The Hawthorns Bloom in May (2 page)

She paused. Surely he’d said that before. She leafed back through the neatly written sheets and found the phrase that echoed in her mind.

‘
My feeling that there was something here still to be done
.’

She read the words aloud and let the letter lie in her lap as she thought about them. Twenty years ago, Sam had been politically active, so committed to the rights of the tenant farmers and so involved with Michael Davitt and the Land League that she and John had feared for his safety. His visits to
America had been part of his work for the League. He’d carried letters, contacted sympathisers and collected money. What she’d never really been sure about was whether he returned to America solely because of Eva, or because of his disillusion with Irish politics.

With a sense of growing unease she could not identify she picked up the letter again and continued.

There was a further page to the letter, enquiries about herself and John, her elder daughter, Hannah, and his nephew and namesake, her younger son, Sam Hamilton, and his growing family in County Armagh. She read on quickly, pausing only when he mentioned Sarah.

Rose sat quite still, the folded sheets held lightly in her hand, her mind moving backwards and forwards across her brother’s life. She remembered how she had watched him, a toddler crawling round the housekeeper’s room in Currane Lodge, when her mother took them to Kerry after their
father died. They’d gone to school with the children of the other servants and she’d helped him learn his letters. Sam was bright, picking up things so quickly that even before he became a stable boy on the estate, he’d been given permission to read the books in Sir Capel’s library. She’d encouraged him to read in whatever time he had and in the end, Sir Capel himself had sent him to train as a land agent. She had never entirely made up her mind whether to be glad or sorry that in Dublin, Sam had learnt more about land than its texture and quality, or its suitability for grazing, or cultivation.

Smiling, red-headed Sam, lightly-built, goodlooking and friendly, had changed radically during his time in the city. She laughed to herself when she remembered the seventeen year old who’d been wildly in love with Lady Lily, the prettiest of the Molyneux daughters. After three years in Dublin, he’d turned his back on the job awaiting him on the estate and chose instead to live on a pittance from the Land League. Now, at fifty-two, he was still a fit and good-looking man, even if his red hair had receded from his temples and was distinctly thinning on top. His passion for books remained with him and it looked as if his old passion for the land of Ireland had reasserted itself.

She shook her head slowly. It had never occurred to her that Sam might come back. But then, she said to herself, as she looked around the comfortable
kitchen, most of the important things that had happened in her own life she had never expected either. Neither the good nor the bad.

‘Ah see ye’ve had a letter,’ said John, peering up at the mantelpiece as they moved over to the fire when they’d finished their lunch.

‘I have indeed, but you’d better read it this evening or you’ll be late for your meeting,’ she replied easily. ‘It’s my Sam, Uncle Sam America,’ she said laughing, ‘and it’s a big one. It took me half the morning to take it all in.’

‘Is he all right?’ John enquired anxiously.

‘Yes, of course, he’s fine,’ she said reassuringly. ‘He’s just been very busy. What made you think he mightn’t be all right?’

‘Ach, no reason at all,’ he said hastily, his eyes moving anxiously towards the clock.

‘What’s wrong, love?’ she asked quietly as she handed him his mug of tea. She looked closely at him as he took it without meeting her gaze. ‘Is there something amiss you haven’t told me?’

‘Shure I can’t get Hugh out of my mind,’ he said abruptly. ‘I see him beside me. I hear him. I can nearly tell you what he’s sayin’ when someone asks me somethin’. One day he’s there, happy and smilin’ and a couple of weeks later he’s dead and buried and our Sarah standing stiff as a post and the light gone from her eyes. I can’t get it outa my mind.’

‘Oh, John love, I’m sorry,’ she said, setting down her own mug on the edge of the stove. ‘You were with Hugh more than anyone, even Sarah, so it’s you misses him most.’

She stood up and was about to put her arms round him when she heard a step on the garden path and the scrape of boots on the doorstone.

‘Anybody at home?’

A figure stood in the doorway, the sunlight blocked by his broad shoulders and tall frame. Their younger son, Sam, smiled at her as he flicked off his cap and hung it up by the door. For one moment, she was totally taken aback. Sam’s bearing, his familiar gesture, his smile, was so like his father she couldn’t think what to say.

‘Hello, son, how are ye? What brings you here on a work day?’ John asked, a bleak smile crossing his face as he collected himself.

‘Handy delivery down in the town. It’ll take them a while to unload,’ he explained. ‘Young Mickey has a sister married up in Seapatrick. He’s away to see her. We agreed we’d take an hour and work later this evenin’.

