On a Clear Day (28 page)

The barman looked startled as she pushed open the door of the Railway Bar and cast her eyes around the place she knew so well by repute
only. He put down his cloth and the glass he was polishing and hurried over to her.

‘Were you lookin’ for someone belongin’ to ye, miss?’ he asked loudly, as a group of elderly men drinking porter turned their eyes towards her.

‘No, I’ve come to buy a bottle of whiskey,’ she said, wondering why he was trying to edge her away from the bar. ‘How much is the cheapest one you have?’ she asked, stepping past him and taking out her purse.

‘I’m afraid I have no whiskey for sale today, miss,’ he announced loudly, as if she were standing at the far side of the dim, almost empty saloon.

She saw him glance furtively towards the solitary group of drinkers, sitting motionless underneath a cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘But you’ve some on the shelf over there,’ she said, dodging round him again and moving along the counter. ‘It says Bushmills on that bottle and I know that’s whiskey,’ she protested.

‘I’m sorry, miss, I’ve no whiskey for sale,’ he repeated. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead as she leant over the bar and peered at the solitary item standing on the empty shelves behind the upturned bottles ready to dispense measures.

‘Are you having some difficulty, Mickey?’

A large, heavily-built man got to his feet and walked over to where they stood.

‘No, sir, not at all, sir. The young lady just came in lookin’ for her father, didn’t you, miss?’

Clare stared at him. He didn’t look simple, but really, what on earth was he talking about? With the approach of the tall, florid faced man, he was positively shaking with agitation.

‘Actually I’m looking for a bottle of whiskey for my grandfather,’ said Clare, turning towards him. ‘The doctor said a toddy might help him get a better night’s sleep and the bottle my uncle brought at Christmas is nearly empty. If I don’t refill it soon, he’s going to notice and then I won’t be able to.’

‘And your grandfather is …’

‘Robert Scott.’

‘The blacksmith at Salter’s Grange?’

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding to him, as she unfolded a tattered pound note and scanned the silver in her purse, wondering if she’d brought enough.

The heavy face creased and he smiled, exposing his worn cigarette-stained teeth. He looked down at Mickey.

‘Sure Robert’s been drinking here for years, Mickey. Would he not be entitled to a spare bottle if you have one?’ he said, nodding meaningfully towards the bar.

‘Oh yes, sir, yes. Indeed aye. But …’

‘Perhaps this young lady could deliver one to him with the compliments of the house.’ He caught the barman’s eye. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll recover the cost in the course of plying your everyday trade.’

Before she had time to protest, Clare found herself accepting a heavily wrapped bottle and being escorted silently out through the back premises. It was only as they reached a door leading on to the waste ground behind Lonsdale Street that Mickey caught her arm.

‘Niver say where ye got that bottle,’ he whispered. ‘Niver breathe a word. We’re not allowed to sell whiskey over the counter to anyone. An’ yer under age forby. Thon man that spoke to ye is high up in the police. Mind yerself goin’ home ye don’t break it,’ he added hurriedly, as he disappeared back up the yard, leaving Clare to stumble her way by the light of a flickering street lamp till she reached the pavement and could follow it all the way round to the front of the Railway Bar where she’d left her bicycle parked beside its entrance.

While Robert was taking half an hour’s rest after his tea, she added several inches to Uncle Bob’s bottle. She breathed a sigh of relief as she put it back in the corner cupboard and took the new bottle away to hide under her bed.

She’d been not a moment too soon. She’d only just come back into the kitchen when she heard Charlie Running’s familiar step at the outer door. As he was getting up to go, a few hours later, after entertaining them with the latest news, Robert stopped him.

‘Ah, sure what’s yer hurry man. Stay and have a wee night-cap wi’ me. Sure Clarey here is the best han’ at all at a hot toddy. Woud there still be enough in the bottle Clarey for the two of us?’

‘Oh yes, there’s plenty left, Granda. You only need a wee, tiny bit for toddy,’ she said, as she pulled the kettle over to boil it up and fetched the bottle from the corner cupboard.

She saw Robert look at it as she set it on the table. She was glad to be able to turn away into the dimness beyond the reach of the lamp and fetch the half lemon on its saucer from the kitchen cupboard.

‘It’s amazing how that bottle’s lasted since Christmas,’ said Robert, thoughtfully. ‘Sure, I thought the nite woud see the end of it.’

Clare heated the mugs, made the toddys and watched the two men as they toasted each other across the fireplace.

