On a Clear Day (32 page)

‘You go and ask them. I’ll start brewing up. Your grandmother badly needs a cup of tea,’ she said, as she slipped through the solid groups of dark suits and made her way to the dining room.

Before the first pots were brewed, Doreen Clarke and her daughter appeared at Clare’s elbow. She almost smiled to herself at the practised way they set about the job. From the moment they started reversing the teacups, she knew that all would be well.

‘I’m Virginia, can I help?’

A tall, striking girl with chestnut hair stood in front of her, a boy, younger and dark, followed a few steps behind.

‘Yes, please. Could you take a tray of tea into the drawing room to some of the older people by the fireplace? It will save them having to come for it,’ she said, producing some breakfast trays from under the damask-draped table and loading them with cups ready for Doreen and Olive to pour.

‘How are you doing? Can I carry something too?’ said Andrew as he arrived, just behind his cousins.

‘I think we’re going to need more hot water. Can you go down for it and tell June all’s well? She’ll be worrying herself silly.’

‘What’s happened to June? You said she’d had an accident.’

‘Sprained ankle, I told you,’ she said hastily, as she filled another large teapot from the boiling urn.

‘Yes, but my French wasn’t up to that bit. Not at your speed. You sounded like a native.’

‘Of France, I hope,’ she said sharply, as she handed him an empty teapot. ‘Can you rinse this one out in very hot water, please, while you’re down there, and bring it back when you bring the kettle?’

‘Oh yes, of France all right,’ he said, shaking his head, as he reversed carefully from the dining table and wove his way through the dark figures now silently munching their way through the sandwiches and cake.

It was after six before Clare was free to go out to the stable, fetch her bicycle and head for home. Andrew had introduced her properly to Virginia and her brother, Edward and together the young people had done all the dishes, while Doreen and Olive set the dining room to rights and put everything away in the kitchen under June’s instructions.

The ankle was still very painful, but it was clear nothing was broken. What it needed was a well-earned rest.

Just before six o’clock, the overnight guests ensconced in the drawing room with Senator Richardson and his daughter-in-law, Helen, while the Missus excused herself and went down to the kitchen. She arrived just as John Wiley appeared to take June home in the Senator’s car and Clare was hanging the wet drying up cloths on the airer.

‘Will you both excuse me a minute or two, please? I’d like a word with Mrs Wiley before she goes,’ she said quietly.

Clare and John took themselves off to the far end of the servant’s corridor, perched themselves in a window sill and looked at each other.

‘I niver thought I’d see the day when that wuman would say “please”,’ began John, ‘let alone apologise to anyone.’

‘She hasn’t done it yet, John. But she might.’

‘What in the world did ye say to her? I heer ye said it in French. Were it too rude to say in English?’ he asked, with a wink.

Clare shook her head vigorously.

‘I wasn’t rude at all. I was very polite. Icily polite. But, honestly I can’t remember what I said now. I do know I told her I was going to leave there and then if she didn’t apologise to June.’

‘Well, somethin’s goin’ on in there. We’ll jus hafta see whether she’s sees the light or whether what she does is just handiness. Ye must be tired out, Clarey, wi’ all the excitement an’ you here since all hours this mornin’. Wou’d ye not let me drop you off in the car an’ I’ll bring your bike down sometime tomorrow?’

‘Thanks, John. I’d love a ride in the car, but Jessie an’ I are for church in the morning. I don’t want to spoil your nice lie-in.’

‘Ah, maybe yer right,’ he said, standing up, as the kitchen door closed and the Missus appeared at the end of the corridor.

The figure who walked towards them and addressed herself to John did seem less formidable than Clare remembered.

‘I’ve told Mrs Wiley she’s to have a proper rest. At least a week, John. And you’re to let me know how she is,’ she said, her tone modified, her nod of dismissal the product of long years.

‘I must congratulate you on your initiative,
Clare. And on your command of French,’ she began quietly. ‘I wish my grandson had so ortunate an accent,’ she added wryly. ‘I gather he wants to speak to you before you go. After the way you coped today, it would be quite unreasonable of me to object. I hope you will overlook my bad behaviour. I’ve had a certain amount of provocation, but that is no excuse. I hope I shall see you next week, as usual.’

Clare nodded and watched the tall, unbending figure as she began to climb the stairs. She was shocked to see how slowly she negotiated them, having to use both hands on the bannister to pull herself up their shallow rises.

Suddenly very tired, Clare turned back to the now empty kitchen, put away her cap and apron, took her coat from behind the door and picked up the greaseproof parcel of cake June had left for her. She nearly ran into Andrew in the doorway.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as she collected herself.

‘My fault,’ he replied, ‘I was afraid I might miss you. But I had to wait till Grandmother reappeared before I could come down,’ he explained.

