‘Can I help you, Madam?’ Her smile revealed tiny white teeth.
‘I’d like some lipstick, please.’
‘Yes certainly, what shade would you like?’
‘Red, please.’
The smile didn’t move. ‘Well, we have Scarlet, Crimson, Cherry, and then there are the dark pinks, Geranium, Fuchsia …’
‘Oh, I don’t know … what colour are you wearing?’
‘This is our latest colour, Pink Lady, very suitable for younger women. Would you like to test it?’ Without waiting for an answer she had turned to the rows of tiny wooden drawers with brass handles behind her, produced a gold lipstick and handed it across the counter.
Irene pulled off the fluted top and saw the colour of the carnations Mr Harper grew in his front garden. She could almost smell their scent as she moved to the mirror and pouted her lips.
‘Stop!’ shouted the assistant. ‘That’s not how you test lipstick.’ She took the lipstick, reached for Irene’s hand and drew a test streak across it.
‘Oh it’s lovely,’ whispered Irene. ‘How much is it?’
‘Two shillings’
Irene’s face fell.
‘Is this your first lipstick?’
Irene nodded.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ve used this a few times as a tester, but it’s nearly new. I could let you have it for one shilling if you like.’
*
Irene caught the Holywood bus out of the city and as it crossed the Queen’s Bridge she saw the ship yards along the Lagan where her father had been apprenticed and spent all his working life. In the weeks since his death they had settled into only slightly altered routines: they didn’t set his place at the table; they peeled a few less potatoes; his boilersuit didn’t flutter on the washing line. In some ways he’d been a distant father. Often tired when he got home; he liked a quiet mealtime and a rest in his chair with the paper. He’d always been strict about manners − no elbows on the table, remember please and thank you − and responsibilities, cleaned rooms, shared chores.
It was different when they were younger and he was stronger. Sundays were family days and after church, if the weather was fine, they would travel all the way to Holywood to picnic and play on the beach. He’d organise races, giving head starts to each child according to age and he taught them to skim stones. Later, settled on an old blanket to eat their egg pieces, they’d ask him to tell again the story of the unsinkable boat he’d helped to build and how it came to grief in an icy sea.
She felt tears prick her eyes at the memories and understood for the first time since his death that she missed him just being there. Even so, one thing she knew for certain was that she’d not be wearing lipstick or going to a dance if he were still alive and his girls would certainly not be allowed to join a troupe of entertainers.
Myrtle was waiting at the Templemore Avenue stop and waved both hands as she spotted Irene on the platform.
‘Myrtle, what are you wearing?’ Irene gasped as she hopped on to the pavement.
‘Oh, ye like the trousers?’ Myrtle stuck her hip out and put her hands behind her head like some Hollywood film star.
Irene laughed. ‘And the turban!’
‘I’ve just come from work. Ye have to wear trousers in the aircraft factory. Did ye not know that? They can’t have girls climbin’ ladders in skirts, can they, or the men would never do any work.’
‘But don’t people stare at you in the street?’
‘Not round here, they know we’re from Shorts. Anyway, when we go out on the town the night, I promise I’ll wear a dress so you’re not embarrassed. Now come on, ye ejit.’ Myrtle linked her arm through Irene’s and they set off along a street of red brick terraces. On one corner some young men were standing about smoking and bantering.
‘What about ye, Myrtle?’ one of them shouted as they walked past. ‘Are ye not gonna introduce me te your friend?’
‘Ach, catch yerself on, Frankie. What would she want to know you for?’
‘Oh you’d be surprised what good lookin’ girls want to know me for, Myrtle.’
She pulled on Irene’s arm, quickened her pace and shouted over her shoulder, ‘You’ve a dirty mouth on ye, so ye have, Frankie Burns.’ Then she whispered to Irene, ‘Thinks he’s God’s gift t’ wemen, but they wouldn’t pass the time a day wi’ ‘im.’
