Carrig Of Dromara

  CARRIG OF DROMARA

  FRANCES MCCAUGHEY

  ARTHUR H. STOCKWELL LTD

  Torrs Park, Ilfracombe, Devon, EX34 8BA

  Established 1898

  www.ahstockwell.co.uk

  © Frances McCaughey, 2019

  First published in Great Britain, 2019

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Author’s Note

  It must have been a Wednesday when I was born. As a small child, I seemed to absorb, with some sensitivity, the happenings about me. I was woeful and sad and easily driven to tears.

  For example, when someone with a lesser degree of sensitivity helped the cat over the doorstep with the floor brush, sending the frightened animal screeching through the air, to land at a great distance, I ran from the house, tears streaming down my face, to search the garden for the frightened animal.

  With a squinting right eye, brought on by the sudden confrontation with a billy goat at the age of three, and the loss of four front teeth at the age of seven, in an accident while walking up a steep hill on my way to school with my three brothers and a sister. From out of nowhere came a teenage boy, flying at a mean speed, on his way to high school. With failing brakes, he gathered momentum, and recklessly steered his bicycle towards us. The mudguard split my tongue and four front teeth were gone forever. In true Irish fashion, my brothers fixed that bicycle so that no one would ever ride it again. They then went on to school, while my sister and I returned home.

  Although our formative years were filled with such experiences, living on a farm as we did, cushioned in the warmth and understanding of a loving family, we all emerged with even more resilience and, I hope, some semblance of reason.

  The crunchy snow beneath our feet,

  The smell of turf from the chimney’s reek.

  Like the winds of change, the passions of Ireland twist and turn, and her young men and women grow with instilled feelings, and strong, deep-rooted beliefs, which they carry with them wherever in the world they travel.

  At maturity I hadn’t turned into a beautiful swan, but instead developed a taste for adventure, and, as I recall, I found some strange places to lay my head.

  Once, in a boat which had broken its moorings, my sister and I slept soundly while drifting out to sea. Praise be to God, we were brought back by some passing fishermen.

  I even slept in an antique bath in the nurses’ home of a hospital in England. The interconnecting door to the main corridor was locked, so we entered the bathroom through a small window which had fortunately been left open, no doubt by prior arrangement. In the long hours ahead I discovered that once my skeletal system had adjusted to the firmness of the unforgiving enamel-coated iron, it actually became more comfortable, and after several hours of dancing we would probably have slept under any conditions.

  I hoped with all my heart that the home sister would not look into the bathroom as she unlocked one door after another with a great bunch of clanking keys in the early morning – as indeed she did not.

  However, adventurers never sleep for long, and so I threw caution to the wind and travelled 12,000 miles to the other side of the world with my newly acquired husband, to find myself in a land where long white clouds streak across the sky. Here there are no fiddlers in the pubs, no fighting in the streets, but there’s laughter in our hearts, and I can hear St Peter say, as hopefully I pass through those pearly gates, “She was a simple soul, with a warm heart, but surely the most unusual specimen of humanity I have ever encountered.”

  With turkey wing Mum swept the griddle,

  and sprinkled it gently with flour,

  white triangles laid in a circle,

  left slowly to harn for an hour.

  Part One

  Ireland in the 1950s was a place of peace – if only for now. After the wars, feelings of peace abounded. Hope and exhilaration remained in the hearts of the people of this fair and green land. Ranks closed and it became a time for sharing, and learning to make do. The class order had become more relaxed now, and it suited the landowners to soften towards the common people, relying on the good natures of their workers to keep their farms going. Many farmers found it difficult to pay the workers and so supplemented their wages with meat, vegetables and firewood.

  In spite of the adverse conditions, it was a great time to be born, and no better place than in the county of Antrim, not an hour’s ride from Slemish Mountain, where history tells us St Patrick himself tended sheep centuries before.

  Nestled in the curves of this landscape sat the beautiful home known as Dromara. The two-foot walls of stone stood tall against all weathers, set among clusters of oak and beech trees which sheltered it from the strong north winds.

  No one in the outside world would ever have guessed what lay behind the facade of this elegant setting.

  Robert Anderson had inherited the home and farm from his father several years before he married Mary and brought her to live there.

  In the years that followed, their son Peter was born and grew into a tall and handsome young man. He was a great help on the farm and loved feeding the calves and helping with the milking after school and during the long summer holidays. Now he was grown-up and attending an agriculture college in Antrim, travelling up each day by train. It was on such an occasion, while waiting to board the train, that he was to meet his future wife.

  An icy wind whistled along the platform, where young Peter had waited with others for the seven-thirty train. It had snowed overnight and he was happy to hear the train coming in the distance. Annie Watson, a young blond-haired nurse, hurried on to the platform, and in her haste to board the train a great dollop of snow slid from her umbrella on to Peter’s lap. The young man quickly rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his clothing.

