Martha's Girls

by Alrene Hughes

  Pat stopped winding. ‘A troupe?’

  Irene could see the possibilities. ‘It’ll be just like the Grosvenor Hall, singing on stage, raising money for the war effort. It’ll be great! What do you think? Should we audition?’

  ‘We have to go, Mr Goldstein’s expecting us,’ said Peggy without looking up from the book she was reading.

  ‘What’s Mr Goldstein got to do with this?’ asked Irene.

  ‘He’s arranged the whole thing.’

  ‘Did you know about this advert?’

  ‘Of course I knew about it. I helped write it.’ Peggy raised herself from her prone position on the hearth rug, sat cross-legged in front of them and carefully turned over the corner of the page she was reading. ‘He got the idea when he came to the Grosvenor Hall; a group of entertainers willing to put on concerts to raise money and keep morale high. He’s going to organise everything and I’m going to help him.’

  Martha, who had been sitting quietly in the corner chair mending a stocking stretched over a wooden mushroom, looked up. ‘Wait a minute. Don’t you be getting carried away here. What does it involve exactly? I’m not having you girls out late at night in the blackout, gallivanting here, there and everywhere with goodness knows who.’

  ‘Mammy, we’re old enough to take care of ourselves,’ said Irene. ‘Anyway there’s four of us so we’ll be together. We’ll come to no harm.’

  ‘A troupe of entertainers,’ said Martha dismissively. ‘Imagine the type of person you’d be mixing with. Remember, if you lie down with dogs, you’ll rise with fleas!’ She was getting more and more agitated. Without a father, she had to keep these girls of hers on a tight rein. ‘I’ll hear no more about it, thank you.’

  *

  Less than a week later on a drizzly Wednesday evening Pat and Irene hurried along Royal Avenue towards the Grand Central Hotel. They’d plotted the deception the day after reading the notice in the paper and decided to tell their mother they would be going to the cinema straight from work to catch the early house. If she was suspicious of the coincidence that they were going to be in the town on the evening of the audition she didn’t say anything. They’d had to exclude Sheila. They wouldn’t normally take her out with them, especially on a school night.

  The outside of the hotel lived up to its name, with revolving doors and a liveried doorman who touched his peaked cap and smiled at the girls as they entered. The outside was impressive, but they had walked past it many times and given it little thought. Inside, however, was a different matter. They had never seen, let alone imagined, such style: thick red carpet; highly polished wood panelling; elegant chairs and sofas; large displays of tastefully arranged flowers. They paused a moment to take it all in, then Peggy came rushing towards them looking elegant in her shop clothes, a slim navy skirt with a crisp white blouse and her hair piled on top of her head to show off a string of pearls and matching earrings.

  ‘You’re here at last. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs. Lots of people are already there. I’ve been taking names and addresses.’

  The room was a good size, with a small stage at one end, a piano to one side and a small dance floor in front of it. People sat around chatting quietly. Suddenly Irene began waving. It was Myrtle and her Templemore Tappers ready in their black tap shoes, short red taffeta skirts with white embroidered gypsy blouses. They joined them and kept a seat for Peggy, who was still welcoming new-comers and taking their details. The girls passed the time until the auditions began by scanning the packed room trying to guess what sort of act each person might perform. Then a young man arrived and sat across the aisle from Pat. She studied him closely: smartly dressed with fair, neatly cut hair. He straightened his cuffs and Pat was impressed to see a flash of silver cufflinks.

  ‘He’s a comedian,’ said Irene, following her sister’s gaze.

  ‘No, he’s a musician, I think.’

  ‘But where’s his instrument?’ asked Irene.

  ‘Where do you think?’ whispered Myrtle and Irene threw back her head and laughed. Pat didn’t. Truth be told, she found Myrtle a bit common.

  ‘He’s a pianist of course. He’ll play the piano over there.’

