The Wasted Years

by Mary Larkin

  MARY LARKIN is Belfast’s leading saga writer. She grew up just off the Falls Road and spent forty happy years living in the city before moving to the north-east of England. She is the author of a string of bestselling titles, including Full Circle, Suspicious Minds and Ties of Love and Hate.

  MARY LARKIN

  The Wasted Years

  Author’s Note

  The Falls Road and St Paul’s Parish portrayed in The Wasted Years actually exist, and historic events referred to in the story are, to the best of my knowledge, authentic. However, I would like to make it clear that the story is fictional, and all characters are purely a figment of my imagination and not based on anyone alive or dead, and any similarity is purely coincidental.

  First published in 1992 by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd

  This edition published in 2016 by Blackstaff Press

  4D Weavers Court

  Linfield Road

  Belfast BT12 5GH

  With the assistance of The Arts Council of Northern Ireland

  © Mary Larkin, 1992

  All rights reserved

  Mary Larkin has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Produced by Blackstaff Press

  Front cover design by Two Associates

  Front cover images © Getty Images

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 85640 975 2

  MOBI ISBN 978 0 85640 976 9

  www.blackstaffpress.com

  www.marylarkin.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  The author gratefully acknowledges the people who helped in the research, compilation and writing of this book. They include my late father and mother whose brains I constantly picked for any snippets of gossip from the past. For my sister Sue who first suggested that I could and should write a book, especially with a Belfast theme. To my oldest son Con for his help and encouragement, particularly with computer expertise. To all the staff at Blackstaff Press for their dedication to detail and especially Helen Wright who was always at the other end of the telephone with help and advice. And finally to my husband Con who is always there when I need him. My grateful thanks to them all.

  Chapter 1

  Belfast, 1938

  The power went off, and as the looms ground to a halt the weavers changed their old, comfortable shoes for more serviceable ones, donned their coats and headed for the door. In spite of the glass roof lights being whitewashed against the glare of the sun, stifling heat still built up inside the factory and they were relieved to escape out into the fresh air. One of the many mills that provided work for the people of the Falls and the Shankill Roads, the Falls Flax Factory was situated in Cupar Street; right in the centre, at the ‘T’ junction where it curved sharply to the right and continued on up to the Shankill Road to the Protestant districts, while the left-hand turn became the Kashmir Road and ran on to the Springfield Road and the Catholic districts.

  Arm in arm with Rosaleen Magee, May Brady felt the tension ripple through her friend as they walked out of the gates on to Cupar Street. She knew what was causing Rosaleen such concern, or rather who, and sure enough, there he stood, about six feet tall, jet-black hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. This was the third night he had been waiting outside the factory. But for whom was he waiting? Mr Blair’s secretary? Yes, it must be Miss Maynard he was waiting for. She was the only one May could picture him with, although May had seen and been dismayed by the look that had passed between Rosaleen and the handsome stranger on Monday night, the first he had been there. She was also aware that Rosaleen had her old work-coat lying open, disclosing the fact that she had taken the time to remove the overall she wore to protect her clothes when working, and May could see that she was wearing one of her better skirts and a cream-coloured blouse that was just a few weeks old; a blouse that enhanced the fairness of her skin and lightened the green of her eyes. This was unusual, very unusual, because dust from the weft in the weaving shop got embedded into everything, causing a fusty smell, and it was customary to wear old clothes to work.

  Why on earth is Rosaleen wearing her new blouse? May mused. Surely she did not fancy the handsome stranger? A small frown puckered her brow as she pondered. All the same, she must. Why else risk ruining the new blouse? Oh, don’t be ridiculous! she admonished herself, but was unconvinced. Isn’t she engaged to be married?

  Rosaleen’s thoughts were running along similar lines to May’s. Why was she so aware of this man? In four months’ time she would be married to Joe Smith. Big, kind, handsome Joe. She loved Joe. So how come a single glance from a pair of blue eyes could floor her? She kept her own eyes demurely downcast, but she was very much aware that the man’s eyes never left her face, bringing a bright blush to her cheeks, and that when they passed him, he turned to look after them.

