Martha's Girls

by Alrene Hughes

  Irene stepped between them. ‘We can all perform. Sure it’ll be great fun, the whole family up there together.’

  Just then Derek stuck his head round the door and said, ‘Awfully sorry ladies, change in the running order, we’re having to sponge down Shirley Temple and she won’t be dry ‘til the second half. So, Goulding Sisters we’ve switched you and her. You’re on in twenty minutes.’

  ‘But Sheila isn’t here yet,’ wailed Irene. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘It’s quite simple.’ For the first time since she entered the Grosvenor Hall, Martha felt in control of herself and, more importantly, her daughters. ‘You three are the Goulding Sisters. It was you they invited to sing here. That’s how it’s meant to be. So, stop arguing, just go out there and perform.’

  Pat was furious. There was no questioning her mother’s logic, but that didn’t mean she forgave Peggy for her behaviour. Once again, she had been awkward and stubborn, but still got exactly what she wanted.

  Then Derek was in the doorway again, looking bewildered. ‘Another Goulding Sister’s arrived. Are they coming out of the woodwork?’

  Sheila stood drenched to the skin, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Martha hugged her. ‘Thank God you’re here. What was I thinking about, allowing you to travel away here on your own? You’re soaked. Get that wet coat off you.’

  Sheila undid her sodden scarf and revealed her once bouncy curls plastered to her scalp. The elocutionist shyly offered a towel. Sheila stood shivering; her mauve blouse was now purple where the rain had beaten down through her coat.

  ‘Am I too late?’ she asked as Martha rubbed her hair vigorously.

  ‘You’re just in time, love,’ said Martha. ‘You’re on in twenty minutes.’

  Sheila lifted her head and noticed Peggy. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her tone wasn’t challenging, just curious.

  ‘I’ve decided to perform. So, don’t worry, you don’t have to go on. Neither does Mammy.’

  ‘But I’m not too late, am I? I ran and ran to get here.’

  ‘I know,’ said Peggy, ‘but I’m here now to do it.’

  ‘But I’ve rehearsed every night. Sure I know all the songs and everything.’ Sheila’s voice was rising steadily. The whole dressing room had stopped to watch the final act of the drama play out. Peggy was about to explain again when Martha put her arm around Sheila’s shoulders.

  ‘Of course you’re going to sing. There’s going to be four Goulding Sisters on the stage tonight. Isn’t there girls?’ She looked at her other three daughters. Irene clapped her hands in delight. Pat looked at Peggy and said, ‘Of course Sheila’s got to sing.’ Peggy said nothing.

  Since Sheila’s arrival, the concert had been going ahead at a cracking pace. Performers came and went while they tried to get Sheila dried and Peggy dressed. The yodeller, who introduced herself as Ethel Crawford, had the idea of putting Sheila’s blouse on the hot water tank she’d seen in the toilets. ‘We won’t put it straight on the tank, or it’ll get marked. We’ll lay it on this underskirt of mine. Sure it’s only an oul thing.’

  When Myrtle came off stage, she took one look at Sheila’s hair and said, ‘I know just the thing, a French pleat.’ She swept the wet hair back from Sheila’s face, expertly folded it over and over and secured it tightly, like sealing an envelope, with hairpins. Just enough hair had been left outside the pleat to arrange in a cascade of curls on the top of her head. Martha took off her blouse and gave it to Peggy.

  ‘The work skirt you’ve on you will do you rightly. You know what you’re playing don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. Sure haven’t I been listening to it for the last fortnight?’

  ‘Look, you concentrate on the piano and let Sheila do what she’s rehearsed. Here’s the music.’ Martha handed her the brown leather music case with the brass bar fastening.

  ‘I don’t need the music.’

  ‘I know you don’t normally, but this isn’t a normal performance.’

  Peggy shrugged and took the music with no intention of using it. With two minutes to spare, Sheila’s mauve blouse was rescued from the hot water tank.

  ‘But, Mammy, it’s all creased down the back,’ she wailed.

  ‘Ach it’ll do rightly. Sure a blind man would be glad to see it!

  *

  Harry Ferguson always played his hunches. He’d followed the pretty dark girl with the good legs from the City Hall to the music shop where she worked and chanced his arm a couple of times, enough to get her interested. He’d waited, sheltering in a doorway across the road, for her to finish work and been disappointed to see her emerge with the old man. The thought that he might be her sugar daddy crossed his mind, but he figured it was unlikely, given the space between them as they walked round the corner to his car. No, they were going somewhere together he was sure, but where? Then he remembered the poster in the window. What had he to lose? Maybe they were heading for the Grosvenor Hall. Even if they weren’t, he’d nowhere better to go for a few hours until the card school got going down Sandy Row around eleven.

  *

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, a real treat. With some wonderful singing, please welcome The Goulding Sisters!’

