Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  But Irene wasn’t listening. ‘Do you want to know what the worst of it is?’ Her voice was rising hysterically. ‘Myrtle was expecting a baby, so that’s the two of them dead – a wee baby, Mammy!’

  Martha hugged her close. ‘Ssh, ssh now,’ she whispered over and over, for there was no other comfort she could offer and she couldn’t trust herself to say much else.

  Irene pulled away from her. ‘I didn’t want to be in Bangor, you know. I wanted to come home as soon as I got there. I tried to tell Sandy how I felt and about Myrtle, but all I could do was cry. I don’t think he knew what to do.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing really, left me to it and went for a walk. That’s when he came back with the tickets for Caproni’s. I told him he was cruel.’

  Martha was suddenly alert. ‘Was he? Did he upset you?’

  ‘Ach no, he was kind, but I wasn’t myself, was I? And now he’s gone and …’ She gripped Martha’s arm. ‘What’s it meant to feel like when you’re married, Mammy? Please tell me, because I’m just empty inside and I know that’s probably because of Myrtle and the baby’ – her tears were falling again – ‘but I don’t really think about Sandy at all.’

  ‘Oh, Irene, marriage isn’t some sort of secret feeling that comes with a ring. It’s a hard slog, believe you me, and you have to work at it.’ She smiled then, remembering something her own mother had told her years ago. ‘Being married is like baking soda bread; you make it fresh every day and some days it tastes better than others. You’ll find your own recipe, but don’t forget, sometimes you have to make it with sour milk, if that’s all you have.’

  ‘Aye, maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. Mammies always are!’

  Irene smiled in spite of herself, dried her eyes and fetched the bowls for the porridge. ‘But, you know, I’m glad to be home. I don’t think I could go off and live in some RAF base even if Sandy asked me to.’

  ‘It might not come to that. With a war on they can’t be thinking about housing wives and families.’

  ‘You’re probably right, and when this war ends maybe Sandy will leave the air force and we could live in Belfast.’ She seemed to brighten then and stirred the porridge and filled the bowls. ‘Have we any honey left?’

  ‘Aye, Betty gave me some. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to thousands of bees living next door, but I do love their honey.’

  ‘Jack makes me laugh, every time I see him out there in his beekeeper outfit. What will he think of next? We’ve had vegetables, chickens, and now bees – could be a few pigs, you never know.’

  ‘Please God, no. I don’t think I could stand the smell!’

  ‘Mammy, you know I was out last night with somebody from work?’ Martha thought it better not to voice her annoyance. ‘Well, it was a new girl and she’s on her own, living in the YWCA. I felt a bit sorry for her. So, you can say no if you want to, but could I ask her to come for her tea one night?’

  ‘Aye well, I suppose so, but you’d better tell her it won’t be great; there’s less and less in the shops every day.’

  ‘She won’t mind whatever you give her, it’ll be a novelty. She’s American.’

  ‘God bless us,’ said Martha, ‘sure she’ll be used to steaks and ice cream and things like that!’

  ‘Who would?’ said Peggy, who’d appeared in her candlewick dressing gown.

  ‘Irene’s American friend.’

  Peggy’s eyes widened. ‘Where did you meet him? What’s he called?’

  ‘It’s not a he, it’s a she and she’s called Macy.’

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘An American one, of course.’

  Martha handed Peggy her porridge. ‘And what were you doing at the Plaza last night?’

  ‘Aah … I was earning some money.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ Martha looked sceptical. ‘Doing what exactly?’

  ‘Hat-check girl, I think the Americans call it,’ and she giggled at her cleverness.

  ‘You never asked me if you could work in a dance hall.’

  ‘There wasn’t time.’ She reached for the honey and stirred a large spoonful into her porridge. ‘I was walking past at lunchtime and there was a notice on the door. I went in on the off chance just to ask about it. The manager offered me the job there and then; only Saturday nights, mind you, and I get five shillings. I did come home to ask you, Mammy, but you weren’t here.’ Peggy looked sideways at her mother as if to imply it was her fault that permission wasn’t given. Then she pressed home her advantage. ‘You can have the five shillings towards the housekeeping, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ said Martha and she busied herself setting a tray with porridge and tea.