‘It’s lovely to see you, Sam. There’s tea in the pot. Would you like a bite to eat?’

‘Just tea, Ma. I’ve had my piece.’

‘What about a bit of cake?’

‘Aye, well …’

John laughed and looked easier as Rose crossed
to the dresser. She took her time finding the tin, the carving knife and a plate, listening as John asked questions about the job. She was grateful Sam seemed happy enough, despite the changes there’d been in the management of the company he worked for, especially their work schedules.

‘And how is Martha?’ she asked, as she poured tea and passed him his plate.

‘Oh, fine. Working away as always,’ he said, dropping his eyes to the wedge of fruit cake on his plate.

‘And the children?’

‘Great. They’re all well. Wee Rose looks more like you everyday, Ma, and young Emily’s walkin’. Inta everythin’. Oh, and one on the way,’ he added, as he munched appreciatively.

Rose nodded and smiled, but her heart sank. Another child. There were six already. Surely enough to keep on one man’s pay. She asked about each one in turn. Sam always answered her questions, told her about some childish illness safely passed or some story to make them smile, but she always felt his answers left her none the wiser about how he felt.

‘How do you like living on the farm, Sam?’ John went on.

‘Ach it’s all right,’ he said agreeably. ‘The old uncle’s a bit of a cross patch at times. Sharp with the children. But sure they have space to play
themselves in the fields and the orchard. There was nowhere for them but the street in that wee house in Richhill. I’ve one of the barns Uncle Joe doesn’t use made inta a workshop and I do a bit of work for the neighbours in the evenings. It all helps.’

‘What about the shoes, Sam?’ Rose asked, as lightly as she could manage.

‘Just the same, Ma. I tried,’ he said steadily. ‘I gave her the money you sent me and she bought them all right, but she says they’re only for Sunday. None of the neighbours we’ans have shoes to go to school, she says, so why wou’d we make ours different. Her minds made up an’ I can see there’s no use goin’ on about it. That’s the way with Martha, but I
did
try like you said.’

‘I’m sure you did your best,’ Rose said, nodding vigorously to cover her disappointment.

John got to his feet, clapped Sam on the shoulder and looked up at the clock again.

‘I’m sorry to leave you, but there’s a meeting at two. Maybe we’ll take a run over one of these Sundays, Sam. Just for an hour or two,’ he added hastily as he caught Rose’s glance.

Martha had long ago made clear that she didn’t welcome visitors on a Sunday when Sam was at home to look after the children.

‘That wou’d be great, Da. I’d like fine to show you the workshop.’

‘Well, see ye make a date with your mother, I
must away,’ he said quickly as he got up, kissed Rose, and headed off down the garden path.

‘Where has he the motor?’ asked Sam, puzzled.

‘Oh, he leaves it down at the farm when he knows he’s going back into Banbridge in the afternoon. It saves going up to Sarah’s to turn. I think actually he enjoys the odd word with Michael. I’m afraid he’s missing Hugh badly.’

Sam dropped his eyes to the remaining crumbs on his plate.

‘How’s Sarah?’ he said abruptly.

‘She’s bereft,’ Rose replied honestly. ‘I’ve not seen her shed a tear yet. I don’t know whether that’s a good sign or a bad. But she’s well enough in health, thank God, and she works hard.’

‘Thank God indeed,’ he said firmly. ‘Sometimes it’s a good thing to have your work to do every day. It stops you thinkin’ long,’ he added as he too got to his feet.

‘Sunday or Sunday week, maybe?’ she asked, as he picked up his cap and looked out into the sunshine.

‘Ach, yes. Just come,’ he said, turning back to face her.

He leant down and kissed her.

‘Sure I’m always there, even if Martha is away up to her father or visiting her friends. The we’ans ’ill be glad to see ye. Wee Sammy is lookin’ for a ride in the motor. Ye may warn my father he’ll give
him no peace till he gets sittin’ in the front seat.’

She laughed and touched his arm as he stepped over the threshold.

He took a few long strides along the garden path and turned down the hill. Even before she stepped back into the empty room, the echo of his footsteps had gone.

She looked at the lunch table and the mugs parked on the corners of the stove and began to clear them up, but as she moved back and forth to the dairy and returned items to the dresser, all she could see was the small, bright face of Martha Loney the first time her son had brought her home. She’d been pleasant enough in manner and agreeable to whatever was suggested and pretty enough when she smiled. She’d been unsure then about the girl and about Sam’s haste to get married.

Sarah had had no such doubts about Martha. From that very first visit she’d declared that Martha Loney was more in love with the idea of marriage and a family than she was with her brother.

