Beyond the Green Hills (4 page)

‘C
ome on, Clare, stop dreaming. This isn’t going to get that essay written,’ she said aloud, as she turned away from her window.

She’d been standing by her table, her coat and scarf still on, her cheeks cold from the crispness of the air, watching the sunny afternoon fade to a pale yellow sunset streaked with wisps of red and purple cloud.

‘There’ll be frost tonight,’ she added, as she bent to light the gas fire.

This late in the year, she sorted her books, tidied her room and made a mug of tea before she even thought of taking her coat off. She stood drinking it as the room grew dimmer.

The summer had melted away so quickly. She could hardly believe how much of term had passed already. She wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry. Sometimes she worried that time moved so fast when she needed all the time there was to get through the work for Finals. At others, she was grateful. She’d become impatient. She’d spent so much of her life, preparing, waiting, hoping. Revision and exams, essays and class tests stretched back through the years to the time when she’d
worked on the old washstand in the empty ‘boys’ room’ next to her own small bedroom. She often thought of how she’d come out to breathe the evening air under the canopy of roses at the front door, so reluctant to return to the stuffiness of the small room, the smell of damp and peeling wallpaper, the notes and the dictionaries.

Warming her hands round her mug of tea, her mind reached back again to the pleasures of the summer. It had been such a happy time, despite the fact that Andrew’s new job had been no great joy to him. He said he found it boring rather than demanding. The dreary lodgings the senior partner had thought suitable sounded even more genteel than those where Jessie had once been faced with a list of rules on the back of her bedroom door. But Andrew didn’t seem to mind at all. Nothing could be that bad, he said, when they could laugh about it together and make their plans for the future.

For her own part, the work in the gallery had been a real pleasure. She so enjoyed having beautiful things around her, oil paintings and watercolours, antique glass and silver, fine pieces of furniture, Victorian jewellery and carving. It was lovely to be with Jessie. She’d never lost her capacity to say the outrageous thing. Her only concession was to save her comments for Clare’s ear alone. Sometimes her mimicry of the more self-regarding of their customers was so sharp and so accurate, they had to retire to the stock room until they could manage to stop laughing.

As she checked out invoices or talked to
customers, sharing their pleasure, wrapping precious objects in swathes of newspaper, the excitement that bubbled up whenever she thought of Andrew was her greatest joy of all. ‘He isn’t
away
any more – he’s
here,
I’ll see him at lunchtime, or this evening, or tomorrow.’ She’d go on with what she was doing, smiling quietly to herself, feeling a wonderful sense of ease and pleasure.

They’d spent every possible moment together until term began. They’d walked the deserted city streets on summer evenings, peering into shop windows, entertaining themselves with the highest of high fashion, cheerfully choosing the furniture, the crockery and the casseroles for their first home, even though they could afford none of it.

When Andrew found he was expected to have a car for the job, they made the best of it. A loan was provided by his bosses, but the rate of repayment left him nearly as short of money as he’d been while doing his articles. But together they could afford petrol and picnic suppers. On the best summer evenings, they drove up into the hills and watched the sky grow pale and the lights begin to flower in the shadowy city below them. When it rained, the elderly Austin provided shelter. ‘Our portable viewing station’, Andrew called it, when they parked at Shaw’s Bridge in drifting mizzle and sat watching the swans pass under the old stone arches that once carried the main road to Dublin.

Jessie and Harry had bought a large, handsome house on the Malone Road with a huge overgrown garden full of rhododendron. Though it had been
badly neglected and now needed to be completely redecorated and modernised, Jessie and Harry were thrilled to have it. They had wonderful plans for restoring its elegant, high-ceilinged rooms and making it a family home.

As soon as the gallery closed on Saturday afternoon they’d go off, armed with wallpaper stripper and paintbrushes. They camped in one of the less awful bedrooms, where the only furniture was the huge new bed they’d bought with the first of their wedding present money. At night, they had to go and fetch fish and chips, or cook supper on a Primus stove, because the ancient electrical wiring was so doubtful they daren’t use any of the power points.