‘Good health, Charlie,’ said Robert, as he raised his mug.

‘Slainte,’ replied Charlie, as he bent and took the first sip.

‘That’s a drop of good stuff, Robert,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘If I couldn’t see the label on the bottle over there, I’d have said it was a drop o’ Bush, but sure ye can’t get Bushmills these days for love nor money. It all goes for export. Balance of payments, they say.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Robert, ‘it’s a gran’ drop. I’ve had no appetite at all wi’ the aul cough, an’ I’ve enjoyed it well enough these lass nites, but I woud say the nite I can taste it the best at all. It woud put the heart back in ye.’

‘A few more nights o’ that stuff, Robert, an’ we’ll have you fit for a wee outing. Your friends at the pub over in Loughgall has all been askin’ for you,’ he said, as he handed Clare his empty mug. ‘Thank you, Clare, that was great. I’ll not feel the cold at all on the way home. May your bottle never go empty, as the saying is.’

Clare laughed as she always did at Charlie’s sayings, but later, by the light of her candle, she examined the bottle she’d hidden under her bed. It certainly said Bushmills. But how could that be if it all went for export? And what was the difference between Bushmills and the bottle Uncle Bob had brought? Wasn’t whiskey all the same, except it was made by different firms?

As she climbed into bed and blew out her candle, she shivered violently. She could never decide whether to put her hot water bottle at
her feet to warm the empty acres of cold space down there, or clutch it to her bosom where she could really enjoy it. One day, when I’m rich, she thought sleepily, I shall have two hot water bottles in my bed and Granda’s whiskey bottle will never run empty, ever again.

By the end of January, Robert was so much better he was able to go out with Charlie once more. But the weather was no better. It stayed cold and wet, one storm following another, the grey rain clouds so heavy the big kitchen was dim all through the day. Although the path to the forge streamed with water and the overhanging trees dripped on everyone who passed under them, Robert insisted on going down to light the fire.

‘Sure the chimbley gets damp if there’s no fire an’ then where will I be when I’m fit to work?’ he said each time Clare protested.

When she went to the surgery for more medicine, she consulted Dr Lindsay. She told him how frail Robert seemed and how easily he tired.

‘Let him do a bit in the forge if he wants to, Clare. He’s a man that has worked all his life. He doesn’t know how to sit around,’ he said reassuringly. ‘What he would gain by resting would be lost by boredom.

‘Sometimes its better to let people tear away, as the saying is, rather than spare them. Tell him to keep himself warm and to go and lie down as soon as he feels tired. If he does that, he’ll not go far wrong. Is he in better spirits?’

Clare grinned at him.

‘Oh yes. The medicine has been a great help but I think the hot toddy has been even better.’

‘Is that so?’

He smiled broadly and looked at her for a moment. Then, with a strange, distant look on his face, he began to tell her a story.

‘I remember when I first came back from medical school in Edinburgh, Clare. I worked with an old doctor there. Ah, he’s long gone. And like many young men, I thought I knew it all. I’d won the odd prize or two and I couldn’t wait to get to work. But in my first winter we lost a lot of patients. I know now you get times like that, green winters some call them, but I didn’t know it at the time. I really took it to heart. I felt maybe I hadn’t done the right thing, or I hadn’t done enough.’

He saw she was taking in every word, so he went on.

‘The old fellow took me aside one day and said “Alfie, you’ve the makings of a doctor, but you look too much to the body.” The body will heal itself as often as not, he said, even in spite of doctors, but the spirit is another matter. “Strengthen the spirit, my boy, by every means at your disposal. Sure what use is life if there’s no joy in it?” I think he had a point, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know you’re right,’ she responded
quickly. ‘Since Granda’s been able to go over to Loughgall again with Charlie Running he’s been so much better. I could hardly believe it the first night he came back and told me a whole long story about how they were making the Queen’s dress for the coronation in the village. He didn’t think it was true, but he told me anyway. What really pleased him was having news for me.’

‘Yes, I can imagine it,’ Dr Lindsay said, nodding to himself. ‘And then just think, Clare, how well Charlie has recovered from the loss of Kate, who was so dear to him, now he has Robert to look to,’ he said, standing up reluctantly. ‘We vulnerable creatures, we all need to care and be cared for. As long as we can do that, life is worth living,’ he added, opening the door into his deserted waiting room. He paused. ‘You look better yourself. Have you stopped worrying like I told you?’

