Martha's Girls

by Alrene Hughes

  And the thought of war entered no one’s head.

  On the way home Sheila, not too old to hold her mother’s hand, said, ‘I loved today, Mammy. Can this be our new tradition? Next Easter Sunday can we come here and do everything again, just the same?’

  ‘Of course we can, love. Why wouldn’t we?’

  Chapter 18

  Pat hated working at the Ulster Linen Works. She hated the sight of it, the sound of it, even the very smell of it. She especially hated Saturday mornings when the foreman Alan Briggs gave back any work that he judged sub-standard. Payment for these pieces was deducted from wages and they had to be done again.

  ‘These tablecloths for the Orange Order are a disgrace! Youse should be ashamed of yersels producin’ work a thon quality fer such important customers.’

  ‘Oh that’s it, is it?’ someone shouted. ‘Feared you’ll be drummed out a the lodge for the quality of your tablecloths, Mr Briggs?’

  ‘Mightn’t get te carry the banner in the parade,’ someone joked.

  Briggs was red in the face. ‘Bad enough you spoil a load of good linen, don’t start insultin’ my beliefs as well!’

  ‘Ach, catch yerself on, why don’t ye, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll do them again.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Briggs,’ said Pat. ‘What exactly is wrong with the tablecloths?’

  ‘I’ll tell ye what’s wrong with them. The paint looks like it’s been laid on with a trowel, not a best quality squirrel-hair brush.’

  ‘But, Mr Briggs, we told you the paint for this order was too thick as soon as you gave us it,’ said Pat.

  ‘Too thick was it? Well, why didn’t you do something about it? Youse should a used the paint thinner on it.’

  ‘We couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you forgot to order any, Mr Briggs.’

  Whoops of derision and cheering from around the room.

  ‘You, Miss Goulding, are getting above yourself! And if yer not careful you’ll be followin’ yer sister and collectin’ yer cards before long.’

  Pat painted orange lilies all morning. She spoke to no one and no one spoke to her. The only good thing about Saturday was that, when the morning’s work was done, she caught the tram up the Cregagh to Aunt Kathleen’s for her singing lesson.

  *

  ‘Pat, what is the matter with you? This piece is adagio, not funereal!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Kathleen, I just don’t feel like singing today.’

  Kathleen looked at her in amazement. ‘I never imagined I’d hear you say that. What on earth has happened?’

  ‘Oh, lots of things, one after the other.’ Pat bit her lip.

  ‘Why don’t we take a break?’ Kathleen swivelled round on the piano stool and without drawing breath went on, ‘Is one of those things the fact that William Kennedy has left the company?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised what I know.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry not to be singing duets with him, but that’s all.’ Pat felt the tears close to the surface. She swallowed hard. ‘And there’s work …’ Pat told her about the tablecloths. ‘… and then we had to paint them all again.’

  ‘But it’s not just that, is it? If I’m not mistaken you don’t feel at ease with the people you work with.’

  ‘They’re nice enough, but …’

  ‘They probably have conversations and you don’t have anything to contribute. You listen, but can’t connect. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, yes …’ Pat lowered her eyes. ‘Aunt Kathleen, what’s the matter with me?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Pat. You’ve been in that job since you left school, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So maybe it’s time for a change. People like you have a sensibility, a need for company, conversation, a life that goes beyond the day to day. There are people out there just like you who could be your work colleagues, your friends. You just haven’t found them yet.’

  ‘But where am I supposed to meet these people?’

  ‘You need to come out of that factory, maybe find work in business, the City Hall, an office.’

  ‘But I’ve no experience or qualifications for anything like that.’

  ‘You’re bright as a button,’ said Kathleen. ‘You could do it, I’m sure. Look, shall I make some enquiries; find out where there are vacancies?’

  ‘Would you do that for me?’ Pat was amazed at the possibility that her life could be other than it was.

  Kathleen was as good as her word and when Pat arrived the following week she greeted her at the door ‘They’re looking for clerks in the Civil Service. You’ll have to take a test of course.’

  ‘A test!’ Pat was horrified.

  ‘A simple test of reading and writing, probably a bit of mental arithmetic as well.’

  ‘Mental arithmetic! Aunt Kathleen, I can’t do that, it’s ages since I left school.’

  ‘Of course you can. I’ll help you. You can write your application letter today and next week we’ll prepare for the test.’

  That night around the tea table Pat announced that she was going to try for a new job.

  ‘It’s in the Civil Service and—’

  ‘What did you say?’ Martha put down her knife and fork.

