured and otherwise harmless.

Her lodgings, run by a vigorous, middle-aged Quaker lady, were clean, old-fashioned and mercifully quiet. In a tree-lined street near Queen’s College, the tall brick house was inhabited mostly by single ladies who worked in offices. In the evenings, if she stayed in, reading in the sombre sitting room, or writing letters in her small bedroom, she did feel lonely, but, encouraged by the long, warm evenings she began to go for walks, sometimes going so far across the city she had to take a tram to bring her part of the way back.

With the light lingering till after ten, she would take pictures of people strolling in the parks or looking in shop windows. Having something to do kept her from thinking longingly of the countryside
round Ballydown and the evenings she’d spent with Hugh visiting local beauty spots. But she couldn’t always keep herself busy. Sometimes after a long, difficult day with tiresome customers or when things went wrong in the darkroom, she was too tired to go out. She lay on her narrow bed looking up at the small patch of sky in the single window and thought of what her mother had said about Hugh missing her.

She knew she missed him. She thought of him often, storing up things to tell him, wondering what he would say when she described a particular person, or explained the problems she’d had with a particular picture. But then, she remembered, Hugh had been part of her life since the very first day they’d arrived in Ballydown. She’d always talked to him, asked him questions and told him what she thought. Even when she was only a little girl he’d listened to her and considered her words as seriously as if she were a grown up. For years now, he’d asked her what she thought about the changes he wanted to make at the mills.

June passed and the heavy, thundery weather of July made the city even less appealing than usual. She longed for Saturday and counted the hours till she stepped into the Banbridge train. As she felt the miles diminish between her and Ballydown, she stared out at the familiar, green countryside as if she were afraid it had somehow disappeared while she’d been closed up indoors all week.

Although Saturday afternoon was supposed to be her half holiday, there were occasions in the summer months when she was obliged to work, because all the young men were out photographing cycling clubs or field clubs, church outings or wedding receptions. She hated it when that happened, but, while she had no choice in the matter of working, she could at least choose to have time off in lieu of the extra hours. That meant she was sometimes able to be free on Friday afternoons and then the weekend beckoned invitingly, for it seemed almost twice as long.

It was on one of these Friday afternoons in early August she found herself walking along the platform in Banbridge with Peter Jackson.

‘Hallo, Sarah. I thought you didn’t get home till Saturday?’ he said, greeting her with a cheerful smile.

‘Don’t usually. Had to work
all
last Saturday. I’ve got time off for good behaviour,’ she said laughing. ‘What about you?’

‘Been for an interview,’ he said, as they handed in their tickets and came through the barrier into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘Don’t think I can stand cows all my life. Shipping Office and Travel Agents. Pay is poor, but it goes up when I’m twenty and I’ve an aunt I can lodge with. How’s photography?’ he asked, nodding at the camera slung over her shoulder.

‘Very mixed,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve actually
got to missing cows,’ she went on, grinning, as they paused by the bicycle park.

She watched him as he unlocked his chain, wheeled it back to where she stood.

‘Haven’t you got yours?’ he asked.

‘No. Da leaves me down in the trap on Sunday nights. Anyway, I’m looking forward to the walk. Don’t let me keep you back, Peter. I’ll probably see you tomorrow if Ma wants eggs or milk. We get through twice as much when Sam comes home,’ she said laughing.

‘I’ll walk as far as the Memorial with you,’ he said easily. ‘How
is
Sam? I hear he has a girl.’

‘How did you hear that?’ she asked, curious, as they stepped out of the station yard into the sunlight of the warm August afternoon.

‘Busy as ever,’ Peter commented, looking up and down the main street, crowded with randomly parked carts and drays.

As Sarah followed his gaze, her eye was suddenly caught by a figure on a bicycle weaving expertly at speed between the pedestrians and parked vehicles.

‘Billy,’ she called, as she recognised his trim uniform.

He spotted her and skidded to a halt beside them.

‘There’s a fire at Millbrook,’ he gasped. ‘I’m away up for your Da and Mr Sinton. The Manager telegraphed us. Must go,’ he added, whizzing off without a backward glance.

‘Peter, could I ask you a great favour?’ Sarah said carefully.