  Think all you want, thought Peggy, but I’ll certainly be there next Saturday, for the tips and to see Devlin again.

  ‘I’ll take this up to Pat, she’s having a lie-in today.’

  When Martha had gone, Peggy leaned across the table. ‘Did you find out what happened to her last night? Was she out with William Kennedy?’

  ‘Seems they went up the Cave Hill to talk to the ditchers–’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Ditchers – the people who’ve been sleeping out in the open – anyway I think she slipped and fell down a–’

  ‘Ditch!’ Peggy laughed. ‘And did Kennedy push her, catch her, or fall on top of her!’

  ‘Whatever happened, he’s in the doghouse with Mammy.’

  Upstairs, Pat lay in bed staring at the ceiling. ‘How are you today?’ asked Martha.

  ‘I’m fine, just a few cuts and bruises.’

  ‘Pat, did those young fellows …’

  ‘Mammy, I’ve told you it was horseplay and William was there as soon as I shouted.’

  ‘He should have been there the whole time. Leaving you alone in the dark, I ask you. Well, you can take a week off on the sick. They’ll manage without you, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m going in as normal tomorrow. There’s work to be done.’

  ‘Well, I can’t stop you, but I’ll tell you this for nothing, my girl, I don’t expect to see Mr Kennedy back here any time soon!’

  After breakfast, Martha and Irene sat on the back step watching Sheila wash and polish the bike she got from the McCrackens.

  ‘You mean to say she pushed that ugly article all the way from Manor Street?’ asked Irene.

  Martha laughed. ‘She certainly did. The conductor wouldn’t let her on the bus with it.’

  ‘But she can’t ride a bike, can she?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but do you think that’ll stop her?’

  ‘Maybe a few cut knees and lumps on her head might.’

  ‘Do you know your tyres are flat as a pancake, Sheila?’ shouted Peggy from the bedroom window.

  ‘Of course I do. I just need a pump. Do you know who’s got one?’

  ‘Try the McKees – the boys used to have a bike.’

  Sheila returned a few minutes later with a pump, oil can, several spanners and Brian McKee.

  ‘We’ll soon have this chariot on the road for you,’ he said and pumped up the tyres, then tightened and oiled the brakes. ‘Now sit on the saddle, Sheila, and put your feet on the ground, so I can adjust the height for you.’

  Sheila wobbled from side to side, but couldn’t get both feet on the ground at the same time.

  ‘Hop off,’ said Brian and made the adjustment. ‘That should do it.’

  Sheila sat in the saddle and balanced the bike perfectly. Brian opened the gate. ‘Right, off you go!’

  Sheila looked up at Peggy, then at Irene and Martha on the step, and pushed off. Within a turn of the wheels she had over-balanced and fallen against the wall of the house and grazed her arm.

  Brian picked her up. ‘Have you ridden a bike before?’

  ‘No,’ said Sheila and pedalled off again. This time the front wheel veered sharply from side to side as she tried desperately to stay upright. Brian ran afte
r her and caught the saddle. ‘Come on, you,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the whole day; let’s find a flat stretch of road.’

  Peggy waited until Martha had left for St George’s Market before sitting down at the piano to play ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, one of the songs she’d been practising in the shop. The sound immediately brought Irene and Pat in from the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve learned one already!’ Irene exclaimed.

  ‘Said I would, didn’t I?’

  ‘Have you the words too?’ asked Pat.

  Peggy handed them a sheet. ‘Are you ready to run through it? Don’t worry about the harmonies, we’ll work those out later.’

  Irene and Pat looked at each other and laughed. ‘Let’s do it!’

  Peggy played the lively intro while her sisters clicked their fingers, moved in time to the rhythm and nearly came in on cue. At the end of the second verse Peggy held up her hand to stop the singing while she played a riff improvised in a blues style. Her sisters danced in the circle between the piano and the rest of the furniture. In the next verse Pat sang the melody while Irene did her best to harmonise with the sound of a trumpet. By the last verse, with Peggy singing too, the song filled the house and escaped through the open window and into the street.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Irene. ‘We could have it ready for the next Barnstormers’ concert.’