‘Yes, I have. Except about my exams in February,’ she said laughing. ‘I think that’s normal, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed it is. I wouldn’t attempt a cure. Good luck with them,’ he added, as he watched her lower her shopping bag carefully into her front basket and wheel her bicycle out onto the roadway where the wind whipped at her coat tails and the rain blew in her face.

As she pedalled slowly along the wet road, she
wondered how she could possibly feel so cheerful when she was getting wetter by the minute and had nothing to look forward to at home except an evening’s revision and a pile of washing that would have to be dried indoors.

On a mild and bright Saturday morning, a few weeks later, she was washing the breakfast dishes when she spotted the postman coming up the path. Drying her hands quickly, she ran down to meet him.

She felt the colour drain from her face as he handed her an envelope without a word or a smile. It was a perfectly ordinary blue envelope of the kind Ronnie had been using for years, but it was crumpled, the black ink of the address a smudgy grey. Rubber stamped across it in bright blue was the message:
Damaged by sea water.

She ripped it open. Inside, all she found was a brief note.

‘The high seas,’ she said aloud, clutching her hands to her face as she hurried back to the house.

Her mind leapt back to very last day of January. She’d arrived home in the fading light to find smoke rising from the chimney of the forge and stepped in to say hello to Robert. There were four other men there and to her amazement they were all standing or sitting in complete silence.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked hurriedly, turning from John Wiley to Robert and back again.

One of the older men sitting on the bench inside the door shuffled his feet and looked up at her, his face mask-like in the glow of the fire on the hearth.

‘Bad news, Clarey. Robert’ll tell ye,’ he said, uneasily, his eyes going to her grandfather as he spoke.

‘The sea-doors is broke on the Larne ferry an’ they say she’s goin’ down. The weather’s that bad they can’t find her t’ get any help t’ her.’

‘An’ there’s weemen wi’ young childer coming back from England on her,’ said John awkwardly, as if he had a lump in his throat. ‘What chance woud they have in a lifeboat in weather like this?’

The answer came soon enough. Within the hour, as darkness fell and the wind rose yet higher, Robert turned on the radio for the six o’clock news. There had been no radio message from the
Princess Victoria
since two o’ clock. Lifeboats and ships were searching for survivors.

By the following morning, it was certain there were no women or children among them. Only forty of the strongest and fittest of the men from the crew survived. One hundred and twenty eight people were lost. Clare read the newspaper reports to Robert each evening and tried to hide her tears as the stories of heroism, loss and grief unfolded.

With the damaged envelope in her hand, the full horror of the loss of the
Princess Victoria
swept over her again. Ronnie had decided against the £10 assisted passage, so she’d been sure it would be months before he could save up enough to go. Besides, from what he’d hinted in his letters, she really thought he meant to see her before he left.

But now he was gone. He was ‘on the high seas’. If only he hadn’t used that particular phrase. ‘Mountainous seas’ had breached the doors of the car deck on the
Princess Victoria
, flooding her and crippling her. ‘Mountainous seas’ prevented ships coming to her aid, swept survivors from life rafts, or carried them beyond the helping hands that tried to catch at their lifejackets with boat hooks.

In that narrow stretch of water between Larne
and Stranraer, with both coastlines perfectly visible on a clear day, the sea had destroyed a well-made, well-manned vessel. And Ronnie was crossing the storm-ridden Atlantic in winter.

Totally distraught, she ran into her bedroom and sat weeping on her bed.

‘What am I to do? What am I going to do?’

As her tears diminished, she shivered violently. Slowly, cold reality took shape. There was nothing, absolutely nothing whatsoever, she could do. What made it worse, the only person she could have told was Jessie, but she worked alternate Saturdays since she’d got her job at the gallery and this was her weekend in Belfast. If she told Robert, he’d be upset for her sake and she couldn’t bear that. She would simply have to bear it, try to put it out of mind and behave as if she didn’t care at all, because there was nothing else she could do. Except hope all would be well.

With an effort of will, she gathered herself, filled her bucket with hot water and prepared to face her least favourite job of the week, scrubbing the mud from the lane off the kitchen floor’s well-tramped surface.

Ronnie’s next letter arrived a week later. His crossing had been unexceptional, he’d made some useful contacts, and he was writing on his knee in a long-distance bus heading towards the Canadian border. He expected to arrive in Toronto
in two days’ time. He already had the address of a newspaper which might be interested in someone with an Ulster connection.