‘What?’ he asked, looking at her in surprise.

‘Would you lend me your bicycle?’ she said promptly. ‘I wasn’t planning to take pictures of a fire, but they could be useful, especially if I can get there quickly.’

‘Yes, of course. Can you manage the bar?’ he asked, handed it over. ‘Can I take your bag? It’ll be safer with me.’

She handing him her overnight bag, moved her camera from her shoulder to lie diagonally across her chest and caught up her skirts with a practised hand.

‘Thanks, Peter. You’re a real friend,’ she said warmly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take great care of your bike. See you later.’

‘Just take care of yourself,’ he called after her as she pushed off and wove her way into the middle of the road.

Millbrook, was located near the river Bann, a tall, solid, four storey brick building. Unlike the other three mills, it was sited a few hundred yards back from the river itself, but close to a small tributary which provided water for the steam that powered the spinning frames. For some reason which no one could explain, it had a worse record for fires than any of the other mills, a problem which had absorbed much time, energy and money over the last years without a satisfactory solution being found.

Sarah pedalled hard, her skirt well bundled up on the bar of Peter’s bicycle in case the breeze should catch it and ruin both skirt and wheel by flapping it between the spokes, or, worse still, wrapping it around the chain and landing her in the ditch.

In a very short time, she was freewheeling down the last hill to the waterside site. She could see the smoke pouring out from the ground floor at one end of the long building. She slowed down and ran right
up to the main entrance, where she’d spotted the Manager directing operations.

‘What’s happening, Tom? No Fire Brigade yet?’

‘No, miss. We’ve got two pumps of our own going and the men are using buckets,’ he said promptly. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll get it out ourselves, if this damn breeze, beg your pardon, Miss, would die down.’

Sarah smiled, as much from relief as from the Manager’s sensitivity to her delicate ears.

‘And everyone out?’ she added, looking across at a long line of women and children. A supervisor and an assistant sat at a small, wooden table in the cool shadow of the far end of the long building handing over money and taking signatures or witnessing marks on their record sheets.

‘Oh yes,’ he said, nodding confidently. ‘It was just like one of the fire drills we’d had. There was hardly any smoke till a few minutes ago,’ he explained, with an uneasy look towards the increasing volume now rising into the summer sky.

‘I’m going to take some pictures, Tom,’ she said briskly. ‘They might be useful. I saw the telegraph boy in Banbridge. He’ll be up at Mr Sinton’s by now. He and my father should be here soon.’

She wheeled Peter’s bicycle back up the slope towards the road, parked it carefully against the stone wall of the night watchman’s hut, then hurried down towards the stream where a line of men were
passing buckets from hand to hand. A single jet of water was being directed into the ground floor room where the fire had started. There were ladders against the adjoining walls and buckets of water were being passed up to men who were soaking the floors of the rooms above and beside the source of the smoke.

She took four pictures, then looked round, considering what best to take next. Two men were dismantling a hand-pump.

‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked.

‘Dirt,’ replied the older man. ‘The stream’s low wi’ the good weather an’ this hose doesn’t reach as far as the river. If there’d been more water, we’d a had it out by now.’

She shaded her eyes from the glare and gazed up the slope towards the main road. Surely the Fire Brigade would be here soon. Their hoses should reach the river and their pump ought to be more powerful. As she watched, the fine jet being played through a broken window into the billowing smoke, faltered and failed. A few moments, later she saw the first flames. Licking outwards, they rapidly consumed the window frames of the ground floor room where the fire had started.

There was still no sign of the Fire Brigade or Hugh’s motor. Already it was becoming dangerous for the men on ladders to go on trying to damp down the wooden floors adjacent to the room. She
was not surprised when the work’s foreman gave orders for the bucket chain to stop. Hugh had given the strictest instructions that no employee was ever to be put at risk.

The men who had been forced to pull back from the end of the building were now walking down to the river to wash dirty arms and splash water on hot, sweaty faces. Four men were now dismantling filters and reassembling metal parts, trying desperately to get the two pumps going again, but nothing could be done directly to check the flames.