  ‘That’s if there is a next one,’ said Pat.

  ‘Doesn’t matter if there isn’t,’ said Peggy. ‘There are plenty of other opportunities to perform.’

  ‘You’re not still thinking of a dance band are you?’ Pat was sceptical.

  ‘Oh you’d be surprised by what I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Don’t be so mysterious,’ said Irene. ‘Tell us.’

  Peggy hadn’t intended to reveal the full extent of her plans, but she couldn’t resist showing off. ‘Apart from another excellent song I’ve learned, I could also show you something I’ve bought.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Irene.

  Pat said nothing.

  ‘Wait here!’ and Peggy ran out the door and up the stairs.

  ‘You shouldn’t encourage her, Irene, Lord knows what she’s up to.’

  ‘Ta-da!’ shouted Peggy waving the Butterwick patterns. ‘We have the songs, next the style!’

  Irene was delighted. ‘They’re gorgeous! Imagine being on the stage in dresses like these.’

  ‘I think we could combine the two, you know, get the best of both. This neckline, but with these sleeves would really work. We’ll look like professional singers.’

  ‘But we’re not,’ said Pat. Her sisters turned to look at her. ‘Well, we’re not! Besides, there are two problems with your plan, Peggy.’

  ‘Oh … only two?’

  Pat ignored her sarcasm. ‘These are just pretty pictures and bits of paper. So tell me – how will we pay for the material and secondly who’s going to make them for us?’

  ‘You’re such a spoilsport!’

  ‘I’m a realist.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, you two,’ shouted Irene.

  But Pat was getting into her stride. ‘And Goldstein isn’t organising any concerts, so where do you think we’re going to sing, even if we had the dresses? Answer me that.’

  ‘I’ve somewhere in mind, but I’m not saying where.’

  ‘Ach, catch yourself on!’ said Pat.

  It was late afternoon when Irene lit a fire in the sitting room. They sat around reading magazines waiting for Martha to come home. When she hadn’t arrived by six, Pat went to the kitchen to get the potatoes on. There was still no sign of Martha when Pat mashed the potatoes and added the scallions and butter so she carried the steaming plates into the front room and the girls sat warm and content eating their champ and listening to the wireless.

  They had drawn the blackout curtains and added a small shovel of slack to the fire when they heard the back door open and moments later Martha came into the room. Sheila was first on her feet. ‘Mammy, are you all right? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m fine, just a bit tired. It was a long day, so many people looking for their relatives.’ Martha’s shoulders were slumped and she looked pale and worn.

  ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you your tea. I kept it warm in the oven.’ said Pat.

  ‘I’ll away and have a bath first, ease my bones.’

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ve something for you.’ Peggy ran upstairs, returning moments later. ‘Here you are, the bath salts I got for my birthday. They’ll make the water softer for you.’

  ‘Thanks, love, you’re a good girl.’

  ‘Why does she look so ill?’ asked Sheila when their mother had gone.

  ‘She’s not ill,’ said Irene, ‘just exhausted, I think.’

  Later, they all sat together in the sitting room listening to the Sunday service followed by the news. Ever since she had been given the wireless set by her sister Anna, Martha had never missed the news before going to bed. Tonight there were reports about the British attempting to stem the German advance in Greece.

  ‘Why would the Germans go to Greece?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘Dictators will go anywhere to frighten people and take their country. It’s what they do,’ said Martha, ‘until someone is brave enough to stop them.’ She eased herself out of the chair. ‘I think I’ll take a couple of Aspros and go to bed. Make sure you lock the doors and see to the fire.’

  Under the eiderdown, with her feet on the hot-water bottle, Martha lay perfectly still, trying to ease her aching body and thumping head and desperately hoping sleep would come. But the images of the day were lodged in her mind: the old woman shuffling down the rows of coffins searching for her son; the girl, not much older than Sheila, with not a mark on her still there at the end of the day, unclaimed. Until, at last, memories became nightmares and she found herself running in a landscape of ruins, desperate to escape the deafening noise that pursued her.

