Anderson Carraig - 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 authors imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Digital version converted and distributed by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

Authors 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 chimneys 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 hadnt 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 theres 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 hours 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 Peters lap. The young man quickly rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his clothing.

Im so sorry! Annies 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 nurses 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 Marthas 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 Mary.

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.