Thinking anxiously about the insurance claim, Sarah walked down to the end of the building, the smell of linseed oil strong on the breeze, and made her way across to the engine house which backed on to the stream, its doors some twenty yards or so from the main building itself.

The engines had been turned off and the ventilators closed to keep out smoke. With the strengthening breeze behind her, she climbed up a grassy mound behind the low building and clambered onto its shallow-pitched slate roof. Steadying herself, she took two more pictures of the mill from this new angle. Between one exposure and the next, to her dismay, the flames reached the second storey and she heard the crack and tinkle of glass as the heat shattered the lower panes of the large windows.

From where she’d perched on the roof ridge, she could see up to the main road but not into the area
immediately in front of the main entrance. Above the roar of flames, she might not have heard the horses pulling the Fire Engine or Hugh’s motor. She had just decided to climb down and go and see if there was any sign of them, when a small movement caught her eye. High above her head on the top floor of the mill, she caught sight of something white.

She stared up at the window, sure it must be a reflection of the small white clouds moving quickly across the blue sky, or a fragment of cleaning rag hanging on a nearby hook. But the more she looked, the more convinced she became it had to be a face, a child’s face, for it appeared through the haze of smoke only in the lowest pane of the window. Often enough she had braced herself against those window ledges taking pictures of the girls at the spinning frames. She knew well enough they were only three feet above the floor.

With the heat and smoke now making her eyes water, she stood up carefully astride the roof ridge, as if the change of angle might make the pale smudged image cleared. She waved her hand and was convinced that the white smudge moved in reply.

She folded up her camera, pushed it back into its case, secured it across her body and slid down the roof, jumping the last few feet on to the convenient grassy mound, part of the winter flood defence. She ran past a group of men who’d managed to get one of the pumps going again, round to the main
door where Tom was making a record of events and cursing the Fire Brigade.

‘Tom, keep this safe for me,’ she said, hauling off her camera. ‘There’s a child up on the top floor. I’ll have to get to it before the smoke does,’ she cried, dashing past him and up the main stairway that led to all four floors.

She was breathless by the time she got to the top, but there was no smoke yet at the top of the stairway, only the familiar, thick, dusty air of the spinning floor. The silence was strange, almost eerie, as she ran along the bare boards between the windows and the tall metal frames, the motes of dust dancing in the sunlight. She’d never been in the mill before with all the spindles still. Halfway along, she began to hear the roar of flames and saw smoke and sparks shooting upwards outside. Then she spotted a small figure. It was crouched by a window, exactly where she had seen it, its back to her, still staring down at the scene below.

As she bent down to pick up the child, it turned towards her, eyes wide with fear. At the same moment, she heard glass in the windows below crack and tinkle as the flames got to them. Smoke billowed up more densely outside.

‘Come on, we must run,’ she said, taking the little girl’s hand.

‘Can’t run,’ said the child. ‘Bad leg.’

‘Right then, piggy back,’ she said quickly, not
stopping to wonder how she’d got there in the first place.

She lifted her up unto the window sill, bent down and felt the small arms clutch her neck.

‘It is getting very hot up here,’ she said to herself, as she straightened up and began to run back towards the distant stairwell. She had to pause to persuade the child to grip her blouse and not throttle her by clutching her tightly round the neck.

She made good speed to the staircase, but going down was far more difficult than she could have imagined, her skirt threatening to trip her at every step because she had no hand free to hitch it up. As they came down to the third floor, they met the first wisps of smoke. Pouring along between the idle machinery from the burning end of the building, it had already reached the stairway.

The child was clinging like a limpet, its small weight increasing every moment, as she hurried down the next flight, knowing that each lower floor would be worse than the last, and that smoke, not fire, was the real danger. Her eyes were streaming and she and the child were coughing repeatedly. Had she not known the building so well she would have been thoroughly confused by the turns and landings she had to negotiate. Halfway down the last flight, she found her way blocked by a dark figure.

‘Sarah, thank God.’

She couldn’t see who it was and she was coughing
so hard she couldn’t manage a reply, but suddenly an arm was round her, the child lifted from her back. Moments later, they burst out into the sunshine and a woman, held back forcibly by the Manager broke free and called blessings upon her.