The door to number fifteen was open and Irene followed Myrtle into the dimly lit front room.
‘Ye all right there, Grannie?’
Irene could just make out the shape of someone lying on a settee against the far wall. In the grey tiled fireplace to her right, a few coals glowed and above it, just catching the light through the cream lace curtain, King William looked down in triumph from his rearing white horse.
‘Ach, hello darlin’, is this your wee friend, ye were telling me about?’
‘Aye, this is Irene, Grannie. She’s come fer her tea, mind?’
The old woman struggled to sit up. ‘Oh aye, I mind. Me legs might be bad, but I’m still compos mentis.’ She looked at Irene and offered what sounded like an oft repeated explanation. ‘Ulcerated, the doctor says. Aye, an’ sure why wouldn’t they be? Me standin’ on that fish stall, all weathers for thirty years.’ At the sound of her voice a budgie in the cage behind her began to sing, quietly at first, then louder and more urgently. ‘Would ye shut up, Joey, we’ve visitors can’t ye see!’ She reached back towards the cage and retrieved an old towel. ‘Here, Myrtle, cover ‘im up for God’s sake. Give me head a bit a peace.’ Then Grannie closed her eyes and in the darkness Joey did the same.
Myrtle put her finger to her lips and motioned Irene to follow her. The stairs were steep and narrow with worn oilcloth nailed to them.
‘I share a room with me sister, she’s only six. Think she’s out playin’. Anyway, I’ve told her she’s te stay out of the room while we’re here. Me da an’ our Tom sleep in there.’ She indicated the room on the left and pushed open the door on the right and went in. Suddenly, there was an evil laugh and a dark figure with a hideous face jumped out of the wardrobe. Myrtle screamed and grabbed the figure roughly. ‘Jesus Christ, Tom, ye wee messer! I told you to keep outta the way, so I did.’
Tom removed the cardboard mask and grinned. ‘Youse are right scardy baas, ‘fraid of an oul false face. Is this your friend then?’
‘It is.’ Myrtle dragged him by his collar and pushed him out the door. ‘And this, Irene, is my wee get of a brother Tom, fourteen goin’ on five an’ a half.’
‘Me da won’t be home ‘til late and he says you’ve te make me tea.’
‘Aye, well I say you’re an ugly brute, even without the false face, an’ ye can make your own tea,’ and she slammed the door.
Irene sat on the faded gold eiderdown; the bed was hard and sagged in the middle. Myrtle reached for her handbag, pulled out a packet of five Woodbine, pushed up the bottom and offered one.
‘Here ye are.’
‘Oh, I don’t smoke.’
Myrtle laughed. ‘Course ye do. Here I’ll light it for ye.’
*
Peggy had suggested to Goldstein several times that he should employ a Saturday assistant, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘You do very well, Peggy, takings are always good. And you can put up the closed sign and have your lunch, can’t you?’
She’d tried telling him that profits would go up if they could serve the customers quicker, but he shrugged his shoulders. ‘How so? If a customer wants some sheet music he will not mind whether it takes five or ten minutes to buy.’
Then she tried explaining that she spent all her time selling records and sheet music and so couldn’t deal with customers who were interested in the instruments or wirelesses.
‘Persons wanting to purchase a wireless do not come to buy on a Saturday afternoon,’ he explained as though talking to a ten year old.
Peggy wanted to say that even a ten year old who spent a Saturday in the shop would be hard pressed to see the logic i
n Goldstein’s argument, but she bit her tongue for once.
