Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘You’re going to re-form the Barnstormers?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ he smiled as he repeated the phrase he had used so many times before, ‘and you two – Belfast’s Sweethearts – will be the stars of the show!’

  Chapter 9

  On the wall at the side of the bed was a picture … red … a heart … delicate hands … the face of a man watching over her … a kind face. Sheila recalled seeing him before when she awoke from a deep sleep. How many times had she closed her eyes on his face and slept?

  ‘Sure there you are now, wideawake, praise be to God.’ Bridie McManus was next to the bed.

  ‘Where am I?’ asked Sheila.

  ‘You’re in our Dermot’s room. We couldn’t a left ye in that wee house a yours on your own, could we? Not with ye being concussed an’ all. We’ve sent him to sleep out there.’

  Sheila tried to sit up and winced at the pain that shot from the tips of her fingers to her elbow. ‘What’s happened to me?’

  ‘Ah, your wrist’s in a bit of a mess, now. Not broken, but you’ll have that bandage on it a while yet. Do you remember being knocked off your bike?’

  ‘I think so, but I don’t remember how I got here. I woke up a few times and went back to sleep. Have I slept in? Is it time to get up?

  Bridie laughed, ‘Aye, ye could say that.’

  Sheila threw the covers back, ‘Rose’ll be needing me in the shop.’

  ‘Not so fast, now,’ said Bridie and she helped her sit up and propped the pillows behind her head. ‘Sit a wee while, get your bearings. Shall I to make ye a bite to eat?’

  Sheila realised she was starving. ‘Yes please, but can I get up to eat it?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You’ve got the colour back in your face. Get yourself dressed and come down.’

  The fire was lit in the kitchen to take the chill off the damp day. Even so, Sheila was glad of the blanket Bridie offered her. She wrapped herself in it and curled up in the chair.

  ‘I remember delivering the meat and then I got lost. Is that when I fell off my bike?’

  ‘Aye, and just missed bein’ hit by a lorry I’m told.’

  ‘What happened to the bike?’

  ‘To tell ye the truth I don’t know. We were more concerned about you.’ Bridie put a thick bacon sandwich in front of Sheila. ‘We brought you back here; the doctor said you’d want careful watching. Powerful dangerous, you know, a blow to the head.’

  ‘How long have I been here then?’

  ‘A few days, you’ve been dozing on and off.’

  Sheila jumped up, ‘Oh I’ll need to write to my mother to tell her I arrived safely and to give her your address so she can write to me.’

  ‘Aisy now’ – Bridie helped her back into the chair – ‘time enough for writin’ when your wrist’s a bit stronger. Sure your mother knows yer here with us. The Evacuee Officer had to write and tell her about the accident, regulations you know. Anyway, he just said you’d fallen off yer bike bumped yer head and sprained yer wrist, nothin’ to worry about.’

  ‘So she knows I’m safe?’

  ‘Of course she does. You’ll probably get a letter from her any day now. In the meantime, yer excused shop duties. So you an’ me’ll just potter about ’til yer feelin’ better.’

  Over the next few days Sheila and Bridie fell into a routine that was both mundane and mysterious. After breakfast, when the rest of the household had gone to work, Sheila cleared the table while Bridie washed the dishes. Then they’d settle down at the fireside, Bridie with her knitting and Sheila with a book. The McManus family weren’t great readers, but they did have an oak bookcase with a set of Everyman’s library books.

  ‘You go ahead and help yerself, Sheila. Sure nobody’s touched them there books since Frank brought them home from an auction in Pomeroy twenty years ago. Claims he waved at a fella across the room and it cost him ten shillings. He was half-cut at the time, if ye ask me.’

  When Bridie got to the end of the ball of wool, she looked up and asked, ‘What book is it ye have?’

  ‘It’s called Jane Eyre. I think it’s her life story. She’s only a wee girl now.’

  ‘Tell ye what, why don’t ye read it out loud, give me somethin’ to listen to while I crack on with the knittin’?’

  And so they whiled away an hour or two until dinner time.

  ‘Would ye credit the badness of that John Reid gettin’ Jane in trouble for no good reason? I’d take my hand to him, I’m tellin’ ye!’ said Bridie as they tucked into fried egg and potato bread. ‘I’m dyin’ to know what happens to the wee girl.’

  Just before two o’clock, with Jane Eyre on her way to Lowood School, Bridie shoved the knitting down the side of her chair. ‘We’ll take a wee break there, I think,’ and she heaved herself up and made her way over to the range to put the kettle on the hob. ‘I’m expectin’ a visitor,’ she said. The hesitant note in her voice caused Sheila to look up from the book.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Ach no, there’s no need.’ Bridie crossed the kitchen and sat down. She clearly wanted to say something, but seemed to be searching for a way to begin. ‘Give me your hands, Sheila.’ Bridie took Sheila’s hands in her own, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. After a moment she began to speak quietly as though reading something behind her closed eyelids.

  ‘I see you crying. The room is very warm. There’s a man nearby.’ Bridie paused as though deciphering something, ‘Aah I see … his soul has left his body.’

  Sheila pulled her hands back, but Bridie held them fast. ‘Something more …’

  After a moment Bridie opened her eyes and released her grip. Then she lifted her hand to Sheila’s startled face. ‘Don’t be frightened. What’s happened to you can be known by others through you,’ and she caught a lock of Sheila’s hair as it rested on her shoulders. ‘I saw you another time and your hair was cropped like a boy’s. Why did you cut it?’

  ‘The man was my daddy, I was the only one there