  By the time Goldstein stood up in front of the microphone it was well after seven. He looked dapper in his pinstripe suit, set off by a crisp white shirt and a paisley dickie-bow, which gave him a jaunty air. He appeared a little nervous as he juggled his papers and gold spectacles, eventually putting the papers down temporarily to adjust the spectacles around his ears. Despite his accent, he spoke excellent English with the formality of a BBC announcer.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight to what I hope will be a momentous occasion.’ He paused and looked over his spectacles, eyes sweeping the room, giving everyone present the feeling that he was speaking directly to them. His voice became grave. ‘We are at war … at war with a tyrant. One who will not easily be defeated and we are all soldiers in this struggle, but not all of us will carry guns. This is a call to arms, but we will arm ourselves with music and dance and laughter, a company, not of infantry, but of entertainers.’

  Pat could sense a stillness fall over the room; all shuffling, whispering, coughing ceased as they gave Goldstein their full attention.

  ‘Imagine a troupe of variety artistes using their talents to raise the spirits of a city as it faces the ordeal of war. Imagine if in doing so, they could also raise funds to help those in need, or to support vital services.’

  Yes, Pat could imagine that quite easily. It was the natural thing to do, not to be a part of it would be squandering their talent.

  ‘So, ladies and gentlemen, I am looking for twelve excellent acts to join this company. The auditions will begin in five minutes. Good luck to you all!’

  Goldstein left the stage to thunderous applause. If this was his audition for inspirational leader, he had won the part, not to mention the hearts of all there. He made his way to a small table set out at the front of the room. Before sitting down he straightened his papers, produced a silver fountain pen from his inside pocket and carefully arranged everything on the polished surface. Almost immediately, a young man with unfashionably long dark hair jumped up on to the stage. ‘Let’s get started, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll call each act in the order in which they signed in tonight. Good luck everyone. Our first act is Lizzie Riley.’

  Peggy leaned towards Irene and whispered ‘That’s Horowitz, a friend of Goldstein’s. The two of them will decide on the twelve acts.’

  ‘He’s quite good looking in a sort of foreign way isn’t he,’ said Irene. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘How would I know? I only met him tonight!’ hissed Peggy.

  Lizzie looked about sixteen and was clearly flustered at being the first to perform. She was painfully thin and her navy pinafore, drawn in at the waist with a belt, made her look as though she had come straight from school. She heaved a sizeable instrument case on to the stage, unclipped the fastenings and pulled out a piano accordion, glistening red and gold. With it strapped over her shoulders, she looked in danger of toppling over on to Goldstein’s table. She bent her head and carefully placed her fingers over the keys and buttons. Pat wondered if every note would take as long to find. Lizzie straightened up, fixed her eyes to the back of the room, took a deep breath and began to play a lively reel, tapping her foot energetically to keep time. Slowly, the pained look of concentration gave way to a bright smile and her delicate fingers danced over the keys. Soon the audience were tapping their feet too and Goldstein leaned in towards his young friend, spoke into his ear and both nodded. Lizzie finished her audition to loud applause, but by then the smile had disappeared and was replaced by her anxious look.

  The Templemore Tappers were announced and there were squeals of excitement and a rustling of taffeta as they tapped-tapped on to the stage where they immediately formed a straight line with their backs to the audience. Meanwhile Peggy, who had agreed to accompany any acts who needed music, had crossed to the piano and b
egan their introduction. There was a gasp from the audience as all six dancers bent forward from the waist to reveal their frilly black knickers. Goldstein’s mouth gaped, and from the back of the room a strong Belfast accent shouted, ‘You show ‘em, girls!’

  The stage was a bit too small for their ambitious routine of fast tapping with lots of joining of arms and high kicks and at times there was some discrete pushing as they jostled for space. For the finale each dancer pirouetted in turn and ended with her arms held high. Myrtle was last in line and by the time the rest had finished, she found herself with nowhere to place her trailing foot and pirouetted off the stage landing with a thud, legs in the air, giving the front row a final look at her frilly knickers. The room erupted with loud cheers and whoops and Myrtle red-faced took her own bow from the floor as the Tappers hurried in confusion from the stage. Irene was shaking with laughter, rocking back and forth, shoving Pat. ‘Did you ever see …’ but Pat had on her affronted face.