  ‘I wonder who the big hunk’s waiting for?’ May muttered, with a sidelong glance, covertly watching Rosaleen’s reaction to her words. ‘Probably Miss Maynard,’ she continued, and jerked her head back towards the factory. ‘She’s the only one in there I can picture him with. I can’t see him with a weaver or a winder.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Rosaleen asked, trying to appear uninterested and failing miserably.

  ‘Oh, that big, tall, handsome stranger that you never noticed,’ May answered crossly. She was annoyed with Rosaleen and showed it. Why couldn’t she be honest and admit that she found him attractive? Unless … surely she couldn’t find him that attractive? Oh dear God no, that would never do. ‘All the men around here wear Crombie overcoats and patent leather shoes that you could see yourself in,’ she continued scornfully. ‘So of course you wouldn’t notice him.’

  Hot colour brightly burned in Rosaleen’s cheeks. She could not understand why, but she did not want to discuss the man with May. Perhaps because he affected her so deeply. On Monday night she had been laughing when he had caught her eye and an electric current seemed to run like a live wire between them. Time hung suspended as they gazed in awe at each other. Just a few seconds, but it had filled her with rapture, and she had recaptured the feeling often in the past few days and hugged it to her.

  Joe did not have this effect on her and she felt guilty and uneasy at her reaction to this stranger. Last night and tonight she had avoided looking directly at him, scared of the effect he had on her, but she had been very much aware of his scrutiny.

  Now she muttered, ‘No, you’re wrong. Miss Maynard stops work at half-five so she’ll be long gone. It’s not her he’s waiting for.’

  May shot her a sharp glance and saw the heightened colour. So, she had been giving him some thought and wondering who he was waiting for.

  ‘Who do you think he’s waiting for?’ she asked, slyly.

  But Rosaleen was no fool. She knew May’s curiosity was aroused and did not want to continue the conversation, afraid of betraying the emotions the stranger had aroused. She wanted to put all thoughts of him from her mind; his obvious interest in her made her feel uncomfortable.

  Shrugging her shoulders, she cried gaily, ‘Oh, who cares?’ And to change the subject, she asked, ‘Are you going out tonight?’

  She and May had been friends since their first day at primary school and only the arrival of Joe on the scene had come between them. They still had one night a week out together, a Friday night, and this they spent at the Club Orchid Ballroom. Joe did not like dancing but Rosaleen loved to dance and this way everybody was happy.

  May was not hoodwinked. She knew Rosaleen was deliberately changing the subject, but decided to let her get away with it.

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘No, I’m washing my hair tonight and I’ve some clothes to launde
r.’

  Being the eldest child of a family of six, she preferred to launder her own clothes than have them done with the family wash. Her mother was inclined to boil everything together in an old tin bucket and many a jumper and cardigan had been ruined, hence her desire to do her own laundry. She envied Rosaleen, who had only one sister and who was lifted and laid by her mother.

  ‘Well, see you tomorrow.’ She squeezed Rosaleen’s arm before letting it go. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘That gives me plenty of scope,’ Rosaleen retorted, with a toss of her head that sent the blonde hair swinging about her face, making May wish, not for the first time, that she was blonde and beautiful, instead of plain and mousy.

  With a deep chuckle, she turned down Clonard Gardens which joined Clonard Street and ran down on to the Falls Road where she lived, while Rosaleen continued on up the Kashmir Road.

  As Rosaleen hurried along, her thoughts returned to the dark stranger. Why did he affect her so much? Chemistry, that’s what it was! If they were to meet and talk they would probably bore each other to tears. With this observation she relaxed and turned her thoughts to Joe. Kind, handsome Joe. Nothing must interfere with her plans to marry him.