  They came on in a line and bowed quickly to the welcoming applause. Peggy settled herself behind the piano and Pat, Irene and Sheila made a half-moon shape towards the front of the stage. Peggy played the introduction to ‘Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart’ a little livelier than Martha, Pat thought, but it felt good and she began to sway in time to the beat and Irene and Sheila did the same. Her voice was the strongest of the sisters and they followed with harmonies where she led. Sheila seemed unfazed by the audience and was doing brilliantly. Peggy added a little extra of her own between the verses. At the end of the song the applause was wonderful. They were doing it! Singing in the Grosvenor Hall!

  The applause died down and they stepped forward again for the second song ‘The Mountains of Mourne’. They waited for the opening bars. Come on Peggy, thought Pat, keep up the pace. The opening notes began and she realised they were from ‘Whispering Hope’, the third song on the programme. What was Peggy doing? Had she made a mistake? Pat took a deep breath, ‘Whispering Hope’ it is then. She prayed it hadn’t thrown Sheila. The song was melodic and so uplifting that Pat always let some of the emotion she felt when singing it creep into her voice. The slower pace and the fact that she had sung it hundreds of times meant that she could listen to her sisters. Sheila was doing well, exactly like they’d rehearsed. Irene was Irene; her voice was never strong, but it was tuneful and well-rehearsed. Peggy, too, was singing and she could hear the extra voice lift the sound to fill the huge hall.

  Loud applause followed and the girls looked at each other in amazement at the sound of cheering. It would have made a great finale. Now for ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, thought Pat, but Peggy had other ideas. She began to play and Pat realised it was something else entirely. She looked quickly towards Irene and Sheila and the panic in their eyes told her they had no more idea than she had. She missed the cue … what she was expected to sing? Peggy seamlessly picked up the opening bars again, giving them another chance to begin. Pat had only a few seconds to recognise it before the audience would surely realise something was wrong. Of course that was it! Pat raised her head, heard her note and swung into the opening of ‘T’aint What You Do It’s the Way That You Do It’. They’d sung it plenty of times at home; Irene and Sheila gave it everything. At the front of the stage they clicked their fingers and swayed in unison. Peggy improvised as only she could. The audience were swaying too and clapping along. On the last high note, it felt like the roof, cornices and all, was lifting off. They took their bow, all four of them holding hands at the front of the stage to thunderous applause and cheering, then ran off waving and smiling as the curtain closed for the interval.

  ‘What on earth were you doing out there,’ yelled Pat. ‘In front of all those people you want me to guess the tune?’ A rash of pink ha
d spread over her chest and up her neck to cover her face in anger.

  ‘You didn’t want to sing that boring ‘Mountains of Mourne’ rubbish,’ Peggy said matter-of-factly. ‘We needed a big closing number.’

  ‘We were supposed to close with ‘Whispering Hope’. They loved that,’ shouted Pat.

  ‘Yes, but ‘T’aint What You Do’ was miles better. They’re out there now drinking their cups of tea, talking about us and how good we are.’

  ‘I don’t care! You can’t just change the programme!’

  ‘Leave it for now, Pat,’ said Irene. ‘Let’s go and find Mammy. She was in the wings watching us. Did you see her?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything,’ said Sheila. ‘I was too scared to look anywhere but the back of the hall. Wasn’t it brilliant?’

  Pat marched off backstage, but Peggy lingered as though reluctant to sever her connection with the stage and the performance.

  ‘You two go on. I’ll see you in a minute.’ She had revelled in the final applause and her eyes had swept the audience, taking in their excited faces as they cheered, including a tall, dark figure who rose to his feet with applause and a smile just for her.

  Backstage Martha was bursting with pride. If only Robert could have been there. She had been as shocked as the others by Peggy’s switch of songs and had a difficult moment watching the girls struggling to recognise the introduction. She’d have a few words to say to Peggy when she got her on her own. Pat would be angry, of course, and would no doubt give Peggy a piece of her mind, if she hadn’t done so already.

  At the end of the evening the Reverend Lynas made a point of seeking Martha out to thank her for allowing the girls to take part. ‘We’re going to need plenty of community spirit, before this war is over. Morale boosting events like this could be our secret weapon, Mrs Goulding, believe you me. Well, I must be off before it gets too dark to see. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the black out.’

  Peggy appeared. ‘Mammy, come and meet Mr Goldstein.’

  He smiled broadly, his eyes crinkling behind his gold-rimmed glasses and offered a neat, well-manicured hand. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs Goulding.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Goldstein, did you enjoy the concert?’ asked Martha.

  ‘I thought it excellent entertainment and best of all were the Goulding Sisters. You must be very proud of them.’

  Martha blushed. ‘Yes I am.’

  Goldstein went on. ‘Now, it is getting late and the rain continues to fall very heavy outside. So, if you ladies do not mind being a little cramped, I could offer you a lift home.’

  ‘Oh no, we couldn’t take you out of your way,’ Martha said politely.

  ‘Not at all, I live on the Antrim Road. It is but a little detour. I insist.’

  Chapter 5

  Pat stood in front of the iron railings of May Street National School and watched the boys at one side of the playground kicking a small bundle of rags around, jerseys marking out the goals. On the other side the girls were playing games Pat recognised from her childhood: hopscotch, giant steps, the farmer wants a wife. Two girls broke free from a circle and ran up to her. ‘Can we help you?’ they sang in unison.