  ‘The Civil Service … I’ll have to take a test. Aunt Kathleen said she’d help me prepare, but I’m going to start practising the mental arithmetic tonight, so can somebody help me?’

  ‘I will,’ said Irene. ‘Better than rehearsing those same songs again. When is Goldstein going to fix up the next concert?’

  ‘He’s having a lot of trouble getting permission from the authorities,’ said Peggy.

  ‘What authorities? He’s never had to do that before, has he?’

  ‘That’s because the concerts have never been for a military audience before.’

  ‘No! Are we going to sing to soldiers?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell anyone,’ said Peggy, ‘so you all have to swear to keep it a secret.’

  ‘Where are we going to sing?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Probably Holywood Barracks,’ said Irene.

  ‘Or Balmoral Barracks,’ said Martha knowingly. ‘Have you seen the front of the Telegraph tonight? There’s another battalion arriving there next week. The place must be bursting at the seams.’

  ‘Can you imagine it?’ whispered Irene. ‘All that khaki!’

  ‘I certainly can.’ Peggy smiled.

  That night when the girls were in bed, Martha settled down to listen to the wireless before the service shut down for the night. The news had been getting steadily worse all week. Belgium and the Netherlands had fallen. The British and French forces had been pushed further and further back and reinforcements were being sent across the Channel. She recalled the conversation she’d had with Mrs McComb at church a few weeks before. Jimmy had completed his basic training and left for England expecting to be sent on active service almost immediately.

  *

  ‘You have to wear a costume for an interview,’ insisted Peggy, ‘and a hat wouldn’t go amiss either.’

  ‘She’s not going to a wedding,’ said Irene.

  Pat slumped back on the settee. ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a costume, so I’ll have to wear my Sunday frock and that’s an end to it. I won’t even get the job, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve got to be confident,’ said Martha. ‘You’re intelligent, you speak well, your handwriting is beautiful and you’ve a head for reckoning. What else could they want?’

  ‘Somebody in a costume!’ insisted Peggy.

  ‘We must know somebody who could lend you one. Think.’ said Irene.

  ‘Aye, but it’ll need to be someone Pat’s size,’ said Peggy.

  Pat turned on her. ‘What do you mean “Pat’s size?” You keep your personal remarks to yourself!’

  ‘Well, you’re not my size, are you?’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t matter, because
you haven’t got a costume either!’

  ‘Mrs McKee,’ said Martha.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She has a very nice navy blue serge costume. She had it for her sister’s wedding in … when was it now? Nineteen thirty six. She’s your size near enough, Pat,’ said Martha. ‘I’ll go and ask her.’

  The suit was a good fit, if a little old-fashioned in style, and it came with a little navy straw hat with a red band.

  ‘You could wear your turquoise blouse underneath, that’ll brighten you up,’ said Martha. ‘Now, try the hat.’

  Mrs McKee obviously did not have the same hat size as Pat.

  ‘It looks ridiculous, perched on the top of your head,’ said Peggy. ‘Forget the hat, I’ll do your hair for you in the morning, we’ll sweep it back in a French pleat.’

  There were fifteen people taking the civil service test that morning, all sitting at small desks in a stuffy room. It began with a comprehension test, followed by a writing test in which they had to answer a letter of complaint from someone unhappy about having to pay taxes and finally the mental arithmetic. Afterwards, they were shown into a room and given a cup of tea while they waited to be called for interview.

  ‘Miss Goulding, would you like to come through now please.’

  An elderly man sat behind a large wooden desk. ‘Please sit down.’

  He asked some questions about the test and Pat realised that while she had been drinking tea it had been marked.

  ‘Hum … your mental arithmetic is good, spelling not too bad, some common sense shown in the letter you wrote.’

  It sounded quite positive.

  ‘Now tell me about your present employment.’

  ‘I’m at the Ulster Linen Works,’ said Pat.

  ‘You’re in the office there?’

  ‘No. I work in the finishing room.’

  ‘Finishing room?’

  ‘I paint the linen goods.’

  ‘Oh, I see …’ He didn’t hide his disappointment. ‘What do you do in your spare time?’

  ‘I sing.’

  ‘Indeed, and what do you sing?’

  ‘All sorts of things … modern, classical …’

  ‘Classical?’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’m fond of opera myself. Which composers do you like? ’

  Pat leaned forward too. ‘I like Mozart, Puccini …’

  ‘Ah, Mozart.’

  ‘I sang the opening duet from the Marriage of Figaro at a concert recently.’

