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Imprint Information
Published in 2015 by Blackstaff Press
4d Weavers Court
Linfield Road
Belfast bt12 5gh
With the assistance of
The Arts Council of Northern Ireland
© Alrene Hughes, 2015
Cover design by Two Associates
Cover photographs © IWM/Getty Images
All rights reserved
Alrene Hughes 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
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library
EPUB ISBN 978 0 85640 949 3
MOBI ISBN 978 0 85640 950 9
www.blackstaffpress.com
www.alrenehughes.com
About the Author
Alrene Hughes was born in Enniskillen, grew up in Belfast and now lives in Manchester. She is a member of the Manchester Irish Writers and her short stories and poetry have been published in anthologies and broadcast on radio. She was an English teacher for twenty years and now writes full time. The Golden Sisters is the sequel to her bestselling first novel Martha’s Girls, published by Blackstaff Press in 2013. Both books are inspired by a scrapbook of concert programmes and newspaper cuttings about her mother and her aunts, the real Golden Sisters.
Dedication
For Jeff, Adam and Dan
Chapter 1
Martha Goulding carried the bucket of soapy water out the back door and round to the front of the house. The smell of burning hung in the air and white dust from a thousand fires had settled on every surface. She wrung out the rag and started on the windows – wiping, dipping, wringing, over and over.
She tried not to think of streets just down the road where they were still pulling bodies from the rubble. Instead she pictured Irene, beautiful in her wedding dress, next to Sandy in his air force uniform. The two days leave he had been granted was no way to start married life, but she’d be glad to have her eldest daughter home from honeymoon and all her girls together tonight.
As she cleaned, she thought of other women sluicing away the debris from their homes – those who still had homes. Please God, don’t let them bomb us again, she prayed as she carried the dirty water to the drain. A charred piece of paper was caught behind the drainpipe. She gently pulled it out and saw it was a page from a child’s jotter with the title ‘The End of the World’. The rest was ash and crumbled in her hand.
When Peggy arrived for work at the music shop in Royal Avenue, her boss, Mr Goldstein, was outside on a stepladder, putting the finishing touches to the sign he had painted on the window. ‘Business As Usual’ it proclaimed and underneath ‘No Bomb Damage Here.’
‘Peggy, at last! Where have you been?’ His Polish accent thickened with agitation. ‘There is dust everywhere in the shop. Esther has made a start mopping the linoleum, so make sure you walk on the newspaper. You must dust all the gramophones, wirelesses and instruments.’
‘Mr Goldstein, there are no buses or trams running – I’ve had to walk all the way here. There’s so much bomb damage, rubble in the streets, roads closed because of ruptured gas mains, and water everywhere. I could do with a sit down and a cup of tea before I start.’
‘Humph … you may as well make one for Esther and me too.’
In the kitchen at the back of the shop Peggy put the kettle on. She removed the flat brown shoes she had borrowed from her mother to walk to work and replaced them with her black patent high heels. In the mirror over the sink she powdered her nose, and added another layer of lipstick. She smiled at her reflection, but her mood was no lighter by the time she had made the tea and carried it into the shop.
‘It doesn’t help when you’re dog-tired after being up half the night with these false air raid warnings. I’m sure the Germans have done their worst here, they must have plenty of other cities to bomb.’
Goldstein reached for his tea and shook his head. ‘No, they will be back for sure, Hitler has unfinished business in Belfast. Tuesday night’s raid was bad, but he will regard it as a failure.’
‘Failure! With all that damage, all those people killed?’
‘It wasn’t what they came for,’ Goldstein explained. ‘They meant to destroy the shipyard and aircraft factory, instead they lost their bearings and bombed people’s homes. You mark my words, they will be back.’
‘So we’re expected to spend every night under the stairs freezing in the pitch black and listening to air-raid sirens?’
‘Either that, or you could go into the hills like half the population are doing.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be climbing the Cave Hill to sleep in a ditch. I’d sooner take my chances with the Germans.’ She wiped the smear of lipstick off her cup and smiled. ‘Well, at least we’ve got some concerts to look forward to. I can’t wait to get rehearsing and performing again. Lisburn Barracks next, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid not, Peggy, I’ve had a phone call cancelling all concerts for the military. They’ve been put to work clearing unsafe buildings and I doubt civilian concerts would be well attended while there’s a threat of more bombing. I am sorry to say I have no idea when there will be another Barnstormers’ concert.’
‘Well, that’s just great. As if the bombing wasn’t bad enough, now we’ve got to live a miserable, boring existence as well!’
‘Now, now Peggy, be thankful that you and your family are safe and that you’ve still got a roof over your head, not to mention a job. Speaking of which …’ Goldstein nodded towards the shelf of wirelesses covered in dust.
Peggy rolled her eyes, piled the cups and saucers on the tray, marched into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink.
