Orphans and strangers, p.18
Orphans and Strangers, page 18
“I had a letter from Lisa. She’s thinking maybe she’d get home for a wee break. She’s hoping to get one of the new houses they’re building as part of clearing the Glasgow slums. Her husband hadn’t been well with his chest.”
“Pack up, Faith,” Robbie ordered impatiently. Once Faith got talking, she’d tell Con line for line what was in Lisa’s letter. He couldn’t get it through to her that telling Con was like taking out a gossip column in The Enniskillen Chronicle. He’d tell Annie Swanton, and she’d relay it in exchange for other gossip from customers coming into the post office.
“Ready?”
Faith looked around, satisfied Robbie had left nothing behind.
“I suppose the Ladies’ Committee will be waiting on an invitation to the 12th ceremony and celebrations?” Con enquired.
Faith nodded. “It’s being held in Enniskillen this year, but it’s not the same without my husband, God be good to him—and my boys.”
Con gave her a comforting pat on the arm. Both of Faith’s sons, like a lot of other local lads, had never come home from France and the Normandy landings. And oul’ slippery Robbie wasn’t long taking advantage of the situation, he thought. Annie Swanton hadn’t been able to find out if there was a family connection.
But what Annie found out was that Robbie was receiving letters with a Scottish postmark, addressed to his solicitor’s office. If Robbie was writing to Lisa, he was keeping it very close to his chest.
“Will ye be gracin’ us with your presence on the Walk to the Field with the brethren, Robbie? Ah hear there are bands from all over Scotland and from Canada. There’s talk some of the American servicemen who served here—the GIs—returning to join in the celebration,” Faith enthused.
An angry flush crept up from under Robbie’s open-necked shirt.
“I have better things to do than be marching on a sweltering day like today behind a man thumping a Lambeg drum, supposedly celebrating a battle between a Catholic and a Protestant king in 1690,” Robbie raged, all pretence of civility gone.
Faith shot him a shocked look. “Robbie, keep your voice down. People…clients of yours are listening,” she scolded, glancing around at the other stallholders and the farmers milling about.
“Will you make it yourself, Con?” Faith asked.
Con shifted uneasily. He and Ellen usually just went put to the corner of the street and watched as the bands with their bright vibrant colours and banners denoting the name of their lodge and their communities, marched past. He fiddled with the pot of gooseberry jam.
“Just take the bloody pot of jam and let us get home,” Robbie snapped from the back of the jeep as he searched for a safe place to put a carton of unsold duck eggs.
Con winked at Faith. “He’ll soon be ordering you off the farm and takin’ it over, lock, stock, and barrel,” he chuckled as he pocketed the pot jam and walked away.
Faith watched him go. “Who else am I going to leave it to?” she murmured. Her eyes swept the surrounding hills and the distant cemetery. “Everybody else belonging to me is lying up there beneath six feet of clay, or in an unmarked grave in France, in a place whose name I can hardly pronounce,” she moaned.
Chapter 40
As the taxi driver dropped them off, Lisa’s heart warmed to see the smoke curling out of the chimney of her old home.
Faith Hamilton had been as good as her word, and despite the summer sunshine, a small fire glowed welcomingly in the grate.
The kitchen looked clean and welcoming. She noticed that someone had installed a bottled gas cooker. Robbie had a key to the house. Her heartbeat quickened, remembering how the last time she’d been home, a small touch and an endearing kiss had turned into hot, hungry sex on the rug in front of the sitting room fire and then, later, in her father and mother’s bed.
Trisha and Isobel ran upstairs to pick their room. Lisa went out into the yard and savoured the silence. Her gaze travelled over the rich green and gold of the fertile fields, trimmed with the loose stone walls and the purple and yellow mix of gorse and heather.
“More beautiful than the colours in a hand painted shawl,” she murmured aloud. On impulse, she squeezed through a gap in the hedge and took the well-remembered shortcut.
