Mona caught Sophie’s eye and shook her head, tears glistening in the corner of her eyes. Whatever problems life had thrust in their direction before was nothing compared to the devastation that this illness had wreaked on the whole Grace family. This vicious, silent germ had crept into the most vulnerable part of their lives, the very centre of the family’s heart.
Lily.
This precious little daughter – the apple of their eyes – who had come after the four boys, when they had almost given up hope of ever having a girl.
When she’d settled down again, Pat leaned across the bed, his arms around his little daughter, and whispered soothingly into her ear. ‘You’ll be fine soon, Lily – you’ll be all fine for Christmas. And Santie’s going to bring you the biggest surprise you’ve ever had in your life.’
The little face lit up again, and she looked directly into her father’s eyes. ‘You’ll get me home in time for Christmas, Daddy,’ she whispered, ‘won’t you?’
Chapter 23
Two nights later, just as Sophie and Heather were clearing up after the evening meal, Pat Grace came to the kitchen door.
‘Is the big fella in?’ he enquired in his rich Irish accent. ‘Or is he up at the school?’ Pat was much more serious these days since Lily’s illness. His usual jocular manner with males and flirtatious manner with the women had all died down.
‘Oh, he’s inside having a second cup of tea by the fire and listening to the news,’ Sophie said, stepping back to let her brother-in-law through. ‘If you go on in to him, I’ll bring you a cup in a few minutes. What’s the news of Lily today?’
‘Still sore and stiff . . . but movin’ a little bit more every day, thanks be to God.’
‘Who’s going in to the hospital tonight?’ Heather asked.
‘Just myself and Mona,’ Pat replied. ‘The boys were in this afternoon, so they can stay at home and the older ones can have a quiet visit tonight.’
‘Kirsty’s out rehearsing,’ Heather said, ‘but Mammy and Daddy and me were thinking of going in to see her for half an hour.’ She hesitated. ‘That’s if you don’t feel it’s too much for her.’
Pat nodded and smiled, although the smile didn’t quite reach his weary eyes. ‘She’ll be delighted to see you,’ he said softly. ‘When you and Kirsty are around, the rest of us could go home as far as she’s concerned.’
Heather’s eyes suddenly filled up, and her throat felt tight. ‘She’ll be home soon . . .’ Her head moved downwards and her dark hair came over her sad face like a curtain.
Pat nodded again. ‘How’s the job going in Glasgow?’ he asked now. His tone was as friendly as usual, but his manner was distracted and his eyes flickered towards the hallway.
‘Och, it’s fine, Uncle Pat,’ Heather said in a falsely bright voice, shaking her hair out of her watery eyes. ‘The work is great and the people are nice and friendly.’ She didn’t bother to elaborate as she could see Pat had more on his mind.
‘Good girl,’ Pat said, turning out into the hallway. He tapped on the living-room door before walking in.
Fintan got to his feet immediately and switched the wireless off. He indicated to the seat at the opposite side of the fire. ‘Well,’ he greeted his brother, ‘any news this evenin’?’
‘Ah, nothing much,’ Pat said, sitting down. ‘She’s coming along slowly . . . feckin’ oul’ polio.’ He paused, then let out a long, low sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you got in touch with Claire, did you?’
Fintan sat back into his chair, his face lightly flushing at the mention of their estranged sister. He rubbed his hand over the light stubble on his chin. ‘Well,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I asked Sophie to phone her up on Sunday . . .’
The job Fintan had delegated to his wife had been an awkward one for two reasons. The first was practical – the complications involved in using the public phone box, sorting out the correct coins to pay for it and then the business of finding the code for Glasgow and dialling it. The second part was even more difficult – having to speak to the younger sister who had turned her back on her Catholic family.
Or, as Claire put it, the sister the whole family had shunned for marrying out of her class and her religion.
Whatever the rights and wrongs of the arguments, Fintan had been pathetically grateful to his wife for agreeing to make the difficult call.
‘And how was she?’ Pat asked, looking decidedly awkward himself now. This was just the sort of conversation he dreaded, and usually avoided at all costs.