  “I’m so sorry!” Annie’s face flushed scarlet, her gloved hand over her mouth.

  “No harm done,” Peter responded in a cheerful manner, noticing her beautiful face with bouncy blond curls and sparkling blue eyes.

  The pair laughed and chatted all the way to Antrim, where he waved a cheery farewell.

  Annie had spent most of her young life in orphanages, and recently she had completed her nurse’s training in England. She now boarded with a family in Roshane and she and Peter met up on several occasions and went for trips around the north coast at weekends.

  Martha Wilson, another young woman, had also come to Dromara, first as a sixteen-year-old and later she grew into a lovely young woman who was willing to turn her hand to anything on the farm or in the house. The girl held family secrets in her heart, where many another would have failed. Martha always knew when to speak and when to hold her tongue, and until recently had always addressed Mary as Mrs Anderson. For all her attributes she was duly rewarded, and so a warm friendship developed between the pair.

  The happiness of Martha’s wedding day was shared by all at the house, and the following year, when she confided in Mary that she was having her first child, no one was more excited than Mar
y.

  A couple of years later, and only four days before her second son was born, she received the terrible news that her husband had been killed during an exercise in Belfast.

  Mary had comforted her friend through the agonising loss, as slowly over the following months she came to terms with the changes in her life.

  When James, Martha’s eldest boy, was old enough, Mary asked the boy to help Peter at the weekends. Young James missed his father so much, and he had taken a liking to Peter, who seemed to fill a gap in his life. They could often be seen kicking a football around the yard, or James would be sitting on the tractor behind Peter in the hayfield.

  Once, on a Saturday, Mary had entered the dairy and found the boy with a sheepish look of guilt on his face.

  “Have you been drinking the milk, James?”

  “No, ma’am, no, ma’am.”

  “Don’t lie to me, James. I can see right into your soul.”

  Turning on her heel and leaving the dairy, she put her hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter as she thought of the thin white line of betrayal on the boy’s upper lip.

  Mary prepared a tray with a buttered scone and jam and a large mug of sweet tea and proceeded on up the stairs to Robert’s room. He hadn’t been well now for the past month, coming down only a few times a week. Mary knew he had been drinking more and more over the past year, and there seemed an unhappiness about him that no one could explain.

  “There’ll be an explanation for it all in due course,” Dr Martin had said on his last visit. “Have a look under his bed, Mary, or in the wardrobe, and don’t be surprised at what you find.”

  “I will, Doctor. I’ll do that.”

  Mary Anderson marched on against the northern blast of icy hail and strong wind, up along the high road, towards John McNeill’s place. She was a big strong-boned person, no doubt with enough heart for a dozen women, and was surely born to put the world to rights.

  The sudden deaths of their parents, within a short space of time, left the McNeill brothers in a state of total devastation. John, the stronger of the pair, tried to carry on as best he could, and Michael took off to the town and began a drinking spree, which lasted several days until he was found lying in a corner and put into a hostel for down-and-outs.

  Gathering the flaps of her warm coat tighter about her, Mary thought over the past weeks and all that had happened. She had been friends with Lizzie McNeill for many a long year, and on her last visit, before Lizzie’s death, Mary had promised to look after the boys, which she did with a glad heart.

  The stinging hail beat hard against her cheeks, and her wellington boots sank further into the glar of the slap. She was glad at last to see the whitewashed building, with reek billowing up from the chimney in all directions. Mary knew John would have the kettle on the boil for her coming, as always.

  “I’m glad to see you, Mrs Anderson. I dinna know what t’do with this boy,” he said, beckoning towards the settle bed in the corner of the kitchen.

  Michael, the younger of the brothers, lay motionless, his gaunt features pale and unshaven, his eyes sunken from lack of nourishment. The sight pulled at her heart strings.

  Hanging up her coat and tying an apron about her middle, she spoke to John first: “Now you can get on wi’ yer yard work, John, and leave the boy to me.”

  “Come on, now, Michael. Let’s get you up on yer feet again.” Mary spoke as she gently placed her arm behind his head.

  Easing his legs off the bed, she brought him to a sitting position. Turning her head to one side to avoid his foul-smelling breath, she put the cup to his lips, and after looking at her through bleary eyes he began to drink the strong tea.

  “Oh, Mrs Anderson, that is the best drink I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, now, there’s nothing like a good cup of tea to revive us when we’re not feeling so well. Now, how would you like a nice big slice of soda bread and home-made blackcurrant jam?”

  Away she went towards the scullery, returning with the bread.

  Slowly the colour returned to his cheeks again, and he pulled on an old pair of corduroy trousers and a warm jersey. A tear glistened on his cheek when he spoke again.

  “I dinna know what we’d do without ye, Mrs Anderson.”

  “Now, there’s no need for that. I know ye’d do the same for me. Anyhow, I made a promise to yer mother, remember?”

