The Hawthorns Bloom in May (16 page)

She picked up her pen again, tried to collect her straying thoughts and failed. When there was a tap at the door and Mrs Beatty appeared, she admitted to herself she was grateful for the interruption. There was something in Simon’s letter that was unsettling. Not unwelcome, indeed, but most certainly unsettling.

‘It’s yer uncle, ma’am, but he says he doesn’t want to disturb you,’ the housekeeper began. ‘He says he could come up later, or tomorrow.’

‘No, Mrs Beatty,’ she said smiling, pleased that it was not another problem to be dealt with. ‘Tell him I’ll be out in a moment.’

She tidied up her papers, put some of them away, anchored others with a variety of paperweights. Then she locked the drawer in which Simon’s letters lay in neat piles and dropped the key into a small, floral vase on the mantelpiece.

‘Sarah, how are you?’ Sam greeted her, as she
came into the sun-filled sitting room.

‘Happy to be interrupted,’ she said, as he kissed her. ‘It’s the fault of the sunshine. That’s when I get really tired of papers.’

‘Good. Then you won’t mind if I ask you to drive me into Banbridge for my suitcase.’

‘Glad of the excuse,’ she said honestly. ‘Actually, I’ve documents ready for Millbrook. Would you mind if we dropped those off first?’

‘Not a bit. I love being driven round in your comfortable motor. It doesn’t make me feel sick like some of these Donegal side-cars, though I can’t blame the vehicles. It’s the awful roads round Swillybrinnan and Creeslough are the problem. They’re
much
better here in the affluent east,’ he said, teasing her.

‘They have to be, Uncle dear. No use having the means of production if you can’t get the goods to market,’ she said dryly.

Hearing the familiar phrase she’d used, Sam laughed. She’d written to him in Pennsylvania to ask him what exactly he
was
doing for the workers there. Her mother’s explanation, she wrote, had not been very detailed. She’d been all of fourteen then.

Ever since, by letter, or face to face, they’d talked and argued about the labour movement in Ireland and the local circumstances that made it so poorly developed compared with their sister island or
other European countries. Even now, when he saw her regularly, she still sent him newspaper cuttings or reports of speeches he might not have seen.

Naturally, they didn’t always agree. Sam would argue strike action, properly organised and co-ordinated, was the only way to bring about the changes in working conditions that were so badly needed. Sarah said no, she had yet to read of a strike in Ireland that hadn’t endangered lives. No one knew how many poor souls had died in Dublin in the recent labour disputes. The unions in Britain
had
sent ships full of food, but by the time they arrived it was too late for many. For her part, she was in favour of direct government legislation. She regularly quoted the work of Eva Gore-Booth and Esther Roper, who not only organised women but at the same time made their situation known in government circles.

As they walked out of the house and into the sunshine, Sam sensed a burden slip from her shoulders. He’d been just about to tell her about the injured young weaver, but he decided to leave it for the moment. In the bright light, he became aware of the fine lines round her eyes. Sarah was thirty now. Still an attractive woman, he thought, as she moved lightly across to the motor house, the sun glinting on her dark curls, but not a happy one.

‘So what’s all this talk of war doing to the order
books?’ he asked, as they turned right at the foot of Rathdrum Hill.

‘Filling them up, as far as I can see,’ she said bluntly. ‘It appears that linen is the fighting fabric. Everything from tents to kitbags. We’ve been warned that if war does come we’ll be expected to quadruple production,’ she added sharply. ‘And the powers that be think we can do it by stopping hemstitching and making more cloth instead.’

‘And can’t you?’ he asked innocently.

She looked at him crossly and saw he was grinning at her.

‘Oh yes, of course we can,’ she said sarcastically. ‘One mill is the same as any other mill. There’s no difference at all between spinning frames and weaving looms, is there?’

‘No, of course not,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not if you’ve never laid eyes on either one or the other, nor bothered to find out the difference.

‘I don’t think we’ll have a declaration before Easter, do you?’ he asked, as they wove their way through the traffic in Banbridge.

‘Do you
really
think there’s going to be a war, Sam?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Why?’

‘I think there’s a kind of negative momentum building up,’ he said soberly. ‘Something’s got to give way, but a European war would take the
pressure off us here in Ireland. If Britain doesn’t go to war against Germany, then it’s more than likely you’ll have the Ulster Volunteers and the Irish Volunteers at each others throats.’

‘Hardly a pleasing alternative,’ she said wryly, as they came out into open countryside again.

‘What does your friend think? He’d be closer to the truth than we might be.’