‘And she was right,’ Rose whispered to herself as she wiped the table with a damp cloth. ‘Our Sam’s made his bed and there’s little anyone can do to help him.’

She wondered which was the greater loss, the loss of a dear husband who had brought joy for some ten years, or the loss of a hope, the image
of a smiling girl dissolving into a young woman so entirely taken up with her children, her own life and her own affairs, there was little place for the man who had fathered her children and now worked so hard to give his family the very best he could afford.

As Rose looked hopefully at her flowerbeds, seeking the first hint of colour in late March, she thought of all their neighbours anxiously watching the skies. Rainfall was always a problem at this time of year. A sudden dry spell would check the growth of the new grass. If that happened, animals would have to be fed hay, now both scarce and expensive. But if heavy rain came, sodden fields would delay ploughing and planting and wet conditions increase the risk of disease among the sheep and their young lambs.

As for the Sinton mills, seasonal storms could be bad enough to disrupt regular sailings across the Irish Sea, a serious matter when contracts were penalised for late delivery. Worse still, flooding was a danger on the low-lying mill sites and wet conditions meant more illness among the workers.

She sighed. Only one group of people seemed completely indifferent to the changes in the weather. Whether the day was bright and sunny, or teeming with rain, the early evening still light, or dipping towards dusk, the hundreds of local men who had recently joined the Ulster Volunteer Force were to be seen drilling. Outside Orange Halls, in open fields, or town squares, the sound of marching feet and shouted instructions was an everyday event.

Every weekend, she and John saw platoons tramping back to Banbridge along the local roads, or across the nearby fields, after some cross-country route march or exercise, heavy packs on their backs, a single billet of wood in their arms, the insignia of the Red Hand proudly displayed on their sleeves. When they met them on the hill outside the cottage or tramping across their back field, they could do little but step aside, nodding to those they knew, workers from the mills and lads from neighbouring farms, accompanied by their young officers, the sons of the manufacturers whose handsome houses dotted the Bann valley.

‘Ah see they’ve got rifles now,’ said John flatly one evening as he put down his newspaper and took off his spectacles.

‘No, John, you don’t mean it,’ Rose said, horrified, as she looked up from the jersey she was knitting for young Hugh.

He raised his eyebrows, put his spectacles on again and read her a paragraph from the
Banbridge Chronicle
. A local carpentry firm had landed on its feet, it said. Seeing its opportunity, it was now supplying replica rifles to the Volunteers, price one and eight pence each for pitch pine and one and sixpence for spruce.

She breathed a sigh of relief, but was not reassured by the look on John’s face.

‘Do you
really
think they’d turn against the government if Home Rule was granted?’

‘I’ve no doubt about it,’ he said promptly. ‘They mean business all right. Sure there’s tens of thousands of them now all over Ulster. The English papers can laugh all they like at them drillin’ with bits of wood, but they’re serious and there’s those encouragin’ them that’ll find the money for rifles. It’s only a matter of time. Even Hugh said that, an’ you know how he felt about takin’ up arms.’

‘Hugh always faced facts,’ she said quietly. ‘Whether he liked it or not, if he saw something, he spoke. Sarah never had any time for making things smooth or comfortable either. I often thought that was one of the great bonds between them.’

To her great surprise, John laughed.

She smiled herself, delighted to hear a sound so unfamiliar. She waited hopefully to see what he might say.

‘D’ye mind the first time she met Hugh?’ he began. ‘Sure she was only a wee thing, the night we arrived here with all our bits and pieces, an’ he still had the bad leg from the accident, an’ the scar. She looked up at him an’ asks him did a horse kick him. An’ then she wants to know did it hurt. Oh, she’d have gone on too till she’d found out the whole details,’ he broke off, shaking his head.

‘Aye, an’ sure she does it still,’ he continued easily. ‘Nothin’ gets past her. I sit at these board meetings an’ I listen mostly, but it’s Sarah asks the questions. Ach, ye’d be proud of her, Rose,’ he added shyly.

‘Yes, I am, John,’ she replied, still smiling at the recollection of that first meeting. ‘She has a sharp mind and great courage. I just don’t know where she gets it from. It would be different if she was religious, but she’s not. I know she went with Hugh to the Quaker meeting, and helped with the charity work and the visiting, but she never became a Friend.’

John nodded and folded up his paper. Whatever he might think himself about being religious, his mind had moved on.

‘Speaking of visitin’,’ he said abruptly. ‘Are we for Liskeyborough on Sunday?’