A slight breeze lifted the hair off the nape of her neck, and she felt a freedom of spirit she hadn’t experienced for a long time.
Panting a little with the exertion of climbing the hill field, she stopped on what her father had called the “Fairy Mound.” He’d never farmed this part of the field.
“No,” he’d say decisively. “It’s bad luck to disturb the ‘wee folk’. They can be very spiteful if you disturb them.”
“Robbie Black is obviously not superstitious,” she murmured, sitting on the edge of the crop of yellow maize that adorned the mound and the surrounding field.
As she climbed into the upper field, the sweet, cloying smell of the wild whin bushes filled her nostrils. They call them broom in Scotland, she thought. Sitting on a boulder unearthed in the ploughing, she pulled out a cigarette. She had a good view of the countryside from up here. She could see walkers on the mountain track just across the border in Donegal.
In her letters Faith Hamilton had told her that American and German tourists had started to come to the area for the salmon fishing and the mountain climbing. Lisa’s gaze fell on the lakes and beyond, where the wild buttercup and foxgloves grew in abundance among the thistles and wild grasses.
“Tomorrow I’ll get Trisha and Isobel to pick an armful, and we’ll visit Margaret’s and my mother and father’s graves,” she smiled.
She threw the butt of her cigarette into the wild grass and then quickly retrieved it. “You’ve become a townie,” she chided herself. That’s what her father used to call the weekend visitors who arrived with their pet dogs, shop-bought hawthorn walking sticks, and Barbour rainwear.
“Many a gorse fire was started by the flick of a discarded fag,” Lisa said aloud.
She picked her way amongst the cow pat. “Summer sandals bought in Glasgow—not much use on the land,” she chuckled.
“But at least unlike the last time I was home, they’re not borrowed; they’re my own,” she said to the curious moon-faced cows that were watching her. “The money from redesigning the silk suit let me spend a little on new clothes for us all. And I’ll be able to afford to give Andrew some extra money during his training with the RAF.”
Struggling back through the gap into the yard, she stopped. Trisha and Isobel were walking in the direction of the farm well. She wondered if Trisha had told Isobel about wee Sarah drowning in it. Trisha had never mentioned it again from the day she had accused Sarah of drowning her doll.
“Isobel, Trisha,” she called out. “Don’t go too near the edge of the well.” Too far away to hear what she was saying, they just waved and walked on.
Lisa carried her case upstairs and checked out the sleeping arrangements. Trisha and Isobel’s cases lay open on the bedroom floor of her father and mother’s room. Next door was Williams’s room when he was growing up and next to that was her room.
Curiously, she poked around. Comic books, bits of sketches, and bits of model kits lay at the bottom of one of the drawers. “Must have been George’s room too, before they went to England,” Lisa murmured. Opening the huge barrel-fronted wardrobe, she gazed at George’s school uniform with its Mill Grammar distinctive badge on the pocket of the blazer. How proud Margaret had been when he’d won the full scholarship.
The shelf of the wardrobe still held old cardboard boxes and a pile of old newspapers, brown with age, that she had shoved in as she’d washed and cleaned the house when she’d come to bring Trisha back years before. “I’ll have time to go through them right this time,” she murmured. On impulse, she pulled over the wooden chair beside the bed and wrestled one of the boxes to the floor. A cloud of dust rose up, making her sneeze.
Old papers cuttings of men in uniform; faded photos of people she didn’t know. A picture of William’s christening. She gazed at her mother, dressed in the style of the 1920s—low-waist dress and Mary Jane laced brogues; her father dressed in his army uniform. Both were obviously delighted with their new son.
She delved into the box again, hoping to find a photograph of their wedding day. She found a photograph of herself when she was in the Girls’ Brigade, a later one of her as a Land girl, and a school group phot William, standing slightly apart from the rest of the children.
Taking the photo to the window, she studied the sea of faces. There she was, second row, front, with her arch-enemy, Lillian Snodgrass, tall and awkward-looking, standing head and shoulders above the other children, looking almost as unhappy as William.
