Anne Doughty - Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse

ANNE DOUGHTYis the author of A Few Late Roses , which was nominated for the longlist of the Irish Times Literature Prizes. Born in Armagh, she was educated at Armagh Girls’ High School and Queen’s University, Belfast. She has since lived in Belfast with her husband.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published as Come Rain, Come Shine in 2012

This edition published in Great Britain by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Anne Doughty 2020

Anne Doughty asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008328832

Praise for Anne Doughty

‘This book was immensely readable, I just couldn’t put it down’

‘An adventure story which lifts the spirit’

‘I have read all of Anne’s books - I have thoroughly enjoyed each and every one of them’

‘Anne is a true wordsmith and manages to both excite the reader whilst transporting them to another time and another world entirely’

‘A true Irish classic’

‘Anne’s writing makes you care about each character, even the minor ones’

Also by Anne Doughty

The Girl from Galloway

The Belfast Girl on Galway Bay

Last Summer in Ireland

The Teacher at Donegal Bay

For all those who have cherished

hope for peace in Ireland

‘Do what you can, do it in love and be sure that it

will be more than you ever imagined.’

Deara, fifth century healer from Emain

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Anne Doughty

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Dear Reader...

Keep Reading...

About the Publisher

One

September 1960

The moment the Belfast flight was announced, Clare Hamilton put down her coffee cup and picked up the large, beribboned box parked neatly under the table. She walked quickly across the departure lounge, a small, slim figure in an elegant moss green suit and was among the very first passengers to enter the quiet, echoing corridor that led down to the roar and whine of engines, the oscillating turbulence of aircraft movements and the dazzling glare of acres of pale tarmac.

The waiting Vanguard shimmered in the strong evening sun as she paused to hand over her ticket. How long it might be before she flew again she could not guess, but if this was to be her last flight for some time, she hoped it would be like the one she’d made back in April. On just such a sunlit evening she’d flown into Aldergrove over the green landscape she so loved to the totally unexpected sequence of events which had changed her life.

‘May I put that in the hand luggage store for you, madam?’ the young steward asked politely, with a small bow towards her silver and white striped box.

He put out his hand for the box, large and rectangular, but clearly light in weight.

‘I’ll put it down by my side where it won’t get in the way,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ she added, as he seemed about to protest.

‘Who’s the lucky man?’ he asked, his careful pronunciation replaced by a familiar Ulster accent.

She laughed, suddenly delighted by the sound of home and the broad grin that creased his face as he waved her past.

She made her way to the window seat she’d booked weeks ago from her office in the Place de l’Opéra, settled herself and tried to relax, but the excitement that had pursued her all day was not to be dispersed so easily. She was going home, home to Andrew and to her beloved little green hills. In three days they would be married, ahead of them a life together quite different from any they had once imagined.

She looked down through the dusty window at the familiar activities of the airport, the small vehicles scurrying to and fro bringing luggage and catering supplies, the large fuel tankers now uncoupling their hoses and returning to their depot. Luggage manifests were being exchanged. A Royal Mail van appeared at speed, its back doors sprang open, sacks of mail flew out on to waiting trolleys that quickly disappeared from view. She listened for the familiar sound of the hold doors being banged shut.

Whenever she watched the familiar scene, whether in London or Toulouse, Zurich or Athens, she always thought of the summer of 1957, shortly before graduation, when she’d arrived in London, wearing her best summer dress and carrying a single suitcase. She had tramped the dimly lit platform at Euston Station, struggled with the escalator to the Tube, spent a night in a student hostel, got herself to Victoria for the train to Paris and wept. Whenever no one was looking, and even sometimes when they were, tears had streamed down her face. She was quite alone, without home, or job, or future. She had taken the Liverpool boat, because she had broken off her engagement with Andrew. She had loved him for so long and been so happy, but their bright hopes had been shattered and she could see no way forward for them.

The engines roared and the aircraft rose into the clear sky. The wing dipped over the Hounslow reservoirs as they turned west and she studied the streams of traffic flowing in all directions, the veins and arteries feeding the great city at their heart. She tried to take in every detail of the moving pattern for she might never come this way again. Moments later, the course correction complete, she caught sight of the Chilterns, wisps of cloud blurring their outline.

She moved uneasily in her seat, adjusted the box propped between the window and her left foot. Everyone had said she’d got it wrong, that she and Andrew were made for each other, but after his cousin was killed in a road accident, he’d abandoned their plan to go to Canada and had taken over the running of the Richardson family estates. She’d seen him shoulder the responsibility for his grandmother, his aunt and uncle, his cousin Ginny. In fact, it seemed he’d accepted his obligations to everyone except herself, so that all they’d planned together appeared just a beautiful dream.

It was not the first time in her life the world had come crashing down around her. Long years earlier, on a hot June afternoon in 1946, she and her young brother William had been taken to the Fever Hospital outside Armagh by the Headmaster of their school. Days later, her mother and father, Ellie and Sam Hamilton, had both died in the typhoid epidemic of that year leaving them parentless and homeless.