She looked across at him and saw the sudden animation had vanished.

‘Yes, I think we should,’ she replied, her tone
as neutral as his. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve been. Sam likes to see us there.’

‘Why does Martha not like us, Rose? Tell me that an’ tell me no more, as the sayin’ is,’ he asked directly, his brow furrowed with a familiar frown.

Rose sighed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t given thought to the behaviour of their daughter-in-law, but she found it difficult to explain.

‘I don’t think she actually dislikes us, John, she’s just indifferent. We don’t matter to her,’ she said steadily. ‘All that matters to Martha is the children and she’s good enough with them in her own way. After that, there’s her father and old Uncle Joe, her two sisters and her girl friends.’

‘An’ what about our Sam? Where does he come in?’

‘Well, they’ve six children and one on the way,’ she replied, her tone sharper than she’d intended.

John just looked at her, his face grim. He shook his head.

‘It’s beyond me, Rose. Tell me what we ought to do an’ we’ll do it.’

The first Sunday in April was a lovely spring-like day, the air mild, the sky a cloud-scribbled blue, and although there was no sign of the trees bursting into leaf, the hawthorns were well sprayed with soft, new leaves. As they drove along, Rose felt her spirits rise. In the cottage gardens they passed and
along the roadsides verges themselves, daffodils bloomed everywhere. There were signs too that the birds were already nesting.

Rose could tell from the contented look on John’s face that the engine was running sweetly and he was enjoying every moment of the drive. He enjoyed keeping his own and Sarah’s motor in peak condition, but he seldom had time to do the job as well as he’d wish these days. She glanced sideways at him, delighted he was relaxed enough to point out new buildings that caught his eye and tell her a couple of amusing things that had happened at one mill or the other.

He was still in good spirits as he drove slowly down the steep and narrow lane leading to Richhill Station and turned off into the broad, well-swept yard of Joe Loney’s farm at Liskeyborough. Two half-barrels full of daffodils bloomed cheerfully, a vivid splash of gold against the newly whitewashed walls of the long, low dwelling, its small windows reflecting the light, the upper part of the half door wide open to the sunlight.

‘Place lookin’ well, isn’t it?’ he said, as he manoeuvred the motor and parked it with the bonnet facing outwards in the direction of the lane.

Rose nodded and looked around, surprised there was no sign of life, neither chicken, nor child. Stranger still, no one appeared at the door.

‘Hayfoot, strawfoot, hayfoot, strawfoot.’

They turned abruptly towards the barns behind them as Billy and Charley, the eldest of Martha and Sam’s children, marched into view, commanded by an unknown boy somewhat older than Billy’s ten summers. Both young Hamiltons carried billets of wood and both had tied a piece of old cloth round their waists as bandoliers.

‘Hayfoot, strawfoot, hayfoot, strawfoot,’ continued the sharp voice as he marched the two younger boys across the middle of the wide yard and into the nearby field.

Neither of their grandchildren so much as glanced at them, and one look at John’s face told her his good spirits had evaporated like summer rain on a metalled road.

‘What does he mean, “
Hayfoot
,
strawfoot
”?’ she asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

‘Ach, he’s just repeatin’ what he’s heard,’ replied John abruptly. ‘Many o’ these Volunteers don’t know their right foot from their left. When they started to teach them to march, they had to tie hay and straw round their ankles till they got the hang of it. It’s not new to the U. V. F. though they’d tell you it is. Your brother Sam says the Americans invented it when they were trainin’ up raw recruits for the Civil War.’

The children had disappeared and still no one had appeared to greet them.

‘We may as well go on in,’ said Rose, nudging him encouragingly, as she pointed him towards the door and took his arm.

‘Good day, Joe, are you well?’ she asked, as she caught sight of a figure sitting close to the stove. She unlatched the lower part of the door and walked towards him.

‘Well, there’d not be much point complainin’ if I wasn’t,’ he replied ungraciously.

Unshaven and wearing his working clothes, Martha’s Uncle Joe lowered his paper, but neither rose to his feet nor bade them welcome.

‘Are you all alone?’ she went on pleasantly, casting her eyes round the empty room.

‘Aye. Martha’s away up to see me brother. Your Sam’s about the place somewhere. He’s likely in the barn. Shure he’s always in there fiddling with somethin’ or other while Martha an’ I are at our work,’ he said in a tone it was hard to misread.

Rose raised an eyebrow to John, who said nothing, but pulled out two kitchen chairs for them to sit on.