‘Sarah, come over here into the shade. Just a little further,’ Hugh said as she bent over still coughing, her eyes streaming.

She sat down gratefully on the Supervisor’s chair and felt the bliss of a damp handkerchief wiping her face. She rubbed her eyes and was able to open them at last as the irritation eased. Hugh was kneeling beside her on the dusty cobbles with a look of such anxious concern and tenderness on his face, she knew she would never forget.

A short time later pumps arrived from the Lenaderg and Seapatrick mills. The stream had now been dammed and men were taking it in turns to stand in the small reservoir of water and hold the hoses just under the surface where the water was cleanest. A handkerchief had been tied over each hose end to filter the water as it was pumped up. For half an hour, the entire contents of the stream were directed into the burning building without any visible effect on the flames. The afternoon grew heavier and more humid. The heat and smoke swirled so much there was now no place free of it.

Hugh came up to the night watchman’s hut
where he’d left her gratefully sipping a mug of tea one of the women had brought from the nearby cottages.

‘Sarah, I can’t leave to take you home. Will you let me send you with Tom on one of the small drays?’

‘No thank you, I’m staying,’ she said, shaking her head emphatically. ‘I’ll be perfectly all right when I’ve drunk this. I want to finish what I started,’ she insisted, touching the camera on the seat beside her. ‘Are they making any progress?’

‘No, it’s a losing battle,’ he replied, matter-of-factly. ‘The breeze gets stronger all the time and now it’s gusting. We’ll run out of water shortly unless the Fire Brigade show up.’

‘Hugh, why isn’t Da with you?’

‘They had a problem down at Ballievy. His department, not mine,’ he said shortly. ‘I asked Billy to tell him on his way back to town. I’m sure he’ll come when he can.’

They walked back down to the main forecourt together. The women and children had all gone, but a small crowd of watchers sat on the grassy slopes nearby. The two hoses from the neighbouring mills appeared to have failed and efforts were being made to get them going again. As they walked, they felt a sudden gust of wind in their backs. Immediately, they saw the flames bend back upon themselves. The other hose bearers adjusted their position. A few moments later a great jet of water, far more powerful than
either of the two that had failed, began to play upon the flames as they retreated in the direction they’d come, their strength diminished by the lack of fresh fuel in the area they’d already devastated.

As they registered the diminishing flames and the power of the new jet of water, there was a warning cry. The fierce gust that had blown the flames back on themselves had also sent a raft of burning material across the narrow space from the main building to the engine house. Flames rose from the roof as slates cracked with the heat. The wooden doors flared up before their eyes and the foreman leading the fire-fighters shouted for everyone to get well back as the roof dipped under its burden and collapsed onto the well-greased machinery below. There was a flash and a roar as the flames reached the tins of lubricant that had been removed from a storeroom on the ground floor and put there for safety, well away from the original source of the fire.

Apart from the men playing the single, powerful jet on the retreating flames of the main building, everyone just watched from a safe distance. The engine house disappeared behind a wall of flame from which missiles flew into the darkening sky as tins of lubricant detonated with a series of explosions that sounded like a Jubilee firework display.

Sarah looked at Hugh, his face damp with sweat, his expression inscrutable. She would have liked to take his hand and comfort him, but she couldn’t do
that in such a public place. All she could do was stand close to him and let him sense how fully she shared the frustration and anxiety she knew he was feeling.

Before the flames had quite spent themselves, leaving the twisted and burnt remnants of the engines smoking in the ruins, they heard the wheels of the brougham behind them. It was her father arriving. Following him closely was another pump from Ballievy with four volunteers ready to use it. As they swept down the slope, they heard in the distance the clanging of a bell. The Fire Brigade was approaching, at last.

‘I need to take some more pictures,’ Sarah said quickly. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. You can watch me from here.’

She left Hugh to direct the men from Ballievy and greet her father. She waved to him as she tramped off to where she could take a picture of the smoking ruins of the engine house.

Behind her the Fire Brigade had stopped by the main entrance to consult Hugh and her father. She saw the Fire Chief shake his head. He was waving his arm at the distance between the river and the still burning mill. Even from where she stood, she could guess what was going on. Their hoses were even shorter than the ones in use at Millbrook.