Read Online A Girl Called Rosie by Anne Doughty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Doughty
Ads: Link
narrow space between the seats.
Rose woke up and collected herself as the newcomers settled by the window at the far side of the carriage.
‘Goodness Rosie, I must have fallen asleep. How rude of me. Were you bored?’
‘No, not a bit. It’s all so new and so interesting. I wish I had Miss Wilson’s atlas so I could follow where we were.’
‘Remind me when we get to Dublin, Rosie, and I’ll buy you a map of Ireland,’ John said, folding up his paper. ‘It might come in handy for your granny as well,’ he added with a smile. ‘She’s been up and down to Dublin a few times now, as well as the first time we did the journey together, but she’s not been back to Kerry since she came up to Dublin in a coach. I was out with the driver that time, but I’m not sure how much chance she got to see where she was going. She had a ladyship for company.’
To Rosie’s delight, her grandmother laughed and caught a hand to her mouth in sudden recollection. Her own dark thoughts disappeared as rapidly as the shadows off the land when the sun broke through again. Her grandmother began to tell her about the longest journey she had ever made, by coach and train from Currane Lodge in Kerry, to John’s mother’s house at Annacramp, a few miles outside Armagh.
‘In a coach, Granny? But weren’t there any trains?’
‘Oh yes, there were trains, but the old families went on using their coaches. If they hadn’t had coaches, your grandfather and I would never have met. You don’t need a groom with you when you travel by train.’
‘But were you a groom, Granda? And how
did
you meet him then?’ she asked excitedly, turning from one to the other.
‘Well, ye see, it was like this,’ John began, angling himself in his seat so he could look across at his granddaughter more comfortably.
Rose smiled and said nothing. John was happy to tell the story yet once more. Whatever reservations she might have about the details which had been added over the years, she’d certainly not spoil his pleasure in the telling, nor his enjoyment of his granddaughter’s response by pointing them out.
Rosie too sat back in her seat, the broken hill country of southern Armagh forgotten for the moment. Just sometimes she had managed to get her father to tell her stories about the past, but it was always difficult. He would never talk about his experiences if her mother were there, so it was only if she could go over to the barn that there was any hope at all. Getting him started depended on the job. It was no good if the job was complicated or noisy, it had to be something simple and routine. But when he did begin, he’d use exactly the same words as her grandfather had just used: ‘Well, ye see, it was like this.’
Her mother never had any time for stories and got very angry if she found her husband telling the children about what happened long ago. She’d sayhe lived in the past, that he needed to move with the times, shake himself up a bit.
It wasn’t just telling stories that made her angry. There was something in the way her father did things, perfectly ordinary things like cutting a loaf of bread, or cleaning his boots, that her mother couldn’t tolerate any better than his talking about the past. He was so calm and steady, so methodical, in every-thing he did, his very calmness, his steadiness, seemed to exasperate her.
She’d often seen her mother look across at him from her seat by the fire, her face taut with displeasure, then jump up and busy herself with jobs she hated and normally left for Rosie herself to do. She’d work quickly, sweeping the floor so vigorously she knocked the brush against the table or dresser. She’d clean the windows and rub so hard they rattled, or blacken the stove fiercely, or polish its silver edges so rapidly the emery paper tore.
Hastily, she put her mother out of mind and concentrated on what Granda was saying. He’d got to the point where Sir Capel Molyneux asked him to go to Kerry as a
Rose woke up and collected herself as the newcomers settled by the window at the far side of the carriage.
‘Goodness Rosie, I must have fallen asleep. How rude of me. Were you bored?’
‘No, not a bit. It’s all so new and so interesting. I wish I had Miss Wilson’s atlas so I could follow where we were.’
‘Remind me when we get to Dublin, Rosie, and I’ll buy you a map of Ireland,’ John said, folding up his paper. ‘It might come in handy for your granny as well,’ he added with a smile. ‘She’s been up and down to Dublin a few times now, as well as the first time we did the journey together, but she’s not been back to Kerry since she came up to Dublin in a coach. I was out with the driver that time, but I’m not sure how much chance she got to see where she was going. She had a ladyship for company.’
To Rosie’s delight, her grandmother laughed and caught a hand to her mouth in sudden recollection. Her own dark thoughts disappeared as rapidly as the shadows off the land when the sun broke through again. Her grandmother began to tell her about the longest journey she had ever made, by coach and train from Currane Lodge in Kerry, to John’s mother’s house at Annacramp, a few miles outside Armagh.
‘In a coach, Granny? But weren’t there any trains?’
‘Oh yes, there were trains, but the old families went on using their coaches. If they hadn’t had coaches, your grandfather and I would never have met. You don’t need a groom with you when you travel by train.’
‘But were you a groom, Granda? And how
did
you meet him then?’ she asked excitedly, turning from one to the other.
‘Well, ye see, it was like this,’ John began, angling himself in his seat so he could look across at his granddaughter more comfortably.
Rose smiled and said nothing. John was happy to tell the story yet once more. Whatever reservations she might have about the details which had been added over the years, she’d certainly not spoil his pleasure in the telling, nor his enjoyment of his granddaughter’s response by pointing them out.
Rosie too sat back in her seat, the broken hill country of southern Armagh forgotten for the moment. Just sometimes she had managed to get her father to tell her stories about the past, but it was always difficult. He would never talk about his experiences if her mother were there, so it was only if she could go over to the barn that there was any hope at all. Getting him started depended on the job. It was no good if the job was complicated or noisy, it had to be something simple and routine. But when he did begin, he’d use exactly the same words as her grandfather had just used: ‘Well, ye see, it was like this.’
Her mother never had any time for stories and got very angry if she found her husband telling the children about what happened long ago. She’d sayhe lived in the past, that he needed to move with the times, shake himself up a bit.
It wasn’t just telling stories that made her angry. There was something in the way her father did things, perfectly ordinary things like cutting a loaf of bread, or cleaning his boots, that her mother couldn’t tolerate any better than his talking about the past. He was so calm and steady, so methodical, in every-thing he did, his very calmness, his steadiness, seemed to exasperate her.
She’d often seen her mother look across at him from her seat by the fire, her face taut with displeasure, then jump up and busy herself with jobs she hated and normally left for Rosie herself to do. She’d work quickly, sweeping the floor so vigorously she knocked the brush against the table or dresser. She’d clean the windows and rub so hard they rattled, or blacken the stove fiercely, or polish its silver edges so rapidly the emery paper tore.
Hastily, she put her mother out of mind and concentrated on what Granda was saying. He’d got to the point where Sir Capel Molyneux asked him to go to Kerry as a
Similar Books