‘Simon?’ she said, surprised how glad she was to mention his name. ‘Poor man, he can say nothing in his letters unless they come to London in the diplomatic bag. That doesn’t often happen. But he did say last summer that Europe was like a kettle on the boil. While it kept blowing out steam all was well, but it might boil over at any time.’

‘Sounds like a fair description to me. Pity he can’t say much,’ he added sympathetically.

‘Yes, it is. He writes good letters and I love getting them, but I’m aware of what he’d like to share but mustn’t. Mostly, we stick to books and music. He’s fond of ballet, which I’ve never seen, but he’s interested in everything I do, which is nice. Don’t you find, Sam, that explaining something to someone else really helps to clear your mind?’

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve been guilty in the past of addressing my desk if there was no one else available.’

‘Oh, I am glad,’ she said suddenly. ‘I got quite worried when I started talking to Helen’s kitten.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I’m so keen for you to come to Dublin and forget all about work for a few days,’ he said quietly. ‘Lily’s so looking forward to seeing you and the children.’

‘She wrote me such a lovely letter after Hugh died, inviting me then,’ Sarah replied, glancing towards him on the now empty road. ‘I couldn’t face going anywhere, not for ages. But she kept on writing.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ he said shortly. ‘She’s heard a lot about you from Anne and Hannah. You’ll enjoy yourself, I’m sure, but for goodness’ sake bring your warm clothes, Sarah. Lily’s is the draughtiest house I’ve ever been in. I’ve been warmer in a sheepfold on a winter night.’

It was not often Sam Hamilton failed to fall asleep the moment his head touched the pillow, for his days were full, his work heavy and exhausting. When he wasn’t making the longest of the delivery runs from the jam factory near Richhill, where he now worked, driving to Belfast, or Larne, Newry or Drogheda, or even Dublin itself, he was servicing the firm’s road vehicles and maintaining the steam engines that provided the factory’s power supply. Nor did his work end when he cycled home. He was well-known for the quality of his workmanship so there were always repairs waiting in his workshop.

Tonight, however, to his great surprise, he found himself lying awake. Wide-eyed, he stared at the pale outline of the window panes behind the flimsy bedroom curtains, his mind active and his body tense.

He was puzzled sleep had deserted him when
he had yawned his head off earlier, sitting by the fire, while Martha made the last tea of the day and handed him his mug in silence.

She was fast asleep now. She’d turned away from him the moment he went to give her a goodnight kiss and was now breathing heavily.

‘
Never let the sun go down upon your anger
,’ his mother always said, when they were children. She always knew when there was some upset between them. Before they went to bed she would find out the whole story.
Forgive and forget
, she’d said. Don’t we all upset each other without meaning to, no matter how much we might try.

He sighed. There was no forgiving or forgetting with Martha. When she stopped speaking to him, as often as not, he didn’t even know what he’d done, or not done, though this time he
did
know, for she’d made it absolutely plain. There was no use him thinking about it any more, for he’d made up his mind, made it up years ago, when yer man Thompson at the Tullyconnaught Haulage Company had given him his cards, not because he’d broken his leg, but because he wouldn’t join the lodge.

Suddenly, he raised his head, sure he heard a movement in the yard.

‘Probably that fox again,’ he said to himself.

He dropped his head to the pillow again, relieved, for he’d shut up the hens himself just
before dark, glad of the fresh air and the fine, April evening after the smell of the acetylene burner in the workshop.

He thought about the welding a farmer up towards the main road had asked him to do. A funny kind of a man he was, always coming down to see how he was getting on with it and standing there looking round him, even when he’d explained it would take a bit of time, given he was only working in the evenings.

Perhaps he just wanted the chat, or an excuse to get out of the house. There was more than one man he knew glad of a chance to get away from a woman tired out with farmwork and housework and the burden of her children. Like Martha.

He closed his eyes and pushed the thought out of mind. What was done was done and there was no mending it. He had a fine family to rear. Five boys and three girls, the two youngest children, Molly and Jack, asleep in their cradles on Martha’s side of the bed.

The night was still, not a rustle from the
newly-leafed
trees, nor even the cry of an owl. He always thought of Sarah when he heard an owl screech. When she was a little girl, she couldn’t bear to hear an owl call. If one woke her from sleep she’d cry until their mother came to comfort her. She said it sounded hurt and no amount of explaining would persuade her that was just the noise an owl made.

It was James who solved Sarah’s problem. He’d mimicked the two sorts of owls who called from the trees and barns around Robinson’s farm and taught her how to make the cries herself. After that, when she woke in the night, she knew which owl was calling and was comforted, for she knew no one had hurt them.

Sam often thought back to his own childhood, these days. For him it had been a happy time. He’d never understood how James could turn his back on all the love there’d been in the three different homes their mother had made for them. In the end, he’d decided it had to be his ambition.