‘Ye’ve got a new coat of paint I see,’ said John casually, ‘Indoors as well,’ he added, looking round the newly decorated kitchen.

‘Aye. That was done a few weeks ago,’ Joe replied, looking back at his newspaper meaningfully.

Rose followed his gaze. The fresh paint made the room seem larger as well as pleasanter. After
the gloom of that tiny house in Richhill’s main street, she could see why Martha had been so pleased when her uncle inherited the farm. He’d asked her to come with her family and help him run it and she’d jumped at the chance. Now Rose wondered if living with Uncle Joe still seemed as good an idea.

‘An’ the yards well improved too,’ continued John, who disliked Joe thoroughly, but did his best not to show it. ‘Ye’ve got rid of a lot of old rubbish.’

‘Aye. An’ it wasn’t before time.’

Silence fell and Rose wondered whether she should enquire about Martha or the children, or whether that would only make matters worse.

‘Ach, hello, Ma. Hello, Da,’ Sam said, crossing the room in a couple of strides. He kissed his mother and grasped his father’s hand. ‘Sure I didn’t hear the motor. I was sandin’ a bit o’ metal an’ it was only when I came out for a breath o’ fresh air, I saw her stanin’ there.’

‘Sure the only time you iver hear anythin’, Sam, is when you’re called to your tea,’ said Joe without taking his eyes away from his paper.

Rose stood up and smiled at Sam.

‘We were just admiring the new paint. It makes the room look so much bigger. Did you and Uncle Joe do it, or did you get help?’

‘Help?’ said Joe, staring up at her. ‘Sure it’s only gentry has “help”. We’ve to do everythin’ ourselves
here. What way wou’d I get time for paintin’ and doin’ up the place wi’ a farm of land and animals to run.’

‘So Sam did it, then?’ said John quietly, looking Joe full in the face.

‘Sure he might as well. He’s no hans for the farm,’ he replied, as he turned away again.

John stood up and walked out into the sunshine.

‘Well, we’d better go and see what Sam does have hands for, Joe,’ said Rose, as she got up from the kitchen chair. ‘There must be something Lamb Brothers think he’s worth paying for,’ she added quietly as she followed Sam and his father out of the house.

‘Hayfoot, strawfoot, hayfoot, strawfoot.’

The three adults stopped outside the door as the three boys reappeared from their manoeuvre in the nearest field. Rose took a deep breath and watched anxiously to see what would happen.

Without a word, Sam walked out into the line of march, dropped on his hunkers in front of them and held out his hand for the billets of wood. Billy and Charley handed them over. He waited while they untied the bandoliers. Try as she would Rose could not hear what Sam said, so quiet was his tone, but she saw the two younger boys nod and make their way to the small orchard at the back of the house. The older boy looked uneasy, but made no reply to Sam’s quiet questioning. Suddenly, he
too turned away, and went running out of the gate and up the road.

‘Who was the other wee boy?’ she asked, as they followed Sam into the barn.

‘Ach, that’s Danny. He’s one of the Hutchinson’s,’ he said, wiping a piece of cotton waste over a wooden bench so that she could sit down.

‘He’s a right wee lad, but the father’s desperit strong against Home Rule. No matter what subject ye’d be talkin’ about, whether it was motors, or factory work, or even the birds in the sky, he cou’d somehow bring it roun’ to Dublin and the Fenians an’ the Pope,’ he went on matter-of-factly. ‘Hasn’t a good word to say for any of them. He’s Master of the Lodge an’ he has them out drillin’ regular. That’s where the wee fella picked it up.’

‘What about your wee Sammy?’ Rose asked. ‘Did he not want to do what his older brothers do?’

‘Deed I’m sure he did, but young Hutchinson must have said he was too young. He’s away with Martha and Emily and the two wee ones up to Richhill.’

‘Ye’ve yerself well set up, son,’ said John, who’d been looking round him, inspecting the workbenches under the windows and the large space in the centre of the barn where a petrol-driven pump stood in pieces. ‘Ah knew ye cou’d weld, but ah didn’t know ye had weldin’ equipment. That set ye back a bit.’

‘Aye, it did, tho’ I got it second hand,’ Sam replied, sounding pleased. ‘But sure it’s near paid for isself already. The farmers roun’ here can’t afford new machinery, they just have to keep old stuff goin’, harrows and reapers, an’ suchlike. An’ there’s no smith near here since old Harry Pearson died over at Money. The nearest would be John Scott at Kildarton or our friends Thomas and Robert at Salter’s Grange. An’ that’s a brave step if yer in the middle of a job.’