‘Clare, will you come out for a ride with me tomorrow afternoon?’

‘I’m sorry, Andrew, I’d love to, but I haven’t got a horse.’

He threw back his head and laughed.

‘Neither have I, Clare. Only an old bike that
everybody uses when I’m not here. Will that do?’

‘Oh yes, that will do fine.’

‘At the forge. Two-thirty. All right?’

‘All right.’

He disappeared back upstairs at speed and she let herself out into the yard, fetched her bicycle and set off down the back lane. The sun had already set, the air was chill. As she freewheeled gently down the slope, a slight mist was rising from the fields by the stream where she and Jessie used to sit and talk secrets. So long ago now, it seemed already like another life. She pedalled slowly, wearily, the short journey home such a great effort.

She turned into the lane and saw that the lamp was already lit in the kitchen though it was still light enough to see outdoors. She parked her bicycle and stood for a moment listening to the deep silence of the countryside.

She looked up and saw the tiniest sliver of a new moon.

‘I wonder what happened to the chestnut mare,’ she said quietly, before she opened the kitchen door.

It was frosty on Sunday when Jessie and Clare rode into Armagh, but by the time they’d sat through one more sermon on sin, collected newspapers from the shop in Railway Street and cycled back to the pump opposite Charlie Running’s cottage, only a dusting of white lay among the tangled grasses in the north facing hollows. The sun was high in a clear blue sky, the air completely still. It promised to be a warm autumn afternoon.

‘Where’ll ye go?’ asked Jessie, who’d talked of nothing but Clare’s meeting with Andrew all morning.

‘Oh, just for a ride. He didn’t mention anywhere in particular,’ replied Clare awkwardly.

‘Somewhere quiet,’ suggested Jessie. ‘A fair bit away, or yer sure to bump inta someone ye know.’

Clare looked puzzled, caught her look of long-suffering patience and did her best to look nonchalant.

‘Sure you’ll want a bit of a snog,’ said Jessie, wearily. ‘What’s the point of goin’ out with a fella if ye don’t get a bit friendly? Ye don’t want half the Grange watchin’ over the hedge, now do ye?’

‘No, you’re right there,’ replied Clare hurriedly.

Waking early, the light bright through her window, with no sound of movement from the big kitchen, she’d thought back to the afternoon at Scrabo Tower. Andrew had kissed her so unexpectedly, but she hadn’t minded at all. Now she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. The kiss hadn’t really lasted long enough for her to do much thinking at the time. But a kiss was a kiss. You couldn’t argue it away. It meant something. But what? Yes, some boys would kiss any girl who happened to be within reach. But she was sure Andrew Richardson wasn’t one of them, any more than Ronnie was. Ronnie certainly cared for her and not just because she was his cousin. But she knew that, even if he hadn’t kissed her. Andrew was quite a different matter.

‘Dark and fair,’ she said to herself. ‘Chalk and cheese.’ It seemed extraordinary two young men could be so very different, yet she should like each of them so much. She’d known Ronnie for as long as she could remember. Andrew simply stepped into her life. She’d seen very little of him, yet she’d thought about him more than she’d ever admit to Jessie. There were his postcards in the dressing chest. Each one had delighted her. He made her laugh. And yet she never thought he was trying to be funny. She couldn’t stand people who tried to be funny.

‘Where do you and Harry go?’ she asked
quickly, hoping to divert Jessie from more intimate questions.

‘Maghery,’ was the prompt reply. ‘They never fish from there on a Sunday, an’ ye can get the car right down the wee path to where the boats push off. There’s never anyone about. If ye park well over on the right ye can see right across the lake to a wee island. Coney Island it’s called. It’s quite romantic,’ she added, rather less briskly.

‘We’re not going by car, you know, Jessie.’

‘What? Ye said ye were goin’ for a ride,’ replied Jessie, her tone bordering on outrage. ‘Ye mean t’ say he can’t even get the aul man’s car to take ye out?’

‘No. He said he’d an old bicycle everyone uses when he’s not there.’

Jessie raised her eyes heavenward and looked at her new watch, a recent birthday present from Harry.

‘I hafta be goin’ Clare, John’s bringin’ Aunt Sarah out fer her lunch an’ they’ll be expectin’ me. For goodness’ sake mind yerself. I’m not sure ye ought to be let out. A ride on a bicycle,’ she repeated, raising her eyebrows. ‘An’ him a Richardson from Drumsollen, even if they have lost their cash,’ she added, as she wheeled her bicycle back onto the road. ‘I’ll see ye in a fortnight an’ don’t let me down for the Ritz on the Saturday. Just go easy at Drumsollen an’ don’t wear yerself
out,’ she advised, as she pressed the pedal and swung herself into the saddle.