He remembered once Hugh Sinton saying:
Ambition is a very limiting thing
. He’d been puzzled at the time, but the more he thought about James, the more it seemed to fit what he’d done. It taught him a simple truth. If you pursue ambition for ambition’s sake, even if you achieve your goal, you can be sure you’ll miss much of what life has to offer you.

He still felt sad whenever he thought of Hugh. And even sadder when he thought of Sarah. To his surprise, his eyes filled with tears as he remembered her with her camera one hot summer day when they climbed Cannon Hill so she could try ‘landscape’ as she called it. They’d gone to see Thomas and Robert in the forge and that was the day they’d walked round their old home, two rooms and a
wash house with a well in the orchard and Da’s crane over the open fire.

He’d seen Sarah coming out of the old house with Alex the afternoon of Thomas’s funeral. He wondered then if there was anything between them and he hoped maybe there was. Though Alex was much younger and not educated like she was, he was a good, kind man. Sure would any of that matter if they were fond of each other? Wasn’t it all about love and comfort?

He strained his ear in the silence and caught the sound of a motor half a mile away on the main road. Late for anyone to be moving. It must be nearly midnight. He lay still, concentrating on the unfamiliar sound, not able to identify the vehicle as belonging to anyone he knew.

Sarah had seemed better the last time he saw her, catching her by chance with his mother when he’d called on his way back from one of his runs to Newry. She’d just been in Dublin with the wee ones, staying with Lady Anne’s sister, the one who’d painted Ma’s picture. They’d had a great time, she said. Helen and Hugh had never been to a zoo before and couldn’t stop talking about it. She herself loved walking by the sea on Dublin Bay. Uncle Sam Donegal, was there with them. He’d taken them to the races at Fairyhouse on Easter Monday and won all his bets, though he’d only put a few bob on each race, for fun.

The motor was coming closer. He still couldn’t place it, but one thing was sure, the engine was running rough. Either the driver wasn’t very skilled or the vehicle was carrying too much weight. To his great surprise, the vehicle drove past the farm and stopped a little beyond it, just where the lane widened out near the entrance to the station. The engine must be overheating for he could hear it vibrating even after the ignition had been turned off. The only cure for that was to let it cool, so there was no use getting up and going to offer a hand. Martha would not be best pleased if he disturbed her.

A few moments later, he heard footsteps in the yard. He waited, expecting a knock on the door, but when no knock came, he slipped out of bed, tiptoed into the big kitchen and squinted through its uncurtained window. Two silent figures were opening the door of the barn.

Hastily, he went back into the bedroom, pulled on his trousers and jacket and pushed his feet into his boots. He was grateful Martha didn’t stir. In the kitchen, he picked up a powerful torch and slipped outside without switching it on.

The night had clouded over and fine spots of rain were blowing in the freshening wind. He stood with his back against his own front door, so that his outline wouldn’t show up against the whitewashed walls of the house. Through the open door of his
workshop, he could now see a light but there was no sign of either of the two men.

He waited anxiously, wondering what precious piece of his equipment they might have their eye on. Perhaps he
was
foolish not to have a lock on the door, but who, saving neighbours, knew what he had in there? What did it say for trust in your fellowmen to be locking and barring doors?

Footsteps were approaching slowly now from the road. He began to wonder anxiously how many of them there were. Peering into the darkness, he saw the gleam of two faces. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he heard, rather than saw, their slow movement towards the barn, a thought began to shape in his mind.

As the two bare-headed young men, reached the barn door and appeared silhouetted in the faint gleam of light, Sam saw one of the men already in the barn move forward to meet them. A big, heavily-built man, his hair receding from a shiny forehead, he reached out his arms for the heavy, sacking-wrapped bundle one of the younger men was carrying.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said Sam loudly, shining the torch full upon them. ‘You’ve had a fine evening for the work.’

‘Shush … Shush … man, keep yer voice down and put out that torch,’ he hissed, as Sam walked across to stand beside them. ‘Ye don’t know who
might be about spyin’ on us. Here, give us a hand,’ he went on, as the pale, freckle-faced lad pushed the heavy burden into his arms.

‘No. I’ll not take any hand in this work,’ Sam replied firmly, as he moved the torch around so that he could see all their faces.

The second of the older men looked familiar. He’d seen him often enough in Richhill. His name was Hutchinson, but he didn’t know his first name or much about him. The bald one was a stranger, as were the two young men, bent over with the weight of what they were carrying.

‘I’ll give you a can of water for your radiator,’ Sam said calmly, ‘and you can be on your way.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the first man pushing the burden back on the young man, who reeled slightly under the weight. ‘What are ye talkin’ about?’