  ‘Did you really? What concert was this?’

  ‘It was to raise money for the Mater Hospital.’

  ‘A very worthy cause in these troubled times.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘One final question, Miss Goulding.’ He fixed her with an earnest expression. ‘What do you think of Gilbert and Sullivan?’

  Without hesitation Pat replied, ‘I love it.’

  ‘You know, Miss Goulding, I think you’re just the sort of young lady we need in the Civil Service.’ He walked her down the stairs to the entrance hall. ‘Details of the department you’ll be assigned to will be sent in the post together with your starting date.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Pat as he shook her hand at the door.

  ‘Not at all. Did I mention there’s a Civil Service choir?’

  *

  ‘You be sure and get that last bus home, or you’ll have me to answer to!’

  ‘Mammy, will you stop fussing. Everybody we know is at the Floral Hall tonight. We’ll be fine.’

  Peggy and Irene stood on the edge of the hearth looking in the mirror. The chill had gone from the early evening air as May drew to a close and for the first time in many months the fire hadn’t been lit.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t wear all that makeup. It’s not decent.’

  ‘Sure it’s only a wee bit of powder so our noses don’t shine,’ said Peggy.

  ‘And a slick of lipstick so our lips do,’ laughed Irene then added. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Pat?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I told you, I don’t want to spend any money because I’ll have to work a week in hand when I start the new job next week.’

  ‘We’re away then. Just leave the key on the string behind the letterbox. We won’t be late!’

  The trolley bus let them off on the Antrim Road at the foot of a high grey wall with a banner stretched across it proclaiming ‘Grand Summer Dance’. Steps were set into the wall at either side leading to the Floral Hall.

  Peggy and Irene paid their shilling at the door and went inside. On the stage was a small orchestra: two trumpets; two trombones; a piano; and a couple of snare drums. Several couples were fox-trotting around the dance floor. The tempo changed and Irene said, ‘Let’s dance a quickstep to this.’

  Young men stood about watching the dancers and every time two girls went by dancing together there were whistles and catcalls. Irene ignored them and concentrated on leading Peggy round the floor avoiding other couples. Peggy, on the other hand was constantly looking around and smiling. When the music stopped she went to apply some more makeup and Irene made for the back of the hall where there were drinks for sale.

  ‘Irene! Irene!’

  At first all she could see was a hand waving, but she thought she recognised the voice.

  ‘Theresa! Is that you?’

  Her friend appeared through the crowd and they both spoke at once.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for ages!’

  Then Irene noticed someone at Theresa’s side, holding her hand. ‘This is my friend Michael.’

  Irene thought he looked familiar. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said and turned away.

  ‘It’s so hot in here,’ said Theresa. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’

  Outside there was a cool breeze and a wall to sit on.

  ‘How’ve you been? How’s your hand?’

  ‘It’s fine now. Are you still working in your uncle’s bar?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not doing as many hours as I was. My mother’s not well, so I look after her a lot of the time. What about you? Still working at Shorts, running up and down those ladders?’

  ‘Still there, but the days are long and they’re talking about shift work.’

  ‘And how’s Pat? Tell her I was asking for her.’

  ‘She starts a new job next week, Civil Service.’

  ‘That’s great. The linen works wasn’t right for her, was it?’

  ‘How’s Sean?’

  Theresa lowered her head and spoke softly. ‘He’s never been back.’ She sighed. ‘You’d think a person could lose themselves in a city, especially when it’s in complete darkness half the time. That they could walk the streets and nobody would stop them and accuse them of something they didn’t do.’

  ‘Is he safe, Theresa?’

  ‘Yes, he’s safe, as long as he stays where he is, but how can he settle when his Ma’s ill and his Da’s in prison and he might never see either of them again?’

  ‘Why won’t they let your father out? He hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘Ah that’s where they have us, don’t they? They put you away for something they think you might do. And, even when your wife’s dying, they keep you in a stinking prison ship, miles from your family.’

  ‘A prison ship?’

  ‘In Strangford Lough; takes nearly two hours to get there. I’ve been a couple of times, took our Marie, but he’ll never see Mammy or our Sean again.’

  ‘Maybe when the war’s over—’

  ‘Sean won’t come back. He sends us letters to a friend’s house. Last time he wrote he was talking about America.’

  ‘Will you tell him I was asking for him?’

  ‘I will. He liked you, you know, said you were brave not to say anything even when you were really sick.’

  ‘Theresa, is Michael—’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘No, I mean you and him?’