Cathy. I’m sure your Emily is in the kitchen making some wee treat.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ began Alex laughing. ‘I was warned to keep well out of the way last night.’
‘
What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve
, as the saying is. Some of the things these women manage you couldn’t be up to,’ Robert said, shaking his head and pausing to lean against the roof of the car beside him. ‘One of my wee lassies went to a birthday party a couple of weeks ago and came home and told us she had banana sandwiches.’
‘Shure when did we last see a banana?’ he asked, laughing. ‘The Missus and I though maybe she was imaginin’ things the way wee ones do, but at the heels of the hunt we found out that you can mash up cooked turnip with banana essence, if you have any left from before the war, and you wouldn’t know the difference. Especially if you’ve never met the real thing,’ he added, dropping his voice to a whisper.
They laughed together before Alex climbed into the driving seat and Robert walked away to finishhis extra day shift in the silent mill. Before Robert left he’d have made sure every moving part of the hard-pressed machinery was inspected, adjusted, cleaned, greased or oiled.
There was neither car nor Army lorry on the road as Alex sailed along, all the windows open, the hot leather smell now replaced by the first hints of perfume from the dazzling, white blossoms on the hawthorn, the May blossom, arriving early in the south-facing hedgerows.
‘
What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve
.’
Unexpectedly, Robert’s words came back into his mind and he smiled to himself. The expression he knew well, but as he drove, he began to wonder why he’d always taken such a delight in the expressions and sayings that were such a part of Ulster life.
‘
Here’s one for you, Da
.’
He could hear Jane’s voice as she came into the room, a piece of paper in her hand. Someone in the hospital, a porter or a patient, had used a word or a saying that caught her ear and her first thought was always to share it with him.
‘
Sure you could pass for a native, Da
.’
That would be Johnny’s comment should he himself try one of the phrases now familiar enough for him to risk using it.
So why was he so fascinated and delighted by what he picked up? As suddenly and unexpectedlyas if he’d just received a message written on a piece of paper the answer came to him. There were no expressions or colourful phrases in the orphanages, nor on the farms where he worked. Bare instructions. Do this. Do that. Bald questions. What age are you? Where was your last place?
No one had talked to him, except one lovely lady he would never forget. And no one expected him to talk to them, a lesson he had learnt very early on.
Talking back
was a crime and even the simplest reply to a question was regularly construed as
talking back
. Silence was much safer. Even in the barn with the other workers, as lonely and neglected as he was himself, it was often safer to say nothing.
All that had changed after he’d met Sam McGinley and made up his mind to come home and look for his lost family. He’d needed to earn more money, for it would take him years to save his fare from the pittance he was paid as a farm labourer.
He had managed to find a better place where he was allowed to work with the machines, but the pay itself was little better. What had actually earned his passage money was writing letters. Late in the evening after his work on the farm, when it was too dark to see any more, or when he was finally let go, he would make his way to the houses where the emigrants gathered. There he was made welcome, because for a very small fee he would write letters for them.
Most of them were illiterate, but even those who could handle a pen often found themselves defeated when faced with a sheet of notepaper. He had encouraged them, got them to talk about their homes, the people and places they once
‘I’m sure she is,’ began Alex laughing. ‘I was warned to keep well out of the way last night.’
‘
What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve
, as the saying is. Some of the things these women manage you couldn’t be up to,’ Robert said, shaking his head and pausing to lean against the roof of the car beside him. ‘One of my wee lassies went to a birthday party a couple of weeks ago and came home and told us she had banana sandwiches.’
‘Shure when did we last see a banana?’ he asked, laughing. ‘The Missus and I though maybe she was imaginin’ things the way wee ones do, but at the heels of the hunt we found out that you can mash up cooked turnip with banana essence, if you have any left from before the war, and you wouldn’t know the difference. Especially if you’ve never met the real thing,’ he added, dropping his voice to a whisper.
They laughed together before Alex climbed into the driving seat and Robert walked away to finishhis extra day shift in the silent mill. Before Robert left he’d have made sure every moving part of the hard-pressed machinery was inspected, adjusted, cleaned, greased or oiled.
There was neither car nor Army lorry on the road as Alex sailed along, all the windows open, the hot leather smell now replaced by the first hints of perfume from the dazzling, white blossoms on the hawthorn, the May blossom, arriving early in the south-facing hedgerows.
‘
What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve
.’
Unexpectedly, Robert’s words came back into his mind and he smiled to himself. The expression he knew well, but as he drove, he began to wonder why he’d always taken such a delight in the expressions and sayings that were such a part of Ulster life.
‘
Here’s one for you, Da
.’
He could hear Jane’s voice as she came into the room, a piece of paper in her hand. Someone in the hospital, a porter or a patient, had used a word or a saying that caught her ear and her first thought was always to share it with him.
‘
Sure you could pass for a native, Da
.’
That would be Johnny’s comment should he himself try one of the phrases now familiar enough for him to risk using it.
So why was he so fascinated and delighted by what he picked up? As suddenly and unexpectedlyas if he’d just received a message written on a piece of paper the answer came to him. There were no expressions or colourful phrases in the orphanages, nor on the farms where he worked. Bare instructions. Do this. Do that. Bald questions. What age are you? Where was your last place?
No one had talked to him, except one lovely lady he would never forget. And no one expected him to talk to them, a lesson he had learnt very early on.
Talking back
was a crime and even the simplest reply to a question was regularly construed as
talking back
. Silence was much safer. Even in the barn with the other workers, as lonely and neglected as he was himself, it was often safer to say nothing.
All that had changed after he’d met Sam McGinley and made up his mind to come home and look for his lost family. He’d needed to earn more money, for it would take him years to save his fare from the pittance he was paid as a farm labourer.
He had managed to find a better place where he was allowed to work with the machines, but the pay itself was little better. What had actually earned his passage money was writing letters. Late in the evening after his work on the farm, when it was too dark to see any more, or when he was finally let go, he would make his way to the houses where the emigrants gathered. There he was made welcome, because for a very small fee he would write letters for them.
Most of them were illiterate, but even those who could handle a pen often found themselves defeated when faced with a sheet of notepaper. He had encouraged them, got them to talk about their homes, the people and places they once
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