Nodding to the heavy burdens the young men were still clutching uncomfortably he turned to Sam.

‘These are to go up in the loft over this barn,’ he said, ‘It’s all arranged. Now give us a hand or get outa the way. We’ve work to do before dawn an’ if you’re any sort of a man ye’ll be helpin’ us.’

The younger of the two lads lowered his burden to the ground abruptly. A moment later the other lad followed suit. The metallic clank told Sam all he needed to know.

‘So ye’ve got the guns,’ he said mildly.

‘Boys we have,’ said Hutchinson, his face lighting up. ‘There were
five hundred
motors at Larne, their headlamps on, waiting for the
Clyde Valley
an’ not one to hold up a hand against us. Twenty thousand rifles an’ a million rounds of ammunition. They’ll do more talkin’ than all the speechifyin’ we’ve been havin’. Now, c’mon, man dear, we haven time to stan’ here. There’s other’s waitin’ for their consignments,’ he ended hastily, as he signed to the two boys to pick up the bundles of rifles again.

‘I think you may not have heard what I said,’ said Sam slowly. ‘I said I’d have no hand in this work. There’ll be no rifles go up into my loft. Now take those away outa this.’

‘Is this Liskeyborough?’ the older man demanded angrily.

‘Yes, this is Liskeyborough.’

‘Ach, there’s no mistake, Charley,’ broke in his companion, impatiently. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Sure we have the directions and the instructions exactly where to put them. We haven’t come all this way to be held back by some traitor to the cause.’

‘An’ what cause wou’d that be?’ Sam asked, his voice still calm and steady, almost relaxed.

‘The cause of
freedom
,’ Charley replied, his voice low and intense, hissing out the words. ‘Freedom from these Papishes that wou’d take us
over and have us under the heel of Rome. We’ll defend our good Protestant traditions an’ our right to worship our God in our way.’

‘An’ what about keepin’ God’s commandments?’ Sam asked, not troubling to lower his voice.

‘What d’ye mean?’ came the furious retort from the bald-headed man.

‘I had in mind
Love your neighbour
and
Thou shalt not kill
,’ Sam replied quietly.

‘Is the wee fella givin’ ye some trouble?’

Sam turned quickly to see the unshaven face of Uncle Joe, his trousers pulled on over his nightshirt.

‘I’m Joe Loney an’ I’m right glad to see you gentlemen,’ he said, his face wreathed in smiles as he greeted the older men. ‘I’m sorry about this one,’ he said, nodding unpleasantly towards Sam, ‘but we’ll not let him annoy us. Did all go well?’

‘Aye, powerful well,’ said Charley, relief spreading over his face. ‘Does this man here work for you?’ he went on quickly. ‘Will ye tell him to give us a hand an’ stop givin’ us cheek and keepin’ us back.’

‘Ah will, aye,’ said Joe quickly. ‘Away back t’ yer bed, wee fella,’ he began, looking Sam up and down, ‘an’ let these good men get this stuff inta my barn.’

‘Whose barn?’ asked Sam, as the two young men bent to pick up the rifles.

‘My barn,’ said Joe irritably.

‘No Joe, it isn’t
your
barn,’ Sam retorted. ‘Your name’s on the paper the bank has for the farm all right, but
I
pay the rent of this barn an’ without that money you’d not have a penny to pay the mortgage. An’ you’d hardly have a bite to eat either but for what I give my wife every week to feed you and the children. Now tell your friends to go an’ take their guns with them.’

There was a moment’s stunned silence.

‘I cou’d put you an’ your family out on the street in the mornin’,’ rasped Joe, hopping with fury.

‘You cou’d, you cou’d indeed,’ replied Sam shortly. ‘But you’d have to give me a week’s notice in writing for the barn.’

Before Joe had digested this latest comment, Sam moved quickly past the two uneasy-looking young men and pushed between the older men who had come out of the barn doorway to speak to Joe. He caught hold of the door handle, pulled it firmly shut behind him and leant against it, his torch beaming down on the parcels of guns lying on the ground. Through the coarsely-woven sacking covers, the metal barrels glinted in the strong light.

‘Maybe ye’d like to get one loaded up and start killing for your cause right here,’ he said, looking at the two older men, his face immobile, his eyes steady upon them ‘That’s the only way ye’ll be gettin’ past me inta this barn.’

‘C’mon Charlie, we’re wastin’ time here wi’ this
fool of a man. We’ve work to do and plenty glad to help us,’ Hutchinson said, signalling peremptorily to the two boys to lift the guns and get them back to the motor.