Fintan pursed his lips. ‘By all accounts she started cryin’ the minute she heard Sophie’s voice . . .’ He paused. ‘She wanted to know what was wrong . . . that there must be something wrong for anybody to phone her.’
Pat nodded, his gaze now on the floor, and his forefinger pressing on the point at the bridge of his nose. This was all very painful to hear, because Claire and he had been the closest out of the family before the rift had occurred – before Mona had made her feelings plain to everyone. ‘I suppose she would say that . . .’
‘Sophie felt she might as well tell her straightaway,’ Fintan went on, ‘she said there was no point in tryin’ to make small talk on the phone all the way to Glasgow.’
Pat lifted his eyes to meet his brother’s. ‘How did she react to the news about Lily?’
Fintan’s head was nodding now. ‘Well . . . I suppose you could say that she took it fairly bad . . . with her being Lily’s godmother and everythin’.’ He sucked his breath in. ‘It’s understandable, seeing her regularly since she was born, and then not having seen her for the last two years.’
‘So what did Claire say?’
‘Well, the main thing is that she’s just heart-broken about Lily having polio,’ Fintan said, trying desperately to remember all the details his wife had given him. ‘She was nice enough to Sophie, and she said she was more than grateful to her for phoning . . . but she felt it was awful bad that we had to wait for this kind of news to get in touch.’
Pat sighed loudly and shrugged. ‘What can I do? Mona won’t hear Claire’s name mentioned.’ His voice rose now. ‘The feckin’ Christmas and birthday cards are ripped up the minute they come in the door. She wouldn’t even let Lily have an oul’ doll Claire sent.’ He held his hands out, palms up. ‘And I have no say in it – none at all. When women get started on each other they’re the very worst. They’re more vicious and devious than any man.’
Fintan sat silently, his gaze focused on the flames in the fire.
Pat ran his hands through his wavy dark hair, now starting to fleck with grey. ‘An’ I have to live with her, don’t forget. Mona can be awkward at the best of times, but when it comes to religion there’s no movin’ her. For myself, I couldn’t care less. Claire could be married to a feckin’ Hindustani for all I care. She’s still the same girl to me.’
‘And me an’ all,’ Fintan said in a low voice. ‘I hate all this carry-on . . . but we can’t just blame Mona for it. There’s Tommy’s wife, Janey, over in Wishaw who’s every bit as bad.’
‘Well, Mona’s the one that won’t bode any discussion on it in our house, and it’s me that’s affected by it there . . .’ Pat said bitterly. ‘I thought it was only over the wedding, with it being in the register office. I thought that once we’d made the point about not attending the marriage service it would all settle down, and that we’d at least visit Claire in Glasgow now and again – and have her visit us.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘If I’d realised the extent that things would go to, I’d have put my foot down at the very beginning.’
‘We all would have,’ Fintan stated. ‘But it’s the way things are around here between Catholics and Protestants – the way things were back in Ireland. And it’s got to be harder for Mona being the Priest’s housekeeper – it puts her in a more awkward spot than most. Father Finlay isn’t the type to be givin’ comfort to any family who let the side down. You’re lucky he’s still letting Patrick and Declan serve on the altar, for he stopped the O’B
rien lads when their sister got married in the register office.’
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ Pat said. ‘Another Christmas comin’ up and Lily nearly at death’s door, and the family are split down the middle.’
Fintan pursed his lips together thoughtfully. ‘Maybe some good will come of this terrible situation . . . maybe when Lily’s feeling more like her old self we might have a wee bit of celebration and we could all meet up.’
A tap came on the living-room door and Sophie came in carrying a tray with a mug of tea and some biscuits and set them down on the small coffee table for Pat.
‘We’re just talkin’ about all this nonsense about Claire,’ Pat blurted out. ‘Fintan was sayin’ that you phoned her?’
‘I did,’ Sophie said, pushing a wing of hair back behind her ear. ‘And I felt sorry for the girl. I felt sorry having to tell her that news about Lily . . . but then I felt sorry for her over the wedding, too. I told the other women as much.’