Clare was torn between relief and pleasure and furious anger at the way she’d upset herself. Since that damaged envelope had arrived, she’d slept badly. She’d not been able to concentrate on her work, despite all her efforts. Once or twice, she’d even caught Robert looking at her as if he were going to say something, but thought better of it.

‘Let that teach you a lesson, Clare,’ she said firmly, as she added Ronnie’s latest letter to the pile she kept at the back of the drawer behind her clean underwear. ‘If you’d gone on like that much longer you’d have upset Robert and you’d have made a right mess of the exams as well. No matter what happens you’ve got to keep steady. If there’s no one to help you, you’ll just have to learn to help yourself.’

After all the bad weather at the beginning of the year, Clare could hardly believe it when March produced such unexpectedly warm, still days. They brought springtime in a glorious rush of unfurling daffodils and leafing trees. As always, her spirits rose as she looked hopefully at the fuchsia cuttings in the deep windowsills of her own room and the boys’ room and began to plan how she’d put together this year’s window boxes once the risk of frost was past.

With the evenings now light till after tea, she had time to walk up through the orchard after school and bring back posies of primrose and wood anemone for their table. She cut sprays of forsythia and budding spindleberry from the shrubs on the path to the forge and put them in a jar on the hallstand. As she stood looking at the bright flowers and the tiny leaves, she breathed a sigh of relief. The really bad weather was over. Life would be easier for a while.

Robert was so much improved that he spent most of his day in the forge. He visited the pub in Loughgall regularly again and he enjoyed hearing all the talk about the plans the village was making to celebrate the coronation. When Clare read him a newspaper report about some thread produced by silkworms kept in the village being accepted by Buckingham Palace, he threw up his head and laughed.

‘So much for them makin’ the dress singlehanded. Coud ye be up to people? The stories they put about that place. They’d try to tell you they was goin’ over for the day themselves if you were fool enough to believe them.’

Despite all her work for the examination, Clare listened to the news from the pub and the forge. When she heard Robert shuffling the newspaper he’d already read, she knew he was at a loose end. She’d always come and sit with him and try
to entertain him when he felt the time long. But many an evening she was grateful when she heard Charlie’s step at the door and his greeting booming into the kitchen so that she could go back to the books laid out in the boys’ room.

At the time, all the talk was of the Coronation, the grand preparations going on in London and the many events being organised locally. Try as she might, she could not get excited about any of it. When the day finally came she listened to the broadcasts from Westminster Abbey with Robert during the day and went gratefully back to her work when Charlie arrived to take him out that evening.

The day passed quietly enough for Clare, but it ended with an event that had far reaching consequences for her. Early in the evening, Robert’s landlord for the last fifty years, Albert Nesbitt, complained of indigestion and went off to bed early. Next morning, his daughter found him dead. By the time Clare arrived home after a three-hour paper, Robert had already shaved and donned the white shirt and collar from the bottom drawer.

‘Oh dear, who is it this time?’ Clare asked, as she came into the kitchen and took one look at his scrubbed and polished appearance.

‘Ach, it’s oul Albert Nesbitt. Very sudden. Sure he was up here last week to collect the rent to
save you the bother of goin’ down with it. Said he knowed you were workin’ for the exams and sure the walk woud do him good, forby a bit of crack in the forge.’

‘Is Eddie going to the wake?’

‘No, Eddie doesn’t know the Nesbitts very well, though he’ll go to the funeral, of course. But our friend Charlie used to work for Albert’s father at weekends after he left school. He’ll be going for sure and he’ll pick me up on his way.’

‘You’re sure you don’t want me to run up on the bike and ask him?’

‘No need, no need at all,’ he said firmly. ‘Sure Charlie and Albert were comrades. It was Albert Nesbitt got Charlie Running to join the IRA. They were in the same unit.’

‘The IRA?’

Clare was so amazed, she hung her blazer on the end of the settle and dropped down beside it.

‘Aye surely. Whenever there usta be trouble round these parts, didn’t the police, or the B-specials, come and collect up the pair of them. They used to get put inside regular. They’d plenty of time to get to know one another.’

‘You mean Charlie was a Republican?’ Clare asked, not sure she could really believe her ears.

The problem was Robert’s tone. It was so matter-of-fact, she couldn’t rightly take in the enormity of what he was saying.

‘Aye certainly. Still is, to the best of my knowledge. D’ye niver notice the “
Erin go Bragh
”?’

‘Yes, of course, but I thought that was just because he speaks Irish.’

‘Ach no. It’s a signal. Like the way the Masons shake hands. It lets others know where he stan’s.’