At twelve o’clock Peggy hung the ‘Closed for Dinner’ sign on the door and drew the blinds. In the pokey little kitchen at the back of the shop she put on the kettle and unwrapped her piece. Meat paste again. How many times had she told Mammy she’d rather have plain bread and butter? She’d a good mind to throw them in the bin, except she was famished. To cap it all, the wee bit of milk saved from yesterday was sour and she’d have to drink her tea black. Still, it was good to take off her high heels and after she’d eaten her dinner, she stretched out sideways on the battered leather armchair, with her legs dangling over one arm and her head resting on the other. She could feel her eyes closing and thought she could trust herself to take just five minutes …
… She was on a swing, wearing a beautiful white dress and gazing out over the Tara plantation thinking of Ashley Wilkes …
No she wasn’t! She was in the shop, the bell was ringing and that was a customer who couldn’t read. In seconds she was on her feet and through the door.
‘I’m sorry we’re—’
He was leaning on the counter smiling.
‘Closed, yes, I saw the sign.’
‘You’re not supposed to be in here. The shop’s—’
‘Closed, but I don’t want to buy anything.’
Peggy smiled. ‘Oh, I thought maybe you’d come back for the gramophone.’
He laughed and nodded as if acknowledging the point went to her. ‘Ach no,’ he confessed and looked serious. ‘I’ve come back for you.’
‘But I’m not for sale.’
‘I know, but maybe I could take you out on loan.’
‘You want The Central Library up the street.’
He laughed. ‘In that case, could I just take you out?’
Peggy deliberately misunderstood. ‘I think Mr Goldstein might object to the loss of trade if I went off gallivanting on a Saturday afternoon.’
‘Not now,’ he said quickly. ‘I was thinking about tomorrow. You don’t work on Sundays do you?’
Peggy put her head on one side as if considering his invitation. She was actually working out how she could go out with him without her mother finding out. ‘I could meet you at two o’clock tomorrow.’
He grinned. ‘Where?’
‘Do you know Cliftonville Circus?’
‘Course I do, been round and round there many a time.’
Just then the phone in Goldstein’s office began to ring.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ said Peggy. It was Goldstein reminding her to put dust covers over the pianos.
‘I don’t even know your—’ she said as she came back into the shop, but the door was open and he was nowhere to be seen.
It was around three o’clock when she realised it was gone: a small Bush wireless with a square walnut case and brass knobs. She was in the middle of selling ‘Anything Goes’ by Ethel Merman when, for no accountable reason, she found herself looking at an empty space on the shelf. It looked odd and it was a moment before she realised why. She finished serving the customer, then crossed to the door and hung the ‘Closed’ sign. She was completely calm as she served the remaining customers, but five minutes later she was alone and staring at the spot where the £9/19/11 wireless should have been. How long had it been missing? It was definitely there this morning first thing; she remembered dusting it. Somebody must have stolen it, but when? She pushed aside the feeling of panic. She’d have to tell Goldstein. Oh God, he’d take the money out of her wages. What would she tell Mammy? He might even dismiss her. Then how would they manage with a wage missing? There again, it wasn’t her fault it was gone, hadn’t she told him so many times how busy it was?
Goldstein listened without comment when she telephoned him, then said simply, ‘I will be there shortly.’ Well, she’d be ready for him. Just let him try to blame her and she’d give him a piece of her mind. While she waited for him to arrive, she went through all the sales receipts on the spike, remembering each sale, each customer, trying to build up a picture of who was in the shop and who went near the wirelesses. She couldn’t remember anything unusual. Maybe it had happened at dinnertime while she was in the kitchen. No, she’d have heard the bell. No one came in, except …
Goldstein had rung the police from his home before leaving and a constable arrived just before he did. He was tall and heavily built with a ruddy complexion. Peggy thought he looked like a farmer’s boy and his accent confirmed it. She showed him through to the office where he asked her to sit, then he seated himself behind Goldstein’s desk.
‘Name, address and age please, Miss.’ He didn’t look up when she answered, just wrote the details in his little notebook stopping every now and again to lick his pencil stub. Goldstein came bustling in just as Peggy was explaining how she noticed the wireless was missing.
‘Why is the bolt not on the shop door? Already I have lost one valuable piece of stock; are we inviting thieves in to strip the place bare?’