  ‘I’ve come to see Miss Goulding.’

  ‘We’ll take you,’ said the one with a pudding basin cut.

  ‘We know where she is,’ said her friend with pigtails.

  Her friendly guides led Pat down a long echoing corridor with half glazed walls giving her a view of the classrooms on the other side, then up a winding staircase.

  ‘She’s in here.’

  Pat was amazed to find herself in what looked like a parlour. Kathleen stood in front of an open fire and around her half a dozen pupils were dusting, sweeping, polishing.

  ‘Good afternoon, Pat.’ If Kathleen was surprised to see her, she didn’t show it. Instead, she added without a moment’s hesitation, ‘You’re just in time for lunch.’ They went through to the next room where children were laying a damask covered table with crystal glasses and silver cutlery.

  Kathleen shouted out instructions. ‘Come on now, John, I’m sure you can remember where the soup spoons go. That’s right girls, set a napkin in its ring next to each place.’

  ‘Miss Goulding, we’ve arranged the flowers in the centre piece can we put it on the table now?’ asked a girl, so pale and fragile, wearing a faded dress several sizes too big for her.

  ‘Yes, Joan.’ Kathleen touched the child’s matted hair. ‘But ask Audrey to help you.’

  Pat was surprised. Could this be the fierce Aunt Kathleen who gave her family short shrift and was famous for not suffering fools gladly?

  ‘I didn’t know you had somewhere like this in school,’ said Pat.

  Kathleen smiled. ‘I had this attic space made into a flat a few years ago so that the children could learn how to hold their heads high in polite society. They may come from poor homes, but good manners cost nothing.’

  ‘And they learn how to wait at table?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Yes, as well as which cutlery to use and how to hold a knife and fork.’

  Pat watched the children take their places. One boy in a filthy shirt and trousers held up with string pulled out a chair for a girl to sit down before taking his place next to her, he then removed a napkin from its ring, shook it and placed it on his lap.

  ‘Did the school provide the cutlery and glasses?’ asked Pat.

  ‘No,’ said Kathleen in her dismissive way, ‘they’re mine.’ Pat cast her eyes around the cosily furnished flat and realised most of the furniture looked familiar.

  They ate a good lunch of leek soup, Irish stew and fruit salad, no doubt Kathleen had provided that too. The conversation was often initiated and managed by her, but Pat was very impressed with the confidence of the pupils. Their accents were strong, but they discussed a wide range of topics and inevitably the talk turned to war.

  ‘Do you think we’ll be evacuated, miss?’ asked one girl with her front teeth missing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Pat, ‘probably not. The Germans aren’t likely to bomb us here.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Kathleen, ‘You know my views on burying our heads in the sand. The Germans will bomb Belfast. They’d be fools not to and, believe you me, Hitler is no fool.’ And with that she clapped her hands. ‘Right, let’s get all this cleared away and we’ll join the rest of the class for some arithmetic.’

  When the children were busy with their chores Kathleen gave Pat a long hard stare. ‘Well Patricia, out with it.’

  ‘I’ve come to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘I’d like you to train my voice.’

  ‘You have a lovely voice, Pat, very pleasant on the ear,’ said Kathleen.

  Pat detected a note of condescension. ‘But I feel I could do more with it.’ She struggled to express the dreams she had of standing in an opera house, maybe in Covent Garden or even La Scala, and singing to the tiered galleries. ‘Aunt Kathleen, you did it. You learned to breathe the right way, to use your voice to move people. All those stories you told me about singing in music festivals. The time you went to Milan to sing. Please help me.’

  Kathleen looked at her favourite niece. There was so much in Pat that reminded her of herself. Not just the physical characteristics, the full mouth and toothy smile, the ample bosom, but she also saw in Pat a sensitivity that set her apart.

  ‘Pat, it takes years.’

  ‘I’ve got years. I’m only nineteen.’

  ‘I’m not trained as a singing teacher.’

  ‘But someone taught you. You know what needs to be done. Please, Aunt Kathleen, couldn’t we try it for a few months? I’ll work so hard.’

  In the few moments it took to think about Pat’s proposition, Kathleen saw the chance to take one of Robert’s daughters under her wing. ‘Very well, you’re to come to my house one night each week after work and each Saturday afternoon at two o’clock. You must not miss a single lesson.’r />
  Pat’s face broke into a broad smile and, despite herself, Kathleen’s did the same.

  *

  ‘Listen to this,’ said Irene. She was sitting in the armchair by the window, catching the last of the light to read the Belfast Telegraph before they had to draw the blackout curtains. ‘Wanted. Entertainers to join a fund-raising troupe. Auditions to be held at the Grand Central Hotel, Royal Avenue.’ She looked towards Pat and Sheila who sat opposite each other on the settee. Sheila held a hank of pale blue wool taut between her wrists and Pat was unwinding it into a round ball. ‘We could go.’ Irene added.

  Sheila’s eyes lit up. ‘Brilliant!’