“Bean pole Lily,” she murmured, instantly remembering the nickname they’d had for the rector’s daughter. “Probably a Sunday school outing to the seaside in Portrush,” she mused, turning the photo over in her hand.
She had bullied Lillian. “I was jealous of her because she was the teacher’s pet—and I wanted a red case like she carried to school.” Lisa smiled ruefully. “Have you any idea how many times I got the cane because of you,” she said, jabbing her finger at the surly-looking Lillian. She could still hear the whoosh of the cane as it snaked through the air and the Master’s voice saying, “Lisa Armstrong. You’re a disgrace to your poor mother. Good-living woman that she is.”
Lost in her memories, gazing out the upstairs window, she saw Isobel, followed by Trisha, clamber over the barred gate into the field where her father used to keep the bull.
Turning back to the, box she dug deeper, hoping to find a photograph of her mother and father’s wedding. A medal, its face dulled and tarnished, fell out of the box and on the floor.
Lisa stilled. Her quiet unassuming father had been decorated for his bravery at the Battle of Somme. She decided to carry the box downstairs and see what else was in it.
Sitting on the stone flower planter outside the back door, she held her face up to the July sun. “It’s so peaceful just sitting here, listening to the lowing of the cows and the distant ringing of the Town Hall clock,” she murmured. Watching the grey cigarette smoke spiral up into the air, she wondered why she’d never seen the beauty and peace of her home place before.
“It took me to live in the cramped poverty and noise of the Glasgow tenements to make me see what I had taken for granted all those years,” she mused.
“Right, Lisa,” she chided herself, “Get up and finish the unpacking,” she said aloud just as she saw Trisha, Isobel, and Faith crossing the field to the house.
“I didn’t recognise Trisha. How proud her Granda Samuel would be to see you all in the home place,” Faith said, holding back a tear. Lisa brewed up a nice pot of tea and had a slice of Faith’s freshly baked scone bread, which she’d left on the kitchen table covered with damp clothes to keep the crust soft.
“I was wondering, once you get settled in, if the girls and you would like a wee trip to the seaside?”
“Yes please,” Isobel and Trisha chorused in unison.
“Would next Saturday suit?”
“Thanks, Faith, that would be lovely.” Lisa smiled.
The girls excitedly raced up the stairs to see what they would wear on their day trip out with her the following week.
Faith fiddled with her grey hair. Then, nervously, she dropped her hand to fiddle with the small pendant nestling in the open neck of her white blouse.
“Do you still think about the Yank?” she asked quietly.
Lisa drew in a quick breath. “Sometimes,” she lied.
Faith wondered if Lisa knew the GI was here with his family. Should she mention it or leave the past in the past?
Chapter 41
After Faith left, Lisa heated up the teapot and went back to the old box.
“My father kept everything,” she smiled. The old newspapers and envelopes were brown and crinkled with age. There were papers dated 1912, with both Samuel and Sarah’s signature on them, where they both had signed the Ulster Covenant against Home Rule in Ireland. Looking closer, Lisa saw that the copies were different. Her mother’s copy, signed in her maiden name, Sarah Smythe, was against Home Rule, while her father’s, though he against it, was prepared to recognise the rights of Catholics.
“That was always the way it was in our house,” she murmured. “There was no way my mother was ever going to accept Margaret as her daughter-in-law,” she said aloud, folding the old papers and slipping them back into the tattered envelope.
She heard the hum of a car engine. The driver waved to her as he dropped off his passengers. Picking up their cases, two men started up the lane.
“Lisa,” the older man said, “What are you doing here?”
“William!” Lisa stammered. She stared open-mouthed at him. When she thought of William, she still thought about him like he was when he married Margaret. This man was middle-aged. “I can’t believe it’s really you. It must be eighteen years since I saw you last,” she stuttered. “You’ve changed a lot. I could have passed you in the street and not recognised you,” she said, looking at the muscles that rippled under the light shirt he wore.