Before Peggy could speak, the constable stood up and extended his hand. ‘You must be the manager?’
Goldstein drew himself up to his full height. ‘I,’ he emphasised, ‘am the owner.’ Then he removed a pile of ledgers from an ancient dining chair and sat on it with his feet stretched straight out in front of him, his arms folded, clearly put out that his own seat had been commandeered.
The constable continued to question Peggy. ‘And at no point did anything unusual happen?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?’
‘No. It was just an ordinary day.’ She looked at Goldstein and added, ‘Very busy.’
‘What about lunchtime? What happened then?’
‘I made myself some tea and ate my sandwich.’
‘In here?’
‘No, there’s a kitchen in the back.’
Goldstein sat up in his chair. ‘The bolt, did you bolt the front door?’
Peggy turned, didn’t blink. ‘Of course I did,’ she said and looked him straight in the eye.
*
‘So, tell me about this fella a yours.’ Irene and Myrtle sat on the bed with a plate of jam sandwiches cut like door steps between them, nursing cups of tea you could stand a spoon up in. ‘He’s a kiltie, isn’t he?’
‘Well, he comes from Scotland, but he doesn’t wear a kilt!’
A mouth full of jam and bread didn’t slow down Myrtle’s relentless questioning. ‘How’d ye meet him then?’
‘It was funny the way it happened. I shouldn’t have been there really.’
‘When was all this?’
‘Last twelfth of July.’
‘Was he over for the parade, in a band? Was he one of them that throws the pole? See me, I love those Kilties. Best bit a the whole parade, so they are.’
‘No he wasn’t at the parade.’ Irene thought again about the twist of fate that had taken her away from home that day. ‘Neither was I.’ She took a long drink of her tea and stared straight ahead. Myrtle settled back on the pillow sensing that the whole yarn was about to unravel without any questions.
‘It was Theresa, you know, the Catholic girl I told you about?’ Myrtle nodded. Irene went on. ‘I always watch the parade from outside the King’s Hall. Best place, always great fun in the crowd. Theresa stays at home up the Falls and doesn’t go anywhere near the Orangemen. She says to me the week before, “Me and Mary,” that’s another wee Catholic girl we work with, “are going away for the day on the twelfth.”
‘Says I “Where are you going?”’
“Scotland,” says she, “Me an’ Mary are goin’ to Stranraer for the day.”
‘So I says, “Is that not awful far?”’
“Course it’s not, anyway the boat trip’s the thing. Great fun, loads a fellas, music and craic. The bar’s open all day, none of your Ulster Protestant drink laws and they’re not fussy about who they serve.”
‘Well, the upshot of it is, Mary eats a plate of bad herrings and spe
nds the eleventh on her outside privy and Theresa talks me into leaving the country.’ Irene paused, remembering how her legs wobbled walking up the steep gang plank; the crowds of people loaded up with rugs and bags; the rows of packed wooden benches and the banter going nineteen to the dozen.
‘It was a lovely day, the sea was calm, thanks be to God, and we went out on deck. We sailed down the Lough past the Cave Hill and Carrickfergus and out into the sea. And you know what the funny thing was?’ Myrtle shook her head. ‘I was there in the middle of all those Catholics and I was a bit scared. I thought they’d look at me and know … but they were just ordinary people, out to have a good time with their friends and family. We met some boys Theresa knew and had a Guinness with them – tasted nice. When we arrived in Stranraer they went off to carry on drinking, but Theresa told them we hadn’t come all that way to sit in a bar, we wanted to see what Scotland looked like. So, we took our picnic and found a nice grassy bank overlooking a wee beach. We didn’t notice them at first, we were too busy laying out the blanket, unwrapping sandwiches, cracking open the hard boiled eggs. They were on the path above us leaning over the railing. I don’t know how long they’d been watching us before one of them shouted:
Martha's Girls Page 8
