huge engine of the Dublin train gleamed in the sunlight, hissed slightly and sent sudden clouds of steam swirling up into the metal rafters of the train shed high above her head, told them it was time to go.
‘See you’re a good girl now,’ Sam said, hugging his daughter.
Rosie smiled up at her father. He still said the things he’d said to her when she was a child, butwhether she was sixteen or twenty-six, she’d never mind, for the gentleness in his tone was the one sure comfort she had always had.
He was watching for them as they walked down from the footbridge to the further platform.
‘See ye enjoy yerselves,’ he called across as they paused outside their reserved carriage where an elderly porter was loading their hand luggage on to the racks.
‘Giv’us yer wee case, Miss Hamilton,’ the man said, touching his cap as he climbed down on to the platform.
She handed him the case without a word, gave a last wave to her father, standing quite alone on the far platform, and got in quickly beside her grandparents, her eyes suddenly misted with tears.
She had never been further from home than Banbridge, nor left him for more than a week. She had never before been called ‘Miss Hamilton’ except when her mother was being especially sarcastic.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked and slowly began to move. She leant out of the carriage window as far as she dared and went on waving to him till he was long out of sight.
‘You sit here by the window, Rosie, and I’ll sit beside your granny,’ John said suddenly, as she turned away, grateful the clouds of steam could be blamed for the tears streaming down her face.
‘I’m all right, John. Really I’m all right,’ her grandmother replied, as she straightened herself up in her seat.
Rosie looked from one to the other. No, her grandmother was not quite her usual steady self and there was a note in her grandfather’s voice she’d not heard before. Perhaps they were as anxious as she was, going so very far away. It was easy to think you might never come back. Something might happen to them, or to her father. They might never see each other again.
‘Ye needn’t be one bit afeard,’ he said softly. ‘Sure this engine could pull two trains and sure there’s hardly anyone on it.’
Rose shook her head and smiled across at Rosie.
‘It’s years since I’ve been on a train,’ she explained rather brightly. ‘It was 1916 after your Uncle Sam was killed in Dublin. We went down to see his grave and stay a night or two with a woman friend of his. That’s eight years ago now. Time goes so quickly when you get older,’ she added, her smile fading as she noticed how closely Rosie was watching her.
‘She’s not telling you the half of it, Rosie,’ said John quietly. ‘But we’ll not say another word about it.’
‘That would be best, John. For now,’ she said, as she turned away to gaze unseeing across the passing countryside.
They all fell silent. John unfolded his newspaper. Rose leant back in her seat and closed her eyes. Rosie looked out of the window, absorbed and fascinated by houses and fields and hedgerows she had never laid eyes on before. She saw strong farms with well-tended stables and barns, poor houses with grass grown thatch, paths and lanes and cart tracks. Golden fields of cut hay, the after-grass sprouting bright green in the stubble. Wheat and oats not yet ready to cut, shimmering like a green-gold inland sea, rippled by the breeze. In the dense shade of a mature chestnut, horses swished their tails. Cows gathered in the short noonday shadow of a hawthorn hedge.
I’m going to Kerry, she said silently to herself. I’m going to the furthest corner of Ireland to stay in a hotel and we’re going to drive round and see the sights and go and look at the big house where Granny used to work and where she and Granda met.
She’d been through it a hundred times since the morning Rose had suggested it, coming up with her breakfast tray herself
‘See you’re a good girl now,’ Sam said, hugging his daughter.
Rosie smiled up at her father. He still said the things he’d said to her when she was a child, butwhether she was sixteen or twenty-six, she’d never mind, for the gentleness in his tone was the one sure comfort she had always had.
He was watching for them as they walked down from the footbridge to the further platform.
‘See ye enjoy yerselves,’ he called across as they paused outside their reserved carriage where an elderly porter was loading their hand luggage on to the racks.
‘Giv’us yer wee case, Miss Hamilton,’ the man said, touching his cap as he climbed down on to the platform.
She handed him the case without a word, gave a last wave to her father, standing quite alone on the far platform, and got in quickly beside her grandparents, her eyes suddenly misted with tears.
She had never been further from home than Banbridge, nor left him for more than a week. She had never before been called ‘Miss Hamilton’ except when her mother was being especially sarcastic.
Suddenly, the carriage jerked and slowly began to move. She leant out of the carriage window as far as she dared and went on waving to him till he was long out of sight.
‘You sit here by the window, Rosie, and I’ll sit beside your granny,’ John said suddenly, as she turned away, grateful the clouds of steam could be blamed for the tears streaming down her face.
‘I’m all right, John. Really I’m all right,’ her grandmother replied, as she straightened herself up in her seat.
Rosie looked from one to the other. No, her grandmother was not quite her usual steady self and there was a note in her grandfather’s voice she’d not heard before. Perhaps they were as anxious as she was, going so very far away. It was easy to think you might never come back. Something might happen to them, or to her father. They might never see each other again.
‘Ye needn’t be one bit afeard,’ he said softly. ‘Sure this engine could pull two trains and sure there’s hardly anyone on it.’
Rose shook her head and smiled across at Rosie.
‘It’s years since I’ve been on a train,’ she explained rather brightly. ‘It was 1916 after your Uncle Sam was killed in Dublin. We went down to see his grave and stay a night or two with a woman friend of his. That’s eight years ago now. Time goes so quickly when you get older,’ she added, her smile fading as she noticed how closely Rosie was watching her.
‘She’s not telling you the half of it, Rosie,’ said John quietly. ‘But we’ll not say another word about it.’
‘That would be best, John. For now,’ she said, as she turned away to gaze unseeing across the passing countryside.
They all fell silent. John unfolded his newspaper. Rose leant back in her seat and closed her eyes. Rosie looked out of the window, absorbed and fascinated by houses and fields and hedgerows she had never laid eyes on before. She saw strong farms with well-tended stables and barns, poor houses with grass grown thatch, paths and lanes and cart tracks. Golden fields of cut hay, the after-grass sprouting bright green in the stubble. Wheat and oats not yet ready to cut, shimmering like a green-gold inland sea, rippled by the breeze. In the dense shade of a mature chestnut, horses swished their tails. Cows gathered in the short noonday shadow of a hawthorn hedge.
I’m going to Kerry, she said silently to herself. I’m going to the furthest corner of Ireland to stay in a hotel and we’re going to drive round and see the sights and go and look at the big house where Granny used to work and where she and Granda met.
She’d been through it a hundred times since the morning Rose had suggested it, coming up with her breakfast tray herself
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