  ‘Irene, for goodness sake, that’s so, so …’ She struggled to find the word.

  ‘What Pat … common?’ Irene could barely get the words out as she wiped away the tears.

  By the time Myrtle returned to her seat she had moved from embarrassment to basking in the attention. Irene patted her on the back. ‘Well, I don’t think Goldstein will forget the Templemore Tappers in a hurry!’

  ‘No, not if the look on his face was anything to go by.’ Myrtle laughed. ‘Mind you, I don’t think we’re quite what he’s looking for, do you?’

  Horowitz jumped on stage smiling broadly. ‘Well, that’ll be a hard act to follow! Next we have Walter Burns.’

  ‘Ooh, he’s a handsome man.’ Irene was watching Walter fix the wooden head on his ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘I know you’d fancy anything in trousers, Irene, but I thought even you would draw the line at a lump of wood with his head on the wrong way!’ Myrtle was out to enjoy the show, now that she’d had her audition. Walter’s dummy, Wee Shouie from the shipyard, had them all laughing so much they didn’t notice that sometimes Walter brought his hand up to his mouth to cover words beginning with the letter B. There was something about Shouie that put Pat in mind of Jimmy McComb, maybe it was the ginger hair sticking out from under his greasy cap, or the blue boiler suit and even she couldn’t help but smile at his silly notions.

  There followed several more acts: dancers, singers, musicians, comedians, even conjurors and an illusionist. Some good, some dreadful, some where opinion was divided, but every one keen to be included in Goldstein’s new venture. After each performance Goldstein and Horowitz conferred and made notes.

  ‘Ok, it’s us next,’ said Peggy. ‘Let’s show them what the Gouldings can do!’

  The opening bars of ‘Cheek to Cheek’ played, Pat and Irene swayed, picking up the rhythm and their cue as though they’d been practising for weeks and not just in their half hour dinner break at the mill. In the middle of the song, where Peggy improvised several bars, Irene held out her hand to Pat and both of them danced Fred and Ginger style round the small dance floor, returning to the piano in time to sing the final verse. They finished to enthusiastic applause and Irene risked a look at Goldstein and Horowitz as she raised her head from their bow to see both of them smiling and applauding warmly.

  Irene turned to Pat and Peggy as they left the stage and whispered, ‘Let’s get out of here. If we run we’ll catch the last bus.’

  ‘We can’t do that. I promised Mr Goldstein I’d stay to the end. Anyway there’s another singer to come.’ She indicated silver cuff-links. ‘I have to accompany him.’

  ‘But we’ll have to walk all the way home. Mammy’ll be raging,’ insisted Irene.

  At that moment William Kennedy was announced and Pat watched him rise and move towards the stage. ‘Don’t fuss, Irene,’ she said and without taking her eyes off him, she felt for her chair and sat down.

  William Kennedy exuded not arrogance, but a quiet confidence. A man used to succeeding. He had what Pat, on the long walk home, would describe as breeding. ‘Mark my words’ she would say as they crossed Carlisle Circus and headed towards the Cliftonville, ‘That fellow had good breeding written all over him. Oh, it’s difficult to describe, right enough, but unmistakable once perceived.’ And Peggy rolled her eyes, just as she had done half an hour earlier when William Kennedy Esquire had passed her his music and she read the title: ‘Nesson Dorma’ by Puccini.

  For a tenor he was not large, but his voice had an unexpected resonance that filled the room. His breathing and phrasing indicated at least some training and his gestures suggested he had stage experience. Pat was enthralled. His inclusion in the company would raise the tone considerably, but would they want someone with a classical repertoire? She glanced at Goldstein who was sitting quite still with no expression on his face. Then she concentrated on the sound imagining the story of the cruel princess and her suitor with the mysterious name.

