Chapter 4
The house was in darkness when I arrived. I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have to face Ma and all her questions. She would have her hand out for the money too. Up until now I’d thought I would give her a few pound, and maybe a few pound to Kathleen, and I would keep the rest. I would set it aside until I could make my arrangements to sail to England. After all, I still had a week’s wages coming from the mill, and it would take time to get my papers in order and pack my belongings. I realized now I had not thought the plan through very well. I supposed I had never really believed I would win. Well I had! And the money was mine. Ma had taken every penny of my wages from me for the last four years. If it hadn’t been for the savings club at the mill I would have had no money to buy a stitch of clothes. No, she was not getting this!
I crept around the back of the house to the shed. The rain had stopped but the ground was muddy and soft. I stooped behind the shed and with the pair of scissors I’d had in my bag I scooped out a hole in the ground. I tore the plastic cover off the linen tablecloth that had been part of the prize and wrapped it around the envelope. I scooped the earth over the hole and stood up.
The next morning, as if on cue, Ma sat up in bed.
“Where’s the money?” she said.
“Thanks for the congratulations, Ma.”
“Don’t be cute. I heard you won. Now hand it over.”
I wanted to cry out that the money was mine and that I deserved to keep it, but I knew it would do no good. Aunt Kate and Kevin would hardly take my side in the argument. No, it was best to keep it hidden until I could get away.
“I didn’t get it yet,” I said casually.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like, but the fact is the money had to be approved in Belfast and they were not going to release it until the winner had been certified and all the rest of it.”
“Sounds like bollocks to me,” Ma said.
I shrugged. “I’m tired, Ma. Leave me alone.”
I pulled the covers up over my face. I prayed Ma would believe my story.
“I heard they gave you an envelope,” she persisted. “Kate was there and saw the whole thing. She said you looked like a trollop.”
“The envelope was just for show. There was nothing in it. And tell Kate to keep her opinions to herself.”
Ma sat up suddenly. “Did you bring back my necklace?”
“It’s on the table,” I said sleepily. “It brought me luck, Ma.”
An hour later Ma poked me in the side. “Get up out of that bed and get ready for Mass,” she said. “It’s Easter Sunday, so it is.”
I groaned. “I told you, Ma, I’m wrecked after the last few days. I’ll go with you to the Missions on Tuesday night, all right?”
“Suit yourself. It’s not my soul that’s going to hell.”
Early on the following Tuesday morning I struggled up the road to the mill along with the other workers. We looked a desperate crowd altogether, huddled against the cold, our lunch boxes under our arms. The mill horn blew like a siren from hell. An odd feeling came over me as I looked down at my coat and muffler and old boots—drab compared to the finery of Saturday night. Had it all been a dream?
The mill had been closed for the Easter holiday on Monday. I had been glad of the delay. It had given me time to adjust to having won the competition and to prepare myself for what I knew would be a difficult day. It was cold as I climbed the stairs to the spinning room and I pulled my coat tighter around me. I shrugged. In a few hours the place would be as hot as hell from the steam thrown off by the spinning frames. The smell of oil and damp flax would turn our stomachs, and our feet would be soaked from the water that collected on the floor. It was a wonder we all hadn’t caught our deaths of pneumonia or pleurisy. But soon I would be far away from here. The thought cheered me.
I clocked in and went to a room in the corner of the spinning floor to take off my coat and shoes and put on my apron. The spinners were already cranking up their machines—the clack-clack of the moving frames beating a rhythm in my ears. This morning everyone laughed and joked, sharing stories about their weekend doings, enjoying the camaraderie they always did. They quieted down when they saw me approach.
“Well, if it isn’t Sheila McGee,” said Patsy. “I thought you’d have sailed away on the Queen Mary by now.”
Patsy had not even been picked for the top five. Her anger hurt me but I wasn’t going to let it show. I waved my hand in the air.
“Och, Patsy, no. Sure there’s so much I still have to do to get ready. And I didn’t want to leave me poor ma alone for Easter. Next week will be time enough.”
Patsy raised a penciled eyebrow.
“Oh, and here I thought you couldn’t wait to get away from us.”
The other girls joined in along with her.
“Aye, sailing away and leaving poor Kathleen here with the rest of us.”
“And not a second thought for any of us.”
“No bother,” I said as cheerily as I could. “Sure I’ll let you know when it’s time. Then you can all throw me a grand party.” And with that I marched off to my machine and cranked it up.
Seeing they couldn’t get a rise out of me the girls changed the subject. Rationing, as usual, was always good for plenty of talk. Since the war had begun, goods in the North had become scarce. It was worse in England, we were told, but that didn’t stop our complaints. While our mothers were worried about the lack of bread, milk, butter, and sugar, we were more concerned with the shortage of nylon stockings and perfume and cigarettes.