Clare smiled as she, too, set off. What would Jessie say if she let on she’d thought Andrew meant a ride on a horse.

‘See ye enjoy yerself now,’ said Robert, as he undid his boots and pushed them off after their meal. ‘It’s a great day t’ be out. What time did ye say yer young man was comin’ at?’

‘Half two,’ she replied, looking from the clock on the mantelpiece to the wag on the wall and back. One ran fast and the other ran slow, but it was still only about two.

‘Is he at Drumsollen fer long?’

‘No, I think he’s only here for the funeral. He’s at Cambridge and term has started. I’m sure he’s got to go back right away.’

‘So he’s at the books like yerself?’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘His father was a powerful clever man, so they say. But it niver affected him one bit. He’d talk away t’ ye as if he’d been to the school room wi’ the rest of us. He useta bring the Drumsollen horses over before the war. I suppose there’s none left now,’ he said matter-of-factly, as he leant back in his chair, out of breath from the effort of bending over.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly. ‘There was that chestnut mare last year.’

‘Aye. I mind that well. Sure the day he first came lookin’ after ye I thought I was seein’ things he was that like the father, though when he spoke it was the mother I heerd. Manys a time she’d come with a horse on a leading rein if all the men was away. She’d sit down on that aul bench in her good clothes an’ niver give it a thought. Other times she rode a wee black mare with a flash on its brow, “Star” she called it. That horse woud a done anythin’ fer her. Niver had a bit o’ bother shoeing it. She’d stan’ by the bridle an’ talk to it.’

Clare saw a smile play across his lips as he settled himself more comfortably. It was a sign he was ready to tell a story. She’d learnt to watch for it since the days when she first tried to get him to tell her about the people in the big photograph of the Sunday school outing in The Room. He was such a silent man, it was seldom he talked at any length, but that little smile was always a good omen.

‘“Now then, Star”,’ she’d say,’ he began, speaking very precisely, ‘“lift up your foot for Mr Scott”,’ he said, with a little laugh. ‘An’ ye know that wee mare woud do it. I niver once had to pull her by the fetlocks or say “Hup there”. She woud tell it what to do an’ it did it. I niver seen the like of it.’

He stood up abruptly, the smile gone, a look of such sadness passing over his features Clare was quite taken aback.

‘Sure the luck went out o’ Drumsollen when they took the wee lad to school in England an’ none o’ them came back,’ he said, sadly. ‘June Colvin wept sore over the wee lad. She tole me once she didn’t get over him goin’ away t’ school till she met John an’ they had wee Helen,’ he added, as he stood up.

He tramped halfway across the kitchen and then turned back on his step, the sadness replaced by a slight twinkle in the eyes.

‘Sure maybe we’ll be seein’ more of young Andrew now, horse or no horse,’ he said, as he disappeared into The Room.

Although she was five minutes early herself, Clare found Andrew sitting on the low bank at the foot of the lane waiting for her, a decrepit-looking bicycle drawn up on the grass verge by the road.

‘Where shall we go?’ he said, as he jumped up and came to meet her. ‘’Fraid I’ve got to be back by five, John Wiley’s taking me to the boat, so we’re having an early meal.’

‘What about Cannon Hill?’

Clare was amazed at the way the name popped out before she’d even thought about it. The minute she said it, she regretted it. What on earth would she do if William and some of his friends took a notion to go up there or they ran into a collection of aunts and cousins out for a Sunday afternoon walk and she had to introduce them?

‘Sounds good. Where is it? Is there a canon?’ he asked enthusiastically when she told him it had a clear view for miles around.

‘I haven’t been there since I was a little girl,’ she confessed, as they whizzed down the hill towards Scott’s Corner and turned right towards Ballybrannan.

‘I haven’t been on this road for years,’ said Andrew suddenly. ‘Whose is the big farm opposite the school?’

He plied her with questions all the way and was still talking as they reached the five-barred gate at the foot of the steep slope.

‘Oh dear,’ said Clare, looking round as she parked her bicycle ‘That wasn’t here last time I came.’

A notice had been tied to the gate. In crooked letters on a piece of plywood it said: ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted. By order.’

Andrew shook his head and took her hand to help her over.

‘No standing whatever in law,’ he said firmly. ‘You can only prosecute if damage has been caused and as this field is not even being seriously grazed, we’d be hard put to damage anything but an unlucky buttercup. Come on.’

Clare climbed over the gate and waited for him to follow.

‘Down in Fermanagh, they don’t prosecute,
they persecute,’ he said, as he dropped lightly on both feet. ‘I’ve never been able to decide whether it’s intentional ferocity or inadequate spelling.’