When Jessie and Harry slept at the new house, Clare and Andrew had the use of the flat over the gallery, the poky rooms reminding them of the fisherman’s cottage at Ballintoy. For a few brief hours they too could behave as if they were married, cooking a meal together, sharing the chores, planning what they would do if the flat were actually theirs.

‘Come
on
, Clare,’ she said crossly, as she caught herself staring out of the window once again. The street lights were flickering into life in the gathering dusk, winking at her like the Christmas decorations in the windows of the big stores.

It was not so much that the work itself had become wearisome, but that she seemed to be so aware how long it had been going on, and now she just longed to escape. Working in the gallery all
through the summer and having Andrew’s company most evenings and every Sunday; had only made it worse. She’d had enough of her own company and the need to discipline herself hour by hour, week by week.

She thought of Jessie’s infectious laughter and Harry’s good-natured teasing, of Andrew’s arm around her shoulders as they walked in town or the Botanic Gardens. She thought of the small bedroom high above the traffic in Linenhall Street.

She sighed, peeled off her coat, hung it up, and pulled on a heavy sweater. She made sure she had everything she needed laid out on her table, switched on her lamp and wrapped a rug round her waist before settling in Robert’s chair.

She stared at the blank sheet of lined A4 in front of her, took the cap off her fountain pen and put her hands over her face.

‘It will all be over by the beginning of next June,’ she encouraged herself. ‘Let’s just get through the winter. It’s bound to be better in the spring.’

March blew in with furious storms and high winds that broke small branches from the trees, even on the sheltered pavements of Elmwood Avenue. Before they had fully subsided, Andrew had to have some days off work to attend the funeral of his Great-aunt Beatrice, the formidable lady who lived on the Norfolk coast.

Clare always remembered the story of her adventures in the 1953 floods, how she’d retreated to the first floor when the water started pouring
under her kitchen door, then, as the waters rose higher, to the gable window of the attic. As the sea defences gave way and the waters rose higher, she’d stood there, calmly flashing her lantern till she was picked up by a passing coastguard cutter.

Alone in her room, darkness stretching beyond the fragile circle of her lamp, each time the wind roared in the chimney and set the branches outside her window threshing madly, she was filled with foreboding, as she thought of Andrew’s sea crossing to Liverpool. She could not get the fate of the
Princess
Victoria
out of her mind, running into difficulties in weather just like this, going down within sight of the Ulster coast. Nothing would take away her sense of dread that she would lose Andrew just when they were together at last.

Every hour of the four days of his absence, she held him in her thoughts, as if she could ward off disaster, so long as he was never out of her mind. She left her room only to go to lectures, hurrying back as soon as possible. If disaster were to burst upon her, only there would she be able to face it.

Totally unable to concentrate, she tried to do useful jobs, but every time Mrs McGregor’s telephone rang, she would go rigid with fear. At the very first ring, she’d creep out on to the landing and lean over the banisters, listening for any clue to the tone of the call. When her name failed to echo up the stairwell she’d sigh with relief, slip silently back into her room and make yet one more effort to be sensible and go on with her work.

In the event, Andrew’s journey was as
unexceptional as her cousin Ronnie’s had been that January when the
Princess
Victoria
was lost. When he was safely back, Clare was so cross with herself, she made up her mind not to tell him what an idiot she’d been. Indeed, she tried hard to forget the whole horrible experience. But it was not until March was nearly over and the earliest signs of spring appeared that she began to feel her spirits rise and the shadow of her panic finally faded away.

‘Could you manage the whole day on Saturday, Clare?’ Andrew asked, as he walked her back to Elmwood from the Library, where he now had a reader’s ticket to consult the Law collection.

‘Yes, if I can finish this essay tomorrow. It’s got to be in on Monday,’ she explained wearily. ‘Why, what were you thinking of?’

‘Richardson’s Mystery Tour,’ he said, grinning. ‘If you could do a picnic for lunch, we could have something out in the evening. Poisson et pommes frites, peut-être?’

She laughed and felt the weariness of the evening dissolve. It wasn’t just the thought of an outing, nor even the ‘fish and chips’, it was Andrew’s fluent Breton French. She hated to admit it, but the Missus had had a point when she’d once made such disparaging remarks about his accent.

