The Hamiltons of Ballydown by Anne Doughty Page A

fade as they tackled the hill. The snow lay much deeper than usual and Hannah soon began to tire.
    ‘I shall be glad to get home,’ she said breathlessly, as she stopped again to rest.
    ‘I’ll make you some toast,’ Sarah replied quickly, turning round and tramping back to encourage her sister with a warm smile. ‘There’s baker’s bread from yesterday. And
damson
jam,’ she added, rolling her eyes.
    Hannah laughed and moved forward again, using the tracks Sarah had made.
    ‘Here, give me your hand,’ said Sarah, grabbing at her. ‘I’ll give you a tow up. It’s not very far now.’
    Despite Sarah’s vigorous efforts, Hannah was even more breathless by the time they got to the garden gate. Her creamy skin looked paler than usual, while Sarah was bright-eyed, her cheeks rosy from exertion. She pushed open the gate as far as it would go against the snow and left Hannah to closeit as she clumped down the path to the front door. She threw it open and stopped dead. The kitchen was empty, dark and cold.
    ‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’ Hannah asked sharply, as she caught up with her. She peered past her and took in the empty room. ‘Where’s Ma?’
    ‘She’s not here. And the fire’s out,’ Sarah replied hastily, a note of alarm in her voice.
    ‘Perhaps she’s still up with Elizabeth,’ said Hannah soothingly.
    ‘But she knows we’re early today,’ Sarah protested. ‘Anyway we’re not early any more. It must be way after four by now,’ she went on, stepping over to the stove to peer up at the clock on the mantelpiece, its face just visible in the pale light reflected from the snow.
    Hannah followed her gaze and registered sooner than she did that the clock had stopped. A bad sign, for she knew her mother wound it regularly every morning after they went to school. She scanned the room desperately for some explanation.
    There was no note on the table, but in the dim light she recognised a familiar shape. Her mother’s basket was still sitting there, the corner of her well-wrapped sewing poking out. She took a deep breath and stopped herself from hurrying upstairs.
    ‘She had a bit of a headache this morning. Maybe she’s having a lie down,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll go up and have a look while you light the lamps, Sarah.’
    But Sarah wasn’t listening, she was flying upstairs and along the short landing to the largest bedroom. Hannah followed hastily and they arrived at the open door together.
    Rose lay face down on the bedside rug, her everyday boots lying beside her. The bedspread had been thrown back and the covers opened, but she’d not succeeded in getting into bed. She’d caught at the bedspread as she fell and it was twisted round her slim body like a winding sheet.
     
    It was almost completely dark by the time Hannah and Sarah managed to take off Rose’s dress and get her into bed. Her body was stone cold and only her hoarse breathing convinced them she was alive, for her eyes were shut and she seemed unaware of being moved.
    ‘Go and boil water on the gas, Sarah, and fill the stone jars while I get more blankets,’ Hannah said, the pallor of Rose’s face reducing her voice to a whisper.
    ‘Can I not go for the doctor?’ Sarah whispered back.
    ‘No,’ Hannah said firmly, desperately looking round for a reason to stop Sarah racing off into the night. ‘I need you to help me. We must get her warm again. Go on, get the kettle on, quickly.’
    Hannah paused long enough to light the gas lamp before she brought extra blankets from the chest in Jamie’s room. She covered the still figureand tucked them well in at her sides, then put her warm hands against her mother’s face. It felt colder than snow.
     
    At the foot of the hill, John and Hugh manoeuvred the young mare out of the shafts of the brougham and noted the two bicycles parked against the wall of the barn.
    ‘I see the girls did the sensible thing,’ said John easily, as Michael MacMurray came up to join them.
    ‘Aye, the