She laughed, her unease resolved. He’d talked so continuously and asked so many questions as they rode along, she hadn’t known what to think. Now she could see his face and the set of his body it was perfectly clear. Andrew was happy.

Swinging their clasped hands and avoiding the odd patch of thistle, they made their way towards the tall finger of stone at the summit.

‘I know it was Sir Capel Molyneux had it built, but I’ve forgotten why,’ she confessed, as they drew nearer.

‘Oh, Sir Capel, was it? Mad as a hatter was Sir Capel, but nice with it, so I’ve heard. Set up a bird sanctuary in Castledillon. The Molyneux’s are our next-door neighbours in the vault of Grange Church. Very quiet neighbours,’ he said cheerfully. ‘How little were you when you came here last?’

‘Nine, I think. Yes. It was August ’46. I came to stay with Granda Scott for a holiday,’ she explained, ‘but it was really to see if he could cope. I wanted to come back to Armagh, but Auntie Polly thought it might be a bit much for him. She said Granda never was any good with children.’

‘But it worked?’

‘Yes, it did,’ she said, as they reached the top of the hill and flopped down, breathless, among
the tall stems of buttercup, bright with green seed heads.

‘Did he bring you here?’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Poor dear Granda couldn’t take me anywhere because of his bad leg. But my other grandparents live just down the road. The curve of the hill hides their farm, but it’s not far. My Uncle Jack took Granda and I over to tea one Sunday and I came up here with a collection of aunts and uncles. I couldn’t work out who was who that day. There were ten in my father’s family.’

‘And your mother’s?’

‘Six. Aunt Mary doesn’t keep in touch. She’s in Michigan. Florence is in London, Bob’s in Antrim, Johnny’s in Fermanagh and Auntie Polly’s in Toronto now.’

They stood up and began to view the wide expanse of countryside laid out before them.

‘I envy you, Clare,’ he said suddenly, throwing his head back and staring up at the bright white clouds streaming across the blue sky from the west. ‘You have your whole world spread out around you.’

He waved a hand at the western horizon where the tower and spires of Armagh’s two cathedrals rose above the roofs and trees of the city. Then he turned round and gazed over the low hills to the east, their slopes dotted with apple orchards and
farms, their small fields a patchwork of ploughed earth, tramped stubble and vivid, green pasture.

‘But Andrew, look at all you’ve done, all you’ve seen,’ she protested. ‘My world is like a teacup compared with yours. You’ve travelled abroad, you’ve lived in France, you’ve been all over England. You’ve been to Scotland. I’ve never been further from home than Belfast. I’ve never been in any counties other than Armagh and Down, while you’ve been to Dublin, stayed in Cavan and goodness knows how many other places in Ireland.’

He smiled sheepishly as they sat down again in a patch of sunshine. They watched in silence as the bright white clouds cast their shadows across the patterned landscape. Clare looked at him cautiously. A hint of a smile still lingered on his lips, but his eyes were travelling hungrily round the small farms at the foot of the hill as if he were searching for something.

‘Don’t you want to go back?’ she asked.

To her great surprise, he turned towards her, leant forward and kissed her. She made no effort to move away.

‘I’d rather stay here with you,’ he admitted. He put his arms round her and kissed her again. And again. As she responded something said to her that whatever this was, it wasn’t snogging.

They sat very close together in the sunshine,
their arms around each other. He told her he’d always loved Drumsollen and the countryside around it. All through his time at prep school he longed to go home, but his visits were always cut short. He’d hardly arrived when he’d be sent on to someone else. Some years, there was no visit at all, though his grandfather always wrote to him and was welcoming.

‘I’ve never really been able to understand why my grandmother so dislikes me, but I know she can’t stand the sight of me. If it weren’t for Grandfather I’d never set eyes on the place,’ he said sadly.

For a moment, he fell silent, such a desolate look on his face she almost gasped.

‘Clare, you will you go on writing, won’t you?’ he burst out, a note almost of desperation in his voice.

She pressed herself gently against him and squeezed his hand.

‘Yes, of course I’ll write, Andrew. Of course, I will,’ she said quietly. ‘On one condition, though.’

He looked so crestfallen as she said it she put her hand to his cheek and kissed him gently.

‘Don’t look so alarmed. It’s not so difficult. I only want to know why you don’t like writing letters.’

Clare looked at him as she waited for him to reply. The sunlight dappled his pale skin and pulled
out hints of red in his fair hair. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck and a pair of grey flannels, just like any of the senior boarders from the Royal School who walked out the Portadown Road on a Sunday afternoon. Yet he seemed older by far than the two years separating him from the few boys she’d met through Debating Society. More poised, more relaxed.

‘Maybe I haven’t a problem anymore,’ he said slowly. ‘I did manage a page last time. And it was blue,’ he said, solemnly.