‘Why the mystery?’ she asked, as she arrived at the front door and scuffled in her bag for her key.

He pulled a face, indicated that his lips were sealed, and kissed her gently.

‘We can stay at the flat on Saturday night,’ he reminded her. ‘Don’t forget to bring your own toothbrush.’

She giggled.

‘What time Saturday morning?’

‘Ten?’

‘I’ll be ready. Take care.’

Friday was a long, hard day for Clare, with an early morning lecture, a seminar to follow and the second half of an essay in French to complete: ‘The Image of the City in the Poetry of Baudelaire’. Even with her gas fire full on and her rug round her knees, she still felt cold as she sat writing and rewriting the most difficult passages, hour after hour. By three o’clock in the afternoon, the sky was so grey she’d had to switch on her reading lamp.

As time passed, it got even darker. Suddenly, she glanced up and saw a swirling mass of snowflakes driving towards her window as if they were bent on covering the piles of books and papers spread out in front of her.

‘Oh no, not snow. Not for tomorrow.’

Almost in tears, she stood up, unwrapped her rug, drew the curtains and switched on more lamps. But even this gesture had no effect on the growing darkness of her mood. She felt utterly dispirited. Weary of work, of living in this one room, of the chill of winter, of the grey of wet streets. She went and stood with her back to the mantelpiece, warming her frozen legs. As she looked down the length of her room she remembered how she had stood waiting for Andrew, Virginia and Edward. Ten months ago they had set off for Caledon to collect Edward’s car for that miraculous fortnight at Ballintoy.

She closed her eyes and for a moment saw the brilliant summer sun, the line of the sea ruled straight across the horizon, the seabirds swooping and riding the air currents. She wished she could fly, up into the blue sky, out over the sea to that far horizon that beckoned so enticingly.

‘It’s like a mirage,’ she said, unable to bear the oppressive silence of the empty room a moment longer. ‘To be out in the light, walking, moving, breathing the scented air of a summer evening, or the smell of the sea.’

She sniffed, and realised she’d been standing so close to the gas fire, she was in danger of singeing her best wool trousers, a gift from Auntie Polly. Designed for the rigours of the Canadian winter, they were beautifully warm when you were out and about, but much less comfortable when you were indoors and sitting still. But neither trousers, nor colourful rainwear, nor anything else she possessed, was any antidote to the grey chill she’d felt since the snow had come upon her.

She tried to shut out its menace, but even her heavy curtains couldn’t erase the memory of it, beating down upon her, covering her with its insidious carpet of silence.

‘Stop it, Clare, stop it. That way lies madness.’

She did some deep-breathing exercises to ease the ache in her shoulders, then picked up the discarded rug and wound it round her again. She sat down, focused on the pad in the circle of light before her and worked on through the afternoon and evening, allowing herself only a few short breaks. By ten
o’clock, she had a full draft. It would need fair copying, but that would have to wait till Sunday. She pulled the cover and cushions from her narrow, single bed, stripped off her clothes and crawled in, so weary she just left the whole lot lying on the floor.

She could hardly believe it when she woke next morning and saw a single beam of sunlight projecting a tiny circle on to the threadbare carpet. By the time she was dressed, there were blue patches between ragged streaks of cloud. As they set off, the roads were wet with thawing snow and the air had lost its bitter edge.

As they turned out of the avenue, she looked up to the Antrim hills. Dark shadows lay in the deep gullies, bare rock gleamed in the morning sun, but higher up in the colder air, yesterday’s snow still lay, a white dusting, like icing on a baker’s bun.

They crossed the city and took the Newtownards Road. The Castlereagh hills to the east were lower, but were still iced with a whiteness that sparkled and shimmered but showed no signs of melting.

‘Aren’t you taking me dancing at the Stormont Palais?’ she asked, as they passed its grand gates.

Andrew grinned and glanced at her briefly.

‘I’ve heard that they don’t go in for dancing much, these days,’ he said lightly. ‘More a matter of marking time, waiting to see how the wind blows. Remember the old adage? “Whatever you do, do
nothing.”’