  Staggering across the kitchen floor, he spoke quietly: “I’ll be getting out o’ your road. I’m sure wee John could be doin’ wi’ a hand.”

  Lizzie McNeill and Mary had become close friends when Mary began to call regularly to help out when Lizzie became ill and had to rest. The women would laugh and chatter about things gone by.

  “Remember the day old Sergeant Murphy called in to check up that there was no pig in salt? What a day that was!”

  Everybody had a pig in salt, and everybody knew that everybody else had a pig in salt. It was a ridiculous law that the police had to check up on twice a year.

  “On that particular day the old sergeant came, as usual tossing his aged bicycle against the wall in what seemed to be a perpetual state of anger and speaking in a deep self-important tone through his nicotine-stained handlebar moustache as he entered the house to supposedly check for pork. I had the heavy iron pan on top of the stove in a flash and went straight into the pantry to cut two thick slices of bacon. I returned to the kitchen and tossed them into the pan with a split farl of soda bread, which turned a lovely golden colour.”

  The large plate of food was placed in front of the hungry old sergeant with a large mug of the strongest tea. He removed his cap and they both looked hard into each other’s eyes, and both in their wisdom knew to let it go, for indeed to pursue the matter further would end up in a whole lot of trouble for both parties. It was one of those lovely situations which happen often in Ireland, where the law is overlooked, or slightly bent to suit the occasion.

  Mary smiled to herself as she recalled the day she and her friend had laughed so heartily together. Mary was happy to continue looking after the boys, and Lizzie could rest easy in her heavenly home. While she was able she would care for them, for she knew Lizzie would have done the same for her.

  Mary finished up at the cottage and made her way home again. The rain had stopped now, so she could enjoy the pleasant walk home again. She reached home to a pile of letters, and entering the house she was surprised to find the kitchen work had all been taken care of and all she had to do was bring the washing in. It was still damp, so she let down the pulley and draped it over the wooden rails, then pulled them up high again and sat down to read her letters.

  One important letter had her solicitor’s name printed on the envelope. She slit it open to have a quick read while on her own. Mary was astonished to read the words before her.

  Robert staggered into the kitchen at ten o’clock, looking very bleary-eyed and unsteady.

  “Ye’re up, then!” Mary said. “Would you take a wee cup of tea?”

  “Aye, I would that, and I’ll have some porridge if it’s going.”

  Mary fussed about him and settled him into an easy chair by the window, fluffing the cushions around him and placing a small table by his chair. She put a small plate of porridge with cream and brown sugar on the table before him. His shaky hand eventually made it to his mouth and he finished the plate.

  “How’s the boy doin’ in the yard?”

  “Oh, ye know Peter – he’s a very capable young man. Well, he’s had to be over the past year, but he’s got through with the help of Martha. Thank God for Martha – she is such a blessing, turning up in all weathers. Rain, hail or snow, we could rely on her being there.”

  When Robert became sick again, and had to be taken back to bed, Mary called for Dr Martin.

  “I’m not far from you now, Mary. I’ll be there in a short while.” />
  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Mary replaced the receiver and proceeded up the stairs.

  The Doctor came down and into the kitchen.

  “Mary, it’s not looking too good. His stomach is not capable of digesting food and he is showing signs of liver failure. I will have to get him into hospital as soon as possible. I’ll call for an ambulance to take him to the Waveney. He should have been there long ago. I hadn’t realised things had progressed so fast.”

  Mary fussed about, getting his things together in a bag, and then called Peter in. The Doctor explained to Peter what was happening.

  “D’ye think I didn’t know? He’s been drinking for the last two or three years – even sold cattle to pay for it.”

  “Now, Peter, the Doctor hasn’t time to listen to that.”

  “There Mum goes again, trying to smooth things over for everybody. Well, now he’s going away and we’ll all get some peace to live at last.”

  Over the following weeks Robert began to show signs of improvement; and each time Mary called in at the hospital, he was asking if he could come home again.

  “Oh well, we’ll see what the doctors say.”

  A young nurse came over and asked Mary if she would like to speak to the doctor in charge of her husband. Mary followed the girl into his office and sat down.

  The young doctor rose to his feet and shook Mary by the hand.

  “I have to tell you that your husband is seriously ill and it is very likely that he will not recover from his condition.”

  Mary took her handkerchief and wiped a tear away. In her innocence she asked what might have caused it.

  “Well, sometimes men can drink alcohol over a long period of time unbeknown to their families, so it is often a shock for them to learn that their loved one has been covering up his habit for so long. Their bodies becomes hardened to the increased intake of alcohol and so they can actually consume more and more, to the point where they can go for long periods without eating properly and usually neglect their bodies in other ways also. Your husband can go home if you wish until such time as he will have to come back to hospital again, and then it will probably be for the last time. For the time being we would like him to stay until next week. We will let you know which day later.”