Times had not been good in Northern Ireland ever since the border had been drawn almost twenty years before. People were still weary from the Uprising. England, going through hard times herself, hadn’t much money to spare, and her promises of welfare payments and money for education never came through. The people in the twenty-six counties to our south, which we still referred to as the Free State even though it was now officially called Eire, were busy taking care of themselves and had no time left for us. We weren’t part of Ireland anymore. But it seemed to us we weren’t part of England either. We were like orphans that nobody wanted, and the weariness and lack of national pride was starting to wear people down. I usually didn’t bother my head with such things, and I always told Gavin to shut up when he started talking about politics. But since the shortages had begun, and the fear of war started creeping into conversations, I had become more and more annoyed and impatient. This war could interfere with my plans. I prayed I could get away before the war came to the North.
Patsy turned the conversation back to me. “Sheila, now you’re the queen maybe you can marry some rich oul’ bollocks and you won’t have to leave your ma after all.” Jesus, would she ever shut up?
“Aye,” said Kathleen Doyle, a wistful note in her voice. “Sure you’ll have plenty of chances now, Sheila, to meet rich chaps. Maybe one of them will take a fancy to you.”
There was no malice in Kathleen. I used to wonder if she wasn’t a bit simple, or false like my aunt Kate. But much as I looked for flaws in her, I found none. She was the genuine article. And for all their blather, I knew the other girls deep down wanted to believe that what she said was true. Just like me, they all needed a bit of hope.
The talk died down as the day went on although the surly looks continued. I prayed the worst of it was over. It would be better tomorrow, I thought. And besides, I only had to stand it for a few days until I had my plans made and I was on my way. I was smiling at the thought as I reached for my coat. It felt heavier than usual and I wondered for a minute if I had the right one. But it was mine all right. As I pushed my arm into the right sleeve I heard giggling behind me. I ignored it as I wrestled with the sleeve. Something was catching my hand. I tried the left sleeve and the same thing happened. It was then I realized someone had sewn the sleeves shut and had filled the pockets with bobbins. It was the sort of thing the spinners did when a girl was leaving the mill to get mar
ried. As I turned around to protest, hands lifted me up and carried me down the stairs to where a wheelbarrow stood with a banner floating from the handle that read “Linen Queen, 1941.” I struggled as they plunged me into it and shoved a paper crown down on my head. They gave the barrow a mighty push and set it rolling down the hill from the mill, as they ran after it shouting at the tops of their lungs.
“Good luck, now, Sheila, may you get the man of your dreams!”
“Remember us, Sheila, when you’re living in the lap of luxury!”
The barrow moved at dizzying speed and the workers who were streaming out of the mill stepped aside and laughed and cheered as I rolled past. There was nothing I could do to stop it. It would have been comical if it was not for the fact that the spinners had done this deliberately to disgrace me. I was sure Patsy had put them up to it—not that they would have needed much coaxing.
I was light-headed when the barrow finally stopped. I glared at the mill lads who helped me out of it. Eejits. They were no better than the rest.
“Och, it’s just a bit of craic, Sheila.” They laughed.
“Craic my arse,” I muttered.
I ran towards the house fighting back tears. I was angry and embarrassed at the same time. I pushed through the door and banged straight into Ma.
“Hurry up,” she said, “we want to get a good seat at the Missions.”
I swore under my breath. I had forgotten all about my promise to go with her to hear the missionary priest who was preaching in Newry.
“Hurry up,” said Ma again. “And where in the name of God’s your coat?”
The missionary priest was speaking at a special evening Mass in Newry Cathedral that Tuesday and my ma was mad to go. She loved the missionary priests. We all did, for that matter. It was like going to a show, instead of an ordinary Mass. The missionary priests burned with a special kind of fire that was seldom found in our local priests. They were full of great stories of famine and plague and wars in foreign, faraway places. Whether the stories were true or not mattered little to us—we just enjoyed hearing them. The really good ones made us feel so guilty about our own cushy lives that we filled the collection boxes to overflowing—money for the black babies in Africa, for training of more missionary priests. We would give them anything they asked for. I’m sure the local priests were jealous even though they probably got a cut of the collection to make it worth their while. And besides, it brought out people who had not set foot in a church for years—maybe this experience would coax them back into the fold.
I was still shaking from the wheelbarrow experience as I genuflected before the altar and pushed my way along with Ma and Aunt Kate into one of the pews near the front. Uncle Kevin said he was too sick to go. Too sick from the drink over the Easter holidays was more like it. The church was full to bursting. The weather had been cool but many of the parishioners had followed the old saying “Cast ne’er a clout ’til May is out” and still wore their heavy winter coats, scarves, and boots. The sweat was pouring off them. Some of them didn’t have the sense they were born with. I’d had no choice in what to wear—my only coat was still back at the mill, sewn up and filled with bobbins.
Father Toner, the head priest, stood up to introduce the missionary. My mind wandered as he droned on about the good these traveling priests do in the world and all the rest of it. Noise and shuffling rose from the pews behind me. The rest of the people were as bored as myself. We came to hear the missionary, not Father Toner. But as the noise grew louder I turned around. Something was not right. A buzz of conversation had arisen at the back of the church, and the doors had been opened wide. It was then I heard the faint sound of sirens. There must be a fire somewhere, I thought. But the sirens grew louder. I had never heard so many of them at one time. As I watched, people began to move towards the front doors. Something was going on. Curiosity overcame me and I grabbed Ma by the arm.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go.”