  Her first and only serious boyfriend, he was a wonderful person who idolised her. He had put down a deposit on a house in Iris Drive, off Springfield Avenue, and was in the process of decorating it, for them to return to after their honeymoon in Bray. No greasing someone’s palm with a tenner for the key to a rented house; no, not for them! Not every girl was lucky enough to marry a man with his own business. Just a small business, dealing in wrought-iron gates and railings, but there was room for expansion, and Joe was full of plans for the future. No, she would be foolish to let anything interfere with their plans. Why, it was wrong even to think of another man.

  Nevertheless, in spite of her good intentions, the minute the alarm clock shattered the silence on Thursday morning, her thoughts returned to the stranger and she jumped out of bed. Dampening her hair, she rolled the long blonde strands in curlers and left it to set while she quickly washed herself down in the draughty scullery and then ate the breakfast her father prepared for her every morning. Her father was a good man; there were not many like him. Every morning he was downstairs first, and after lighting the fire he prepared breakfast. Then, without fail, he carried a cup of tea and a round of toast upstairs to her mother, before departing for Greeves Mill where he worked in the flax store.

  Once ready for work, with her hair swept up at the sides and hanging to her shoulders in the current page-boy style, she gave in to the temptation to use a little make-up. Just a little. A light touch of Pan-stick and a hint of rouge. She did not want May to notice and comment on it.

  But alas, she may as well not have bothered. There was no sign of the tall, handsome stranger outside the factory gates that night and she did not know whether to be glad or disappointed.

  On Friday morning she was pushing away at her looms, lost in thought, when Betty Devlin came and stood beside her. She did not know Betty very well; a non-smoker, she did not therefore gather in the toilets where one met all the newcomers and was kept up to date on all the gossip. Knocking off the handle of the loom, Rosaleen gripped the comb and helped the loom to stop more quickly. Then, with a smooth, fluid movement, she exchanged the empty shuttle for a full one and set the loom in motion again, before turning to Betty, an eyebrow raised inquiringly. At the same time she removed the empty bobbin from the shuttle and put a new one in from the cage of weft that sat above the loom. Looms had to be kept constantly on the move or they left marks in the cloth, bringing the wrath of the examiners down on the culprit’s head. So keeping an eye on the three looms, she gave half of her attention to Betty. She guessed the girl was probably collecting for something; someone getting married or maybe someone retiring.

  While Rosaleen changed the shuttles, Betty eyed her closely. She had known right away who her brother was talking about when he had described her. There were not many girls as lovely as Rosaleen and she could understand why her brother was attracted to her.

  Leaning close to make herself heard above the clatter of the looms, she cried, ‘Did you notice a tall guy standing outside the factory a couple of nights this week?’

  To her amusement, colour flooded Rosaleen’s face and neck. Even her ears went a bright pink, causing Betty to laugh out loud.

  ‘Obviously you did! You and half the factory! Well, he was waiting for me. He’s my brother Sean and he wants a word in with you.’

  Rosaleen found herself smiling in return. It was a long time since she had heard that expression: ‘Wants a word in with you’. Not since she was about fifteen. Still, Betty was barely sixteen, so that would account for her using the term. Then the girl’s words sank in and she went redder still. He wanted a date with her!

  She shook her head and said, ‘I can’t. I’m engaged to be married.’

  Betty eyed her bare left hand in disbelief and Rosaleen quickly explained, ‘I don’t wear my ring in here, the stone’s too big.’

  That sounded like boasting, but it was the truth. Joe had invested a lot of money in her engagement ring, a huge solitaire. She had demurred but he had said, ‘May as well, while I can afford it. It’s an investment, so it is. A ring like that can only grow in value and … God forbid … if we’re ever stuck for money … well, it’ll be there.’

  However, she was nervous when wearing the ring, it was an awful responsibility, and she would not dream of wearing it in the factory.

  Betty shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, well.’ She forced an exaggerated sigh from deep in her chest. ‘Our Sean will be disappointed, but still I did my best.’