‘Well,’ Pat said, lifting the mug up from the table and then nursing it between his big hands, ‘that was decent of you – gettin’ in touch with her – but it should have been her own flesh and blood that put the hand of friendship out to her.’ He took a sip of the hot tea.
‘Life’s too short to have all this animosity between families. I’m determined to do something about all this after Christmas. When I feel Lily is on the mend a bit then I’m going to tackle Mona.’
‘Go easy on her,’ Sophie said softly. ‘She’s been through a lot these last few weeks, and whatever she might say, she’s not as tough on the inside as she makes out.’
Chapter 24
Kirsty finished the last note of Patti Page’s ‘Let Me Go, Lover’, to a round of applause by the four band members and Larry – who was on his feet and clapping.
‘Brilliant!’ he said to her as she dismounted the steps at the side of the stage, her heels echoing in the empty ballroom. He took both her hands in his and then kissed her on the forehead. ‘Absolutely brilliant! You can tell the singing lessons are paying for themselves already.’ He led her over to a table at the side of the hotel function room, the heels on her black stilettos keeping time with his expensive leather-soled Italian shoes. Even on a midweek night where there were only rehearsals going on, Larry didn’t let his standards drop and he always stood out compared to the other men in the clubs or hotels. This evening, the fellows in the band he had hired were all in white open-necked shirts and plain black trousers, while Larry wore a red golfing sweater with the crest of some exclusive Dublin club over a red and white striped shirt and dark checked trousers.
‘How about “Unchained Melody”?’ Kirsty checked, anxious for reassurance and further praise. With The Hi-Tones she was lucky if she got the odd thumbs-up from the boys, and if she had an off-night, they didn’t seem to notice or were too nice to say anything. ‘Did I hit all the right notes?’ She took a gulp of the deliciously cold lemonade he had waiting for her.
‘Definitely,’ he said, smiling warmly at her. ‘You never missed a note.’ He paused, his mind ticking over. ‘If it wasn’t for the commitments you have with the lads in the band, I could easily have got you bookings all over Christmas. It would have been a great time to launch your solo career.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and a fancy silver lighter.
Kirsty’s face fell. ‘I couldn’t have let them down . . .’ She still felt bad about leaving The Hi-Tones and knew they were finding it hard to replace her with either a male or female lead singer. But they hadn’t let it affect their working with her up until she left, and were still as friendly and teasing towards her as they’d always been.
Larry patted her hand. ‘Relax,’ he told her, lighting up a cigarette. ‘We’ve plenty of Christmases ahead of us.’
‘I hope so,’ she said, smiling now.
‘I was just thinking –’ Larry broke off as the musicians called over to say they were leaving. He went across the dance floor to have a word with them, and to check how they felt about the rehearsal.
‘Champion,’ the pianist said, smiling and nodding vigorously, while the others echoed their agreement. ‘She’s got a great voice for a young girl – I’d say she has a great future ahead of her.’
Larry came back to the table, his forehead furrowed, pondering a thought that had just occurred to him. ‘When is your last booking with the band?’ he asked lightly.
Kirsty put her blonde head to the side, working it out. ‘I think it’s the twenty-ninth of December,’ she said.
He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. ‘You’re not working New Year’s Eve then?’ he checked, his piercing blue eyes narrowing against the smoke.
‘The boys like to have the New Year off,’ Kirsty told him. ‘Anyway, most of the pubs and clubs close about ten o’clock to let everybody get home for Hogmanay.’
‘What about yourself?’ he enquired. ‘Have you any plans?’
Kirsty shrugged. ‘We’ll probably just be at home or at friends or relatives.’ She pulled a face. ‘There’s no buses running from early on and the taxis cost a bomb – double or even triple.’ She halted, then a defiant little gleam came into her eye. ‘Not that somebody like you would know, with a fancy car to drive about in, any hour of the day or night.’