Aunt Kate gave me a fierce look and put her finger to her lips the way the nuns always did in school. But I ignored her and fought my way past her, pulling Ma behind me. The sudden look of terror on Ma’s face made the hair on my skin stand up. I pushed my way down the main aisle, carried now in the tide of people who were bent on finding out what was going on outside. The sirens screamed nonstop, so loud they drowned out Father Toner’s plea for calm. Eventually we reached the cathedral doors and a burst of air slapped me in the face. The weather had turned colder. Ma stuck close to me, her fingers gripping my arm like a vise. We said nothing as we followed the crowd up Hill Street in the direction of the Belfast road. As we approached, the wail of sirens grew deafening. A strange excitement filled me—anticipation tinged with fear. It was unlike anything I had experienced before—not even when I won the Linen Queen competition. Something new and strange was happening. I could hardly wait to find out what it was.
As we reached the main road, we witnessed dozens of green fire engines speeding hell for leather towards Belfast. Green fire engines! They were from the Free State. What was happening? Then, as if in answer, a low whine sounded in the distance. The crowd turned as one towards the horizon, where small black dots the size of pencil marks appeared against the evening sky from the direction of Carlingford Lough. As they few closer they became a swarm of droning insects. A whole flock of planes was heading towards us. And then they were overhead and we could almost reach up and touch them. The noise deafened us and we covered our ears. We stared helplessly into the sky. No one spoke. Even the policemen stopped shouting at us to disperse. We all stood frozen in place. Then we turned as one and watched them fly on north towards Belfast.
A hand on my left arm made me swing around. It was Gavin. His sudden appearance brought a sense of relief. I turned to look at Ma. Her face was ashen and her eyes wide with fear. I looked back at Gavin.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said.
Gavin carried his kit bag over his shoulder. He had just got off his boat.
Ma found her voice. “What’s happening, Gavin? For God’s sake what’s happening? Has the world come to an end?”
Normally I would have been embarrassed by this outburst, but this evening I realized I was as frightened as she was.
“It’s the Germans, Mrs. McGee,” he said quietly. “They’re bombing Belfast.”
A split second of horrified silence greeted his words, and then the questions began. People surrounded us, pressing in to hear what Gavin had to say.
“There was a dispatch on the ship radio,” he said, “just as we were coming into port. The Germans are dropping bombs on Belfast. The whole city is on fire.”
“Mother of God.”
“Have mercy on us.”
Some people began reciting the rosary. Several young chaps cheered. “It’s started. At last we’ll see some action.” Some of the girls cheered too, giddy with excitement, while others sobbed. The police, having recovered from the shock of the planes, began shoving us back down towards Hill Street.
“Go home,” they shouted. “There’s nothing to see here. Go on home.”
“So it’s finally come. Bloody England’s war is in Ireland.” Gavin’s voice was rough behind me. “Are you satisfied now, Sheila?”
“Satisfied? Why would I be satisfied? I never said I wanted the war here.”
“But you didn’t care.”
“No, I never cared before. And I don’t now,” I said. “No bloody war’s going to interfere with my plans.”
Suddenly Ma let out a wail like a banshee. I swung around to look at her. There was a wild look in her eyes that reminded me of the missionary priest. The fear seemed to have left her and something else had taken its place. She was almost giddy—wilder than I’d ever seen her. She frightened me.
“Ma,” I said. “It’s all right. We’re all right. We’ll go home now.”
But she shook her head violently. “Didn’t I say they would come? Wasn’t I always telling you they would? And nobody believed me. Well, they
’re here now, daughter. They’ve hit Belfast. And Newry will be next. And they’ll destroy the mill and then what will become of us?”
As I stared horrified at the changing expressions on Ma’s face—fear, anger, glee, and fear again—I realized I had been wrong. The war was going to interfere with my plans. I looked past Ma and I saw my dream of escape led away like a prisoner and a heavy gate slam shut behind it.
Chapter 5
There was no singing at the mill on Wednesday or for many days after that. We were all in a state of shock. If there was any consolation in it at all, it was that the Linen Queen competition and wheelbarrow incident had been forgotten. The talk was only of war, and whether the bombers would come again, and whether they would strike Newry next.
I could hardly leave Ma now given the desperate state she was in. She cried morning, noon, and night. The slightest noise sent her diving under the bedclothes. She began to lose weight and her face grew pale and drawn. A couple of times I went out at night to the backyard to make sure my envelope with the prize money in it was still buried there. It was all I had to hold on to now—the faint hope that soon the war would be over and I would be on my way. It was all that kept me going.
The only one who had not forgotten the Linen Queen competition was oul’ Mr. Carlson. To my shock his secretary appeared beside my spinning frame one Friday afternoon, less than two weeks after the Belfast Blitz, and handed me an envelope.
The Linen Queen Page 5
