of course. The nearest bit of that old house across from the forge. Beside the white lilac.’
‘Aye. In my young days, there was still a bit of roof away at the opposite end, the forge end. I suppose it would have been the bedroom when it was still a home. But I spent weeks in there till they thought I’d left the country. I did a powerful lot of reading and writing and Kate brought me food. And that’s how she and I fell in love, if that’s what you’re thinking about now.’
‘Yes, I knew that bit,’ she admitted shyly. ‘He told me she’d been his sweetheart and she did love him, but she loved you too and she said if she didn’t marry you, you’d end up on the end of a rope.’
‘She was right, Clare. She was right enough,’ he said, nodding sadly. ‘I was headstrong. I thought I could put the world to rights, but all I did was nearly get myself shot as a traitor. Me? Me, a traitor to the country I love. Erin go Bragh! Ireland for ever!’ he shouted, as he jumped to his feet.
Clare laughed at his vehemence, remembering all those nights he had come to visit them, putting his head around the door and saluting them with the same Irish rallying cry. Her grandfather either pretended not to hear, or else he made a joke of it.
‘Your grandfather was the straightest man I ever knew. There was no badness in him anywhere, but he was unsure of himself. There was something about him, or something had happened to him, maybe when he was a child, and it seemed to stop him from making up his mind about things. But if he knew where he stood, like helping me, then he’d let nothing get in his way of doing what he thought was right, even at risk to himself. I owe him my life, Clare, and I’ll never forget him,’ he said, as he sat down again, took out his large striped handkerchief and wiped his eyes unashamedly.
Despite the loveliness of the late afternoon, the softness of full leaf not yet darkened by summer growth, the flowers in coloured profusion leaning over garden walls and the dancing flight of swallows hawking over the water meadows, Clare was so bound up in her own thoughts that she found herself cycling up her own driveway without having registered any of it. What preoccupied her was what Charlie had said about her grandfather not being able to make up his mind. He was right, of course. Outside the forge, where he was protected by his long-learnt routines, he was so hesitant. Time and again, she had to make up his mind for him. Just like Andrew, her beloved Andrew, who tried so hard and so often had not the slightest idea what to do for the best.
For all their difference in age and background, in education and context, she’d always sensed these two men shared something in common. It was not that they were unworldly or impractical, but so often, faced with a straightforward, everyday situation, they simply couldn’t decide what to do. She confessed to herself, it was a problem she had never had. Mostly because there’d never been many options. She’d always taken what seemed the most sensible course whether she liked it or not. But as Andrew had once pointed out, there was no one to get in her way.
Of course, she hadn’t always got it right, she reflected, as she pedalled along beside the new rose bed, but that wasn’t the problem. What mattered was being able to decide in the first place.
Drumsollen looked lovely in the sunshine, the sun lower now and throwing longer shadows. She freewheeled down the slope and parked the bicycle in the covered area by the steps that led down to the basement and the big kitchen, next to which was the room they now used as their bedroom. All was silent as she walked along the echoing corridor that ran the length of the house. The big kitchen was cool, clean and very empty. Except for two trays on the well-scrubbed table, carefully covered with white cloths, there was no sign of life. She saw the note penned in June’s schoolbook copperplate sitting between the trays. It read:
Supper for No. 6 and No.7 when they come in. Your Uncle Jack rang. Said to ring him back before 6 p.m. Andrew rang said he hoped to be back fiveish. Mr and Mrs Moore picked up Ginny. Said they’d see you Sunday afternoon. Sent their love. John will be back as soon as he drops me home. See you tomorrow. Best. June.
Clare glanced at her watch. Twenty-five past five. Judging by the lack of cars parked outside, it looked as if she was the only one at home. Unsurprising on such a lovely evening, when their guests would stay out as long as possible. Tom and Steve were seldom in before seven.
She smiled to herself as she ran along the corridor, hurried up the carpeted stairs and made for their sitting-room. Headquarters, as Ginny had christened it. She’d thought Andrew might not get away till late afternoon, but he was already on his way home which was lovely. Friday was their evening off. Though they seldom went anywhere, they were always pleased to have John keeping an eye on things which meant they could garden, or go for a walk, or have a proper dinner with a glass of wine in the bay window of the dining room.
She moved carefully through the narrow gap between their everyday dining-table and her large roll-topped desk, picked up the receiver and dialled Jack’s number. Jack had been so good at advertising Drumsollen House, she’d told him when he rang last week that he ought to be getting a fee.
‘Frootfield Prisserves, ken I help yew?’
‘Oh hallo, Josie. Can I speak to Jack please?’
‘Houl on a minit,’Josie replied, abandoning her telephone voice. ‘He said ye’d phone.’
Clare suddenly found herself feeling anxious. Unless he had a new guest for her, Jack usually phoned at the weekend. By this time on a Friday, he should have been on his way home.
‘Clare, how are you?’ he asked, in his usual relaxed manner.
‘I’m fine, Jack. Is something wrong?’
‘Well, we’ve had a wee problem,’ he said soothingly. ‘Da had a bit of a turn last night. He was fine this morning, but the Doctor said he should stay in bed a day or two and rest. But he was asking for you, so I told him I’d give you a ring. That was fine by him. Maybe you’d take a wee run over at the weekend if you can.’
Clare found her hand shaking and beads of moisture were making the receiver slippery. She would never forget it was Uncle Jack who had come up to Belfast to look for her at Queens so he could tell her that Granda Scott was dead.
For a moment, she could think of nothing to say. As she stared helplessly at the black mouthpiece, she heard the sound of an engine and a small, familiar toot-toot. It was Andrew. With a steadiness she certainly did not feel, she said quietly; ‘Thanks, Jack, we’ll be over shortly.’
Andrew insisted he wasn’t in the least tired. He’d be happy to drive her over if she wanted to go to Liskeyborough right now. They paused only long enough to drop his briefcase in Headquarters and lock its door behind them. They waved to John Wiley when they met him on the road but spoke little on the short journey. In the farmyard in front of the long, low house they found several other vehicles parked randomly in the wide space, but no sign of anyone about.
‘I think perhaps you should go in on your own, Clare. I’m here if you want me,’ Andrew said, as he switched off.
She nodded, not sure what she would find when she stepped into the big kitchen where her grandmother habitually sat by the fire complaining about her legs and commenting sharply on everything that came under her gaze. She didn’t even know where her grandfather would be. For all of the years she had visited this house, his bedroom and those of whichever of her uncles were ‘at home’ had been out in the large, upper storey of the big barn where he had his workshop.
‘Ach, hello, Clare. You’re a stranger.’
Her youngest