  ‘Mammy, Mammy, get up quickly!’ The room was pitch-dark and the ruins had gone, but the noise remained. ‘It’s the air-raid siren,’ shouted Pat. ‘We have to get under the stairs!’

  They had long since worked out the routine to fit all five of them into the cramped space with blankets, pillows and a torch to hand.

  ‘This is nearly every night now. I’m really fed up with it,’ moaned Sheila. ‘It’ll be another false alarm, you’ll see.’

  ‘Better false alarms than bombs,’ said Pat. ‘They’ll be back soon, we can’t risk staying in our beds. Anyway, if you don’t like it, why don’t you agree to be evacuated?’

  ‘How many more times do I have to tell you? I’m not going!’

  ‘That’s enough! There isn’t room in here for arguments.’

  ‘But Mammy– ’

  ‘No, Sheila, I heard today that Lord Haw Haw said– ’

  ‘You can’t believe what that traitor says. He’s just trying to frighten people!’

  Martha carried on regardless. ‘Lord Haw Haw said they’re going to attack Belfast again as soon as we’ve buried our dead. And I’m telling you there’s a wee girl, just like you, who’ll be buried in a mass grave tomorrow and she’d still be alive today if she’d been evacuated to the country. Now that’s an end to it, all of you, try to get some sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Peggy stood at the window watching Goldstein hurry across Royal Avenue and walk briskly towards his club, where he’d spend a couple of hours having lunch and a fine cigar with a few business acquaintances as he did every Wednesday afternoon. No doubt they would grumble about the slow trade since the bombings and their falling profits.

  When he had disappeared, Peggy turned to Esther. ‘We’ll try a little experiment while your uncle’s away, to see if we can persuade people to come into the shop and maybe even buy something. This is what we’ll do … ’

  The shop door was open wide and Esther stood just inside with a welcoming smile, greeting each person as they ventured inside to see what was going on. Peggy was sitting at one of the pianos, p
laying one popular song after another. Before long the shop was full of people lingering and browsing and – once Peggy had nodded to Esther to return to the counter – buying. As they left, they were replaced by others attracted by the lively music and the sight of a shop full of people.

  Peggy had just finished ‘Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart’ when a dapper-looking gentleman who had been standing next to the piano asked, ‘Can you play “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen”?’

  Peggy hesitated, it wasn’t her style at all, but she managed a smile. ‘Of course.’ Four bars in, the man began to hum, after eight bars his rich baritone voice was filling the shop and people were crowding in the doorway. He finished to warm applause, whereupon Peggy stood up and announced. ‘A wonderful song and you can buy the sheet music or a gramophone record right now.’

  ‘What about “We’ll Meet Again”?’

  ‘Yes, you can buy that here too.’

  ‘No, will you play it?’

  Peggy gritted her teeth, she loathed the song, but needs must, she thought. Several people quickly crowded around the piano to sing along and so it went on. Peggy would play, people would sing and some would buy. Eventually, she announced there would be a break while she helped serve the queuing customers.

  ‘Sure that’s a pity, I was enjoying the sing-song.’ The voice was unmistakeable. It was Devlin looking like he’d come straight from a tailor’s shop – and an expensive one at that.

  Peggy touched her hair, shaping it round her ears, knowing it would accentuate her high cheekbones and took a step towards him. ‘Were you here when I was playing the Glenn Miller?’

  ‘No, I missed that.’

  She was so close she could see the neat hand-stitching on the lapels of his pinstripe suit. ‘That’s a pity. I don’t usually play these sing-along tunes. Not my style at all. I could play something else if you like.’

  ‘I really need to get back to the Plaza – things to do.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘What about some Ella Fitzgerald or the Inkspots maybe?’ she called after him, but he was already at the door and didn’t look back.

  Almost as soon as Devlin had gone, Goldstein came hurrying in, his eyes wide with surprise at the sight of the queuing customers and the lively atmosphere. ‘What’s going on? Why are all these people here?’