Larry’s eyes danced with amusement now, but he stopped himself from laughing out loud as he knew it would only infuriate her. He had already come to realise that Kirsty Grace – while young and naive in many ways – was no pushover. She couldn’t possibly be a pushover and survive amongst a group of men who were playing in some of the roughest clubs in the West of Scotland. She was definitely a survivor. And yet, despite her occasional brittleness and sharp tongue, there was a delicate, feminine contradiction about her that brought out the protective instincts in men.
‘If you’ve nothing more exciting on, how do you feel about singing at a New Year dance?’ Larry said casually.
Kirsty looked startled. ‘I thought you said it would be well into January or February before I’d be ready to go on stage . . .’
‘I know, but I’ve had a cancellation . . . a singer I’d booked has had to go into hospital for an appendix operation, and I’d say she won’t be fit to go on stage for a while.’ He took another deep drag on his cigarette, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. ‘In my opinion you’re more than capable of filling her shoes – you’re a far better singer. It’s just that she’s been around a few years and knows how to put a song across with confidence.’ He paused, watching her reaction. ‘What do you think?’
‘God!’ Kirsty said, putting her hands in a praying gesture over her mouth. ‘I don’t know if I feel ready yet . . .’ Standing up on the stage alone tonight had felt strange, even though there had only been a handful of people in the room, but the thought of standing up when the room was packed and expecting a great night with it being New Year’s Eve was terrifying.
‘You’ve surprised me, Kirsty,’ he said in a low, sincere voice. ‘I didn’t think you’d be ready for a while yet, but you’ve really mastered those new songs, the pitch, the timing – everything.’ He halted, looking straight into her eyes. ‘Although you’re a young girl – with these new songs – you come across with the authority of an older woman.’
‘How d’you mean?’ she asked, draining her glass of lemonade. She wasn’t too sure if she liked the ‘older woman’ bit. ‘D’you mean I’m sort of old-fashioned?’
‘No, Kirsty,’ he said patiently. ‘What I mean is that you sang “Unchained Melody” and “Let Me Go, Lover” like it had really happened to you – as if you knew all about passionate, intense, grown-up love affairs.’
Kirsty started to giggle now, and a slight blush came to her cheeks. ‘I don’t know exactly how to take that . . . but I’ve seen enough about it all in the films and read about it in books.’
Again, Larry stopped himself from smiling at her naivety, realising that she might back off and lose confidence if she thought he was laugh
ing at her. ‘Well,’ he said, touching her cheek with his forefinger, ‘you’re a very good little actress as well as being a wonderful singer.’
Feeling flushed with all this unexpected praise, she suddenly felt confident enough to ask, ‘Where is the dance? Is it local or further away?’
Larry gave a slow smile. ‘It’s not too far away, and it’s somewhere you know.’
She smiled back at him, easier now she knew it was somewhere familiar. ‘Come on!’ she said, jokily prodding the table. ‘Which club is it in?’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I never said it was a club. The idea of you going solo was to get you away from the clubs – to move into a higher league.’
The smile slid from her face, to be replaced by irritation. ‘Is it a dance hall then?’ she snapped, beginning to feel he was teasing her.
‘Calm down, Miss Prickly Briar,’ he told her. ‘It’s a hotel. A very nice hotel with very nice people.’
‘Which hotel?’
‘The Clyde Valley Hotel – the one we had a meal in a few weeks ago. You liked it there, didn’t you?’
Kirsty’s throat narrowed in fear. How could he even imagine that she was ready for a place like that? ‘I couldn’t sing there . . . it’s really posh,’ she stuttered, hardly able to get the words out. ‘They would be expecting a real professional . . . somebody like themselves. It would be all older people from the posh houses in Lanark . . . there would be nobody like me there.’
‘Nonsense!’ he stated, shaking his head vehemently. ‘You are a professional – you’re a first-class singer.’ He ran his hand through his thick dark hair and gave a long, low sigh. ‘I can’t believe you could have such a low opinion of yourself, after all I’ve just said to you about your wonderful singing.’ He paused, and then his tone dropped to a lower, kinder one. ‘Have more faith in yourself. You’re as good as any of the people who will be there and better. They’re only interested in having a bit of a dance and a nice place to bring in the New Year.’
The Grace Girls Page 14
