hanky.
‘But we’re all children when we’re hurt, Sarah,’ Rose said firmly, taking up her stone cold hands in her own warm ones.
‘Did you never see Hugh cry?’ she went on softly.
Sarah nodded silently, swallowed and blew her nose.
‘He was always ashamed when he cried,’ she said awkwardly.
‘That’s a great pity, Sarah,’ Rose nodded. ‘But it’s common enough. It was years before I persuaded your father that tears are nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Da?’
‘Da, and my brother Sam, and Thomas Scott,’ she said firmly, ‘and the messenger who came whose cousin the boilermaker was lost.’
Sarah stared at her, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks still damp.
‘Ma, what
am
I going to do? Some days I think I’m going mad.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Sarah walked slowly back up the hill to Rathdrum, her gaze moving along the hedgerows and over the sloping fields as if she hadn’t laid eyes on them for a long time. The afternoon was sunny. Great patches of blue sky were scribbled with light cloud and the breeze was fresh but not chill. With the air clear, the mountains seemed so close, their familiar craggy shapes sharply outlined. She stopped on the steepest part of the hill and stared at them till her eyes blurred in the strong reflected light. Yes, that was it. It was as if a photographer had enhanced the outline with the slightest touch of Indian ink on a very fine brush.
To her surprise, she found herself thinking about the photographic studio in Belfast where she’d worked before she and Hugh were married. She could almost smell the sharp odour of fixer that greeted you at the top of the steep, narrowstairs and hear the voice of her boss, that awful man, Abernethy. Photographing the great and the good was the mainstay of his business. She hadn’t had much time for most of them, but she’d learnt a lot about portraiture. She had pictures of Hugh and the children she was pleased with, though she hadn’t looked at them since he died.
The big chestnut that stretched its lower branches over the road at the entrance to the driveway was beginning to leaf. The sticky buds had burst. Still a pale, downy, grey-green, the delicate leaves were beginning to unfold. The driveway was adrift with outer coverings, sepals of pale brown and pink mixed up with the fading white blossoms from the flowering cherries they’d planted five years ago to replace two elderly limes lost in a winter gale.
Snow in Springtime, she thought, as she walked slowly towards the handsome front door that no one ever used.
‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth, come quick. Ma’s ill.’
Suddenly, she saw herself, a schoolgirl, running along this same drive, ploughing through deep snow, her heart pounding, gasping for breath, intent only on reaching that same front door where a gleam of light spilt out through the fanlight into the darkness of a winter day.
‘So very long ago,’ she thought. ‘And in another life.’
She and Hannah had tramped up the hill after school and found their mother lying icy cold on the bedroom floor. Hugh had gone for the doctor, but she’d met the doctor herself the previous day. She knew he’d be no good. The only hope was Elizabeth. Dear, sensible Elizabeth, Hugh’s sister, who’d collected brandy and herbs and friar’s balsam in her basket and saved her mother’s life.
But Elizabeth couldn’t save Hugh. Neither she nor Richard had been able to do anything but watch and hope. They had been so loving and so good to her, knowing her distress, but as the days passed they had warned her Hugh was weakening, his body no longer strong enough to fight the fever, and their honesty had given them one last night together.
She walked round to the kitchen door, pushed it open and called out a greeting to her housekeeper. Then she remembered she’d sent Mrs Beatty to Belfast to spend a night or two with her sister, to comfort her if her only daughter should have been lost with the
Titanic
. The house was silent. Even
‘But we’re all children when we’re hurt, Sarah,’ Rose said firmly, taking up her stone cold hands in her own warm ones.
‘Did you never see Hugh cry?’ she went on softly.
Sarah nodded silently, swallowed and blew her nose.
‘He was always ashamed when he cried,’ she said awkwardly.
‘That’s a great pity, Sarah,’ Rose nodded. ‘But it’s common enough. It was years before I persuaded your father that tears are nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Da?’
‘Da, and my brother Sam, and Thomas Scott,’ she said firmly, ‘and the messenger who came whose cousin the boilermaker was lost.’
Sarah stared at her, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks still damp.
‘Ma, what
am
I going to do? Some days I think I’m going mad.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Sarah walked slowly back up the hill to Rathdrum, her gaze moving along the hedgerows and over the sloping fields as if she hadn’t laid eyes on them for a long time. The afternoon was sunny. Great patches of blue sky were scribbled with light cloud and the breeze was fresh but not chill. With the air clear, the mountains seemed so close, their familiar craggy shapes sharply outlined. She stopped on the steepest part of the hill and stared at them till her eyes blurred in the strong reflected light. Yes, that was it. It was as if a photographer had enhanced the outline with the slightest touch of Indian ink on a very fine brush.
To her surprise, she found herself thinking about the photographic studio in Belfast where she’d worked before she and Hugh were married. She could almost smell the sharp odour of fixer that greeted you at the top of the steep, narrowstairs and hear the voice of her boss, that awful man, Abernethy. Photographing the great and the good was the mainstay of his business. She hadn’t had much time for most of them, but she’d learnt a lot about portraiture. She had pictures of Hugh and the children she was pleased with, though she hadn’t looked at them since he died.
The big chestnut that stretched its lower branches over the road at the entrance to the driveway was beginning to leaf. The sticky buds had burst. Still a pale, downy, grey-green, the delicate leaves were beginning to unfold. The driveway was adrift with outer coverings, sepals of pale brown and pink mixed up with the fading white blossoms from the flowering cherries they’d planted five years ago to replace two elderly limes lost in a winter gale.
Snow in Springtime, she thought, as she walked slowly towards the handsome front door that no one ever used.
‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth, come quick. Ma’s ill.’
Suddenly, she saw herself, a schoolgirl, running along this same drive, ploughing through deep snow, her heart pounding, gasping for breath, intent only on reaching that same front door where a gleam of light spilt out through the fanlight into the darkness of a winter day.
‘So very long ago,’ she thought. ‘And in another life.’
She and Hannah had tramped up the hill after school and found their mother lying icy cold on the bedroom floor. Hugh had gone for the doctor, but she’d met the doctor herself the previous day. She knew he’d be no good. The only hope was Elizabeth. Dear, sensible Elizabeth, Hugh’s sister, who’d collected brandy and herbs and friar’s balsam in her basket and saved her mother’s life.
But Elizabeth couldn’t save Hugh. Neither she nor Richard had been able to do anything but watch and hope. They had been so loving and so good to her, knowing her distress, but as the days passed they had warned her Hugh was weakening, his body no longer strong enough to fight the fever, and their honesty had given them one last night together.
She walked round to the kitchen door, pushed it open and called out a greeting to her housekeeper. Then she remembered she’d sent Mrs Beatty to Belfast to spend a night or two with her sister, to comfort her if her only daughter should have been lost with the
Titanic
. The house was silent. Even
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