The motorbike, driven by a young man in an air force uniform and with a pretty dark-haired girl riding pillion, pulled up outside Short Brothers and Harland aircraft factory. The girl, dressed in a pair of men’s trousers, jumped off the bike, pulled out a headscarf and in one long fluid movement bent over and wrapped it turban-like around her head. Neither of them spoke. She looked over her shoulder at the workers swarming through the factory gates and absent-mindedly twisted the rings on her finger. He caught her hand and whispered in her ear. She smiled and he pulled her close to kiss her goodbye.
Irene passed through the factory gates feeling she’d rather be anywhere but there and praying she would get through the day. She had no desire to speak to anyone and she certainly didn’t want to deal with any questions. She’d been off work less than a week and during that time Belfast had been bombed, her best friend had been killed and she’d married a man she loved with all her heart even though she hardly knew him.
She clocked in and went through to the hangar. Robert McVey, his face pale and anxious, had obviously been looking out for her. ‘Glad you’re back, Irene. You heard about Myrtle?’
She held back the tears. ‘I heard. She didn’t turn up to the wedding and someone came to tell us that she’d been killed in the bombing. When’s the funeral?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘But surely– ’
‘There’s a bit of a problem,’ Robert looked down and scuffed his boot across the floor as he spoke. ‘You know she went to stay with some cousins in Thorndyke Street after her house was bombed last month? Well, the cousins’ house took a direct hit this time. Everyone inside was killed. When they brought the bodies out, there was no one there who could identify her.’ He raised his head and saw Irene’s puzzled look. ‘The unclaimed bodies were removed, but we don’t know where they’ve been taken.’
‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Skivvy, or should I call you Mrs Skivvy now?’ The foreman stood in his office doorway
and sniggered at his own joke. ‘Come ’ere, there’s someone I want ye to meet.’ Without a word, Irene followed him.
A young woman dressed in heavy blue trousers and a green checked shirt was standing in the office. Her hair was a mass of red curls and she towered over Irene.
‘Hi, how’ya doin’?’ She shook Irene’s hand.
‘This is Miss Macy. You’ll be looking after her today, showin’ her the ropes, so to speak.’
‘It’s Macy, just Macy, an’ I’m guessin’ you’re Irene.’
‘You’re American?’
‘Well spotted, accent throws a lot of people.’
‘Not me, I’ve watched enough American films to recognise it anywhere. Are you going to be skivvying with me?’
The foreman interrupted. ‘Not this one. She won’t be sweeping floors; she’s something different altogether,’ and he sniggered again.
Macy ignored him. ‘I’m a riveter. Gonna be workin’ on the Stirling bombers.’
‘A riveter?’ Irene was amazed. ‘But you’re a woman!’
‘Certainly am. How about that … a riveter and a woman?’ and she threw back her head and laughed.
The foreman ignored her and went on, ‘Yer to take Miss Macy to the stores to pick up her tools, ye can show her around a bit too, then she’s to come back here and report to Robert. Tea and lunch breaks, take her to the canteen.’ He looked straight at Macy and added, ‘She’s to sit with the women.’
On the way to the stores, Irene had a job to keep up with her charge. As she strode through the factory, the workers stopped what they were doing to stare.
‘Do you always move this fast?’ Irene shouted as Macy ran up the stairs two at a time.
‘I do when there’s a job to be done. Heard you lost four planes in the raid Tuesday night, saw their carcasses out near the runway first thing, damn shame!’
‘Is that why you’re over here? To help us?’
‘It’s one reason.’
‘But America isn’t in the war. Why would you risk coming over here?’
‘Maybe I’m looking for some adventure.’ She laughed again. ‘I heard so much about Ireland when I was growing up, figured I’d come take a look. Managed to get cheap passage on a convoy; guess most of the traffic goes the other way.’
‘Have you family in Belfast?’
‘Don’t know, might have. My grandmother used to talk about how her family came over from Ireland.’
‘So where are you living?’
‘Checked into the YWCA, just next to City Hall, for now, same as I did in New York when I worked there. Good way to meet people.’
Irene’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve been to New York city? What was it like?’
‘Like Belfast, only a thousand times bigger, on a river close to the sea. You’ve seen it in the movies, right?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Well, that’s just what it’s like, only bigger and noisier and more people than you can imagine.’
The store man, usually miserable without two words to say to anyone, was unexpectedly talkative. ‘You’re that Yank girl, aren’t ye? Got your stuff ready here.’
Macy looked through the canvas tool bag and picked out the hammer, weighing it in her hand. ‘Hey, what’s this, a joke?’
‘It’s the lightest one we’ve got. You’ll just have to manage the best ye can.’
She tossed it back on the counter. ‘Then you’d better get me the heaviest.’
Robert was waiting for them when they got to the hangar where there seemed to be a surprising number of men standing around taking a breather. There were a few wolf whistles and someone shouted, ‘Howdy, pardner’.
‘Sorry about that,’ Robert looked embarrassed.
Macy shrugged. ‘It happens, don’t worry. If they’re still doing it in a couple a days, I’ll be surprised.’
‘I’d better get back to work,’ said Irene. ‘See you at tea break, Macy.’
‘Sure thing.’
As Irene walked away there was a noise behind her and she turned to see Macy running up the ladder and disappearing into the Stirling bomber to the sound of clapping.