William snorted. “There’s nothin’ like digging ditches to put muscles on you,” he shrugged.
Dragging her eyes away from William, she looked at the younger man and couldn’t stop herself from gasping. He was the picture of Margaret.
“I’m George,” he said.
Lisa was rendered speechless. “You were just a baby the last time I saw you,” she finally managed to say.
“I’ll put the cases in my room,” George said, heading for the stairs.
Lisa brain clicked into action. “Hold on. You’ll have to share with your father. The girls are sleeping in Granda’s old room, and I’m sleeping in the front bedroom.”
“What girls?” William said.
“My daughter, Isobel and your daughter, Trisha.”
George’s eyes widened. “Trisha’s here! My sister Trisha is here! I’ve been looking for her for years,” he said, a delighted smile spreading across his face.
Lisa nodded. “They’re out …”
William’s face contorted. Cutting off Lisa’s words, he banged past her and up the stairs.
“How long are you staying?” William asked, coming back down.
“A few weeks—maybe over the summer holidays—depends if BJ keeps well enough to look after himself.”
“What about you and George?” Lisa asked, pushing a mug of tea towards him.
William shrugged his shoulders. Not much change there, Lisa thought. My brother is still a man of few words. William picked up another piece of scone bread but didn’t answer her question. He wasn’t sure. Something serious had happened, but George wouldn’t tell him what. When it all came out, he’d probably have no place to live when he went back.
An awkward silence fell between them.
Sitting across from him, Lisa watched the sullen look she knew so well come over his face. She had been his buddy, his big sister, his protector when they were youngsters. Now, they sat like two strangers in the house where they’d both been born.
“It’s been a long time since we sat at this table together,” she said, trying to rekindle some of their old closeness.
William stared around the kitchen. “Were you searching for something?” he asked, nodding to the box of old letters and photographs. “You’re away a long time. You should have asked first.”
Lisa held a rein on her temper. She didn’t want to have a full-blown row with William after not seeing him for so long.
“Do you want me to go in with the girls and let you have Mother’s room?” she asked, changing the subject.
“No.” William barked. The last thing he wanted was to sleep in his mother’s room. He always imagined he could still feel her presence there.
Lisa waited for him to ask about Trisha. Madame Thomas had sent her some of the photos she’d had taken of Trisha wearing the silk suit. Maybe William would like to see them.
“I want to go over to Hamilton’s to see Robbie Black,” William said, rising.
“Why don’t you have a rest and we can go through the old letters and things together later?”
William stared at her, then turned and headed back upstairs. She heard the bedsprings creak and then silence.
“Did you make any dinner?”
“Bottom shelf in the cooker,” Lisa said absently. William didn’t move from where he was standing.
“Surely, after looking after yourself in London for years, you know how to get a warm dinner out of the oven,” Lisa said, rising from her chair.
William pushed a heaped forkful of potatoes and turnips into his mouth. He wasn’t about to tell Lisa that unless George or the landlady cooked, he ate in the café or bought pub grub.
A strained silence fell between them. They listened to the shuffling in the other room.
“George decided he’d put up the old camp bed in the wee room where mother used to do the sewing.” Lisa said, going back to look at old photographs.
William stiffened. “That’s the room his mother died in.”
Lisa put down the photos and looked at him. “It’s okay. Con Callahan helped me to burn the old bed and mattress that was in there. I burned sulphur candles—fumigated the whole place. Didn’t you notice the freshly washed blankets and quilt on your bed?” she teased him.
“When did you do all that?”
“When you went to England and I came over to find Trisha.”
At the mention of Trisha’s name William clenched his fists.
“You’re taking her back with you. She’s not coming to live with me.”
Lisa lit a cigarette and inhaled. She knew Trisha could be self-centred and a bit of a drama queen. She resented, was even jealous of, the way she could twist BJ round her little finger but she couldn’t understand William’s attitude.
“She’s your daughter, William. She’s lived with me long enough.”