  As the applause for William Kennedy died away, Goldstein climbed on to the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what can I say? My friend, Mr Horowitz, and I have been overwhelmed by the talent we have witnessed this evening and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.’ He then began to read out the names of the successful acts. Each name was cheered enthusiastically, none more so than the Templemore Tappers. Myrtle jumped up and down and hugged Irene, who was still waiting anxiously with her sisters to hear if they had been chosen. Eventually, when they felt sure he must have read at least a dozen acts, he said, ‘And the excellent trio the Golden Sisters.’ There was a moment’s confusion as he hesitated and corrected himself. ‘Forgive me, I mean the Goulding sisters.’ Irene whooped with joy and hugged Pat and Peggy, but Pat quickly disengaged herself and turned again to the stage, where Goldstein was waiting for the cheers to die down. ‘Last but not least,’ he said, folding up his spectacles, ‘A very talented tenor, Mr William Kennedy.’

  Irene and Peggy were astonished to see Pat lean across the aisle to shake the tenor’s hand.

  Chapter 6

  Irene bent her head over the linen tablecloth and fastened it taut in the wooden frame. She smoothed the weave to check for loose thread or lint then loaded the fine squirrel-hair brush with pale blue, the colour of flax flower. With tiny arcing strokes she outlined the delicate petals before lightly filling them in. A cluster of six and the first was dry enough to trace thin veins in a stronger colour. Complete all six again and an even finer pointed brush of soft yellow added the stamens. A siren broke the silence. The posy would have to wait until Monday for leaves and a ribbon. Now it was Saturday dinnertime, work was over for the week and Irene had plans for the weekend that would begin as soon as she collected her wages from the office.

  ‘What are you doin’ the night?’ Theresa asked as they queued to collect their pay packets.

  ‘I’m going to see my friend Myrtle on the Newtownards Road. Remember, I told you about her? She’s a dancer.’

  ‘The one with the knickers?’ Irene had given Theresa a full account of the auditions.

  ‘Yeah, she’s a geg.’

  ‘Have youse told your Ma yet about the audition?’

  ‘No, we’re waiting until we hear about the first concert. We think she might let us go to that if we say Goldstein is short of an act and then, you know, she might get used to the idea.’

  Theresa looked at her in surprise. ‘You mean you’re not going to tell her you went to the audition?’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘The point is she’s goin’ te find out sooner or later, mammies always do. It’s a fact of life!’

  Irene didn’t have an answer to that and was glad of the distraction of signing for her envelope and putting it in her bag.

  ‘You’re a bit dressed up, are ye goin’ out the night?’ asked Theresa.

  ‘Aye, there’s some Halloween dances. We might go to John Dossor’s, or maybe the Dundela Ballroom. What about you?’

  ‘Me Ma says I’ve to help her with our Marie’s first
communion frock. We could be sewin’ an’ stickin’ pins in ourselves the whole weekend.’

  They parted at the mill gates. Theresa headed up the Falls Road and Irene down town to the shops. Although it wasn’t much past one o’clock in the afternoon, the sky was grey and murky with a hint of mist that made her camel coat clammy to the touch.

  A quick look in her pay packet showed she had thirty six shillings, the extra six for the overtime she’d worked on a special order of tablecloths and napkins for the Masonic Lodge. She decided to keep that for herself. Mammy would never know. She suddenly felt guilty, another deception to add to the lie about the audition and she didn’t tell her she was going to a dance either. Never mind, she’d be able to buy a lipstick of her own, go dancing and have a laugh with Myrtle. She calculated it might be thruppence on the tram, a shilling to get into the dance, another tuppence for a drink. With six shillings she was a woman of substance and she pushed open the door of Robb’s department store with all the confidence of an heiress. The woman on the Max Factor counter was very elegant, all in black, blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun. Irene couldn’t help staring at her eyebrows, or the lack of them! The thin arched pencil line gave her a look of perpetual surprise.