  Deep blue eyes, just like his, laughed into Rosaleen’s. Then, giving Rosaleen a wink and a nod, Betty turned and made her way down the shop floor, weaving in and out of the fast-moving machinery with graceful steps and a seductive sway to her small, neat bottom. Very much aware that her progress was watched avidly by two fitters who were maintaining a loom. Rosaleen watched her for some seconds, amusement in her eyes, then turned her attention back to her work, but her actions were automatic, her mind full of thoughts of ‘Sean’. Imagine him wanting a word in with her. He had a cheek all the same. Sending word in like that, instead of asking her himself. This thought sent dismay flooding through her. What if he was outside tonight and spoke to her? The very idea of it made her tremble and she chastised herself: Stop acting like a fool! He means nothing to you.

  One of the looms dwindled to a halt and when Rosaleen saw the flaw that had been caused by a broken thread, she muttered to herself as she let out the web and started to rip out the flaw. That’s what you get for daydreaming. Get your mind back on your work, you silly girl!

  That night, keeping her head down, she gripped May’s arm and hustled her quickly through the gate and past the corner where he usually stood. Not even trying to catch a glimpse of his well-polished brogues, should he be there.

  May allowed herself to be propelled along Kashmir Road in silence, a resigned look on her face, but when they reached Clonard Gardens she said, with a gentle shake of her head, ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘What?’ Trying to look indifferent, Rosaleen tossed her head and added, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Ah, Rosaleen, be honest!’

  Shame-faced, Rosaleen muttered, ‘He’s Betty Devlin’s brother. He wants a word in with me.’

  May gaped at her and Rosaleen laughed softly before repeating with a smile and a nod: ‘He wants a word in with me.’ She chuckled aloud at the idea. ‘Imagine! I felt about fifteen when Betty said that to me.’

  ‘He actually wants a date with you?’

  Rosaleen’s smile deepened at May’s amazement and once more her head dipped and her lips pressed tightly together to contain her mirth.

  ‘And what did you say to that?’ May asked, tentatively.

  ‘Now what could I say? Eh?’ Rosaleen’s brows rose in surprise
at the question. ‘Me engaged to Joe?’ A wistful look passed over her face and she added, with a deep sigh, ‘Perhaps if he had come along sooner I might have been tempted. Oh, my, but he’s a handsome brute, so he is.’

  Alarmed at these revelations, May gripped her by the shoulders and shook her fiercely.

  ‘Don’t be daft! You’ll never get anyone as good as Joe Smith,’ she warned.

  As far as she was concerned, the sun rose and shone on Joe Smith. If only he had fallen for her, life would have been marvellous.

  ‘I know! I know when I’m well off. I won’t do anything silly,’ Rosaleen promised, and hit May playfully on the shoulder. ‘Never fear. I’ve no intention of spoiling things.’

  Relieved, May relaxed and laughed. ‘Now, why couldn’t he have picked me?’ she jested. ‘Eh? Twenty-one and fancy free.’ But she knew why – the same reason that Joe had picked Rosaleen. Rosaleen was beautiful. She was mediocre.

  Glad that he had not put in an appearance, Rosaleen heaved a sigh of relief and hurried home to prepare for her night out with May. This was the highlight of her week, Friday night at the Club Orchid. Not for the world would she admit it, but she felt as if she was already a staid married woman. Joe was wonderful but a bit dull, and their relationship lacked sparkle. They were both staunch Catholics and lived up to the rules of the Church. No long kissing or close embracing; no walking in dark lonely places that were an occasion of sin.

  Still, sometimes she found it hard to bear when Joe put her firmly away from him, telling her that they must wait. He was able to control his emotions so much easier than she, and she felt frustrated and wicked because she longed to be held close and cuddled. Nothing serious, just a few kisses.

  It will be different once we’re married, she assured herself, not for the first time, and tried to picture Joe sweeping her off to bed on a wave of passion, but the man in her imagination had dark hair and deep blue eyes, and she blushed with shame as her thoughts ran on.