Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse. Anne Doughty

way of his. Often these days, when she got agitated herself, upset by the problems that descended upon her like falling leaves, she would sit at her desk and stare at the face of his gold watch. Its tiny rhythmic tick comforted her and reminded her that whatever the problem was, it would pass in time, as all things passed. It was she who must learn how to keep steady through the bad times and make sure she took the good of whatever pleasure and achievement the better times might bring.

      She moved carefully between the flourishing bushes and found there were plenty of blooms to choose from. Despite the harsh winter that got going immediately after Christmas, the spring and early summer had been kind to the roses. There were more in bloom this year, at this time, than she’d ever seen before, the opening buds more vibrant than usual. ‘No, not yellow after all,’ she said quietly, as she looked down into her bucket, ‘more gold than yellow.’

      As she came in through the front door and moved across the entrance hall, she thought of Ginny and smiled to herself. Ginny had covered herself with glory in the months she’d spent with them, working with a will and setting her hand to anything she saw in need of attention. She began by solving the problem of the bleak, bare spaces the missing ancestors had left on the walls when Andrew had been forced to sell them.

      On her first day ‘at work’ she’d walked round the public rooms and proposed they move the remaining pictures out of the entrance hall, redeploying them to cover up the spaces in the dining-room and on the stairs. She then suggested that she use a colour wash on the pale bits in the entrance hall till she got a match with the remaining faded, but warm-toned wallpaper. She’d spent hours mixing paint and applying it, layer on layer, working in small patches so that the ancient, time-darkened paper didn’t bubble or peel off. Having greatly improved the light level, she then tackled the handsome flock material below the gold-painted dado with stale bread.

      Clare would never forget the look on June’s face the first morning Ginny raided the bread bin, but June was the first to say what ‘a real good job’ she’d done. The total effect was splendid, so much so, that when Ginny went on to suggest having the chandelier professionally cleaned, Clare couldn’t bring herself to say No. She felt sure they couldn’t afford it, but at least they could go as far as asking for an estimate. It was as intimidating as she’d expected, but in the end she and Andrew agreed they would find the money. It would be an act of faith to make so grand a gesture, the one single, extravagant thing they’d done to set against all the hard work and careful budgeting.

      When the chandelier was rehung after the cleaning, the effect was stunning. Not only did it sparkle as if it was made of cut diamonds, but freed of the grime of almost two centuries the glittering pieces of glass now rotated in the currents of air from the open door, making tiny, delightful tinkles. Every newly-arrived guest caught the sound, looked around them for its source and smiled with delight when they found it glittering above their heads.

      The telephone was ringing as Clare strode across the hall towards the small room, once the estate office, where all the cleaning and gardening equipment was kept. She almost laughed aloud as the telephone stopped abruptly. What a relief it was not to have to stop whatever she was doing and dash for the receiver lest she missed a precious booking. Probably Helen had answered it. June hated the phone, but Helen, who was helping out for the summer while waiting for her exam results, had no such problem. Now there were phones down in the basement and on the landings of both the upper floors, as well as in Headquarters, it made life easier for everyone.

      She wondered if the early caller might be Harry, ringing before he opened the gallery, following up on things they had spoken about last evening. Then, as she thought about his most recent visit, she realized her real concern was Jessie. Harry had taken to visiting them regularly, on his way back from buying trips. He was always so welcome, so full of good stories about the extraordinary things that turned up at auctions and house clearances, but although their meetings were always easy and lively, she’d grown increasingly anxious because he had so little to say about Jessie. Fine, just fine, was all she ever got now in answer to her questions about her and the children.

      Last night, she’d asked him if he wanted to phone Jessie to tell her where he was and when he’d be home but he’d only laughed and said that she wasn’t expecting him till she saw him.

      Remembering how distressed Harry was when Jessie had been seriously depressed before the birth of their son, Clare made a point of telling him how sorry she was she couldn’t get up to Belfast to see her at this high point in the holiday season. To her great surprise, he had nodded abruptly and said he’d thought about that. He’d offered to buy Jessie a small car for her birthday, but she’d refused, saying she’d no need of a car, for sure didn’t the bus run past their door.

      Shortly after, he’d got up to go and they’d walked out with him into the warm, golden dusk. They stood on the steps and waved till he was out of sight. To her surprise, it was Andrew who spoke first.

      ‘D’you think Jessie’s all right?’

      ‘No, I don’t, but I can’t see what to do. I do phone her, but either she isn’t at home or she doesn’t answer,’ she said sadly. ‘When I do get her, she tells me nothing, makes some excuse about something she has to do, or says: Sure you know I don’t like the phone anyway.’

      ‘Perhaps I should just call when I’m next in court and see if I can get any idea,’ he suggested, as he put an arm round her. ‘If she wasn’t expecting me, I might find out more. If she knows you’re coming, she’ll be all prepared, won’t she?’

      The morning was busy. Four couples and a commercial traveller came to pay their bills. The couples all said how much they had enjoyed their stay and three of them assured her they would be coming again. Two of the husbands said the local literature and notes on places of interest they’d found left out for them had been most useful. One of the wives commented on the tea tray with fresh scones brought to their room when they arrived, another asked for details of the formidable gentleman in ermine trimmed robes hanging on the bend on the staircase. As for the young man, he simply said: ‘See you again soon.’

      She enjoyed talking to guests, but she was glad enough when they went and she could get back to the week’s accounts. She had just got started when a good-looking young man with dark hair and eyes and a pair of brown overalls tapped at her half-open door and handed her a crumpled invoice from the Fuel Oil Depot in Armagh. His colleague, he said, had just pumped their delivery into their tanks round the back. They were pretty low, like she’d said on the phone, but that was a good thing for she’d get the summer reduction on every gallon over the first hundred.

      The postman arrived next, needing a signature on a book Louise Pirelli had sent her from Paris. She sorted the rest of the post quickly, set aside the brown envelopes, almost certainly bills, looked at the postmarks on the white ones with handwritten addresses, which might be friends, or family, or even a returning guest. One envelope was neither white nor brown. It was gold and she guessed immediately what it was. She was just about to open it when there was another tap at the half-open door.

      ‘Helen, come in. Did you give the two Matts a lemonade?’

      ‘We did indeed,’ Helen replied, parking herself comfortably against the door frame. ‘Aren’t they a right pair? One old, one young, one fat and bald, the other dark and good-looking. And both of them Matthew.’

      ‘And one Catholic and one Protestant. Did you know that?’

      ‘Yes, Ma told me. She said she wished there were more like them. But maybe things would be better now Brookeborough’s gone.’

      ‘Yes, that’s what Andrew says too. Any change has to be good news. I take it you haven’t had any news yet?’

      ‘No, I’d have come and told you first thing. The suspense continues. Ma sent me up to ask if you want me to go to the Ulster Bank.’

      ‘Oh goodness, I forgot,’ Clare gasped, catching a hand to her mouth. ‘And there is a lot of cash this week. But I haven’t made up the lodgement yet. If everyone that’s going has gone, I might get time to do it now,’ she said laughing,