Every day, as Pat Goulding arrived for work at Stormont, home of the Northern Ireland government, she felt her heart lift at the sight of the elegant white building on the crest of the hill, surrounded by sweeping lawns. But this morning she was surprised to see a small crowd outside watching workmen erecting scaffolding across the façade.
‘What’s going on?’ Pat asked a woman she knew by sight.
‘They’re going to paint it with pitch and cow dung. Why on earth would they want to do that, do you think?’
Pat could guess why and what’s more she had a good idea who had given the order.
Inside the building she made her way to the offices of the Ministry of Public Security where several of the clerks in the air-raid precautions department were already hard at work gathering information on Tuesday’s raid and writing reports. The deadline for the comprehensive report of bomb damage and defence response was fast approaching and Pat got to work quickly – collating, reading, précising reports from Air Raid Precautions posts around the city. The minister expected the report by two o’clock, which meant William Kennedy, his permanent secretary, would want to see her draft before noon. William Kennedy … Pat closed her eyes and allowed herself a few moments to remember the touch of his hand, the smile just for her and the joy of singing with him at Irene’s wedding. Was that only two days ago?
At 11.30 a.m. precisely she knocked on his door. He was sitting behind the mahogany desk, head in his hands. He looked up as she came in and attempted a smile. She saw at once that he was exhausted, knew instinctively that he would have been all over the city to see the damage for himself and would have listened to numerous horrific accounts, all the time feeling responsible and desperate to make a difference. She had no doubt it was William who had ordered the camouflage of Stormont.
He took the report from her and scanned it quickly, but said nothing. Instead he went to the window and stared out over the immaculate lawns. Pat waited. When he finally spoke, she felt a stab of disappointment at his clipped tone.
‘The prime minister is to make a statement about the state of emergency. Our priority is of course to restore normality – gas, electricity and water supplies’ – he pointed at the report – ‘but this will also help us understand how people reacted to the bombing. You’ve mentioned the fear felt by the children, so maybe it’s time to try another evacuation programme to get them out of harm’s way. Then there’s the worry of thousands of people sleeping rough every night.’
Pat was surprised. ‘We had no reports of such huge numbers.’
‘You only have the numbers of those sheltering in designated buildings – church halls and the like. Those people are the lucky ones. The cumulative damage to housing equates to twenty thousand homeless and add to that the people leaving their homes to spend the night in the hills because they’re terrified of being bombed.’ He managed a fleeting smile and his voice softened, ‘I wanted to speak to you about that.’ He indicated that she should sit down. ‘I’m getting together a group of people to go up the Cave Hill tomorrow night to find out about conditions and to talk to people about why they’re not going to the shelters. I’d really like you to come with us.’
The thought of being out at night with William both excited and disturbed Pat. ‘I’m not sure about–’
‘Pat, I’ve always valued your common sense when it comes to understanding why people react as they do.’ There was a pleading in his voice she’d never heard before.
‘But to be tramping around up there in the dark …’
‘There’ll be six of us. I’m hoping three men and three women. I’m thinking the mothers with children might talk more freely to another woman.’
Pat bit her lip. His reasoning was sound, but what would her mother say about her being out all night?
William leaned across the desk. ‘This is important work
, Pat. The ministry needs information so we can make the right decisions about how to protect people. Please say you’ll join us.’
Martha was in the front bedroom cleaning the inside of the windows when she caught sight of Betty Harper from next door leaving her house. Something about the way she was moving – head down, small quick steps and clearly out of breath – made Martha call out, ‘Are you all right, Betty?’ The woman stopped and looked around her. ‘I’m up here,’ shouted Martha. The look on her neighbour’s upturned face sent a shiver through her. ‘Wait there,’ she called, ‘I’m coming down.’
Up close, Martha could see Betty was struggling to catch her breath between sobs. Her hair hadn’t been combed and she’d probably slept in her clothes. ‘What on earth’s the matter? Come inside.’
‘I can’t. I have to find my sister.’
Martha put an arm round Betty’s shoulder. ‘Sure come in for a minute and talk to me.’
Martha busied herself boiling the kettle and setting out the cups and saucers. ‘Am I right in thinking you haven’t eaten for a while?’
‘Aye that’s true enough, maybe not since yesterday afternoon.’
Martha set a plate of soda bread on the table. ‘Help yourself, you’ll be able to think better with something inside you.’
When she was calmer, Betty began to speak. ‘After the raid Jack and I went to check on my sister and her family. The street was closed – they said it was a ruptured gas main, but we could see her house had been destroyed. One of the ARP men said the dead and casualties had been taken to hospital and everyone else had gone to church halls or relatives’ – she blinked and brushed away the tears with the palm of her hand – ‘so we went looking.’ She paused, stared at her hands in her lap. A minute passed, Martha waited. ‘I never dreamt there were such sights. We couldn’t find her anywhere. Then we heard they’d set up temporary mortuaries in the swimming baths and we went there first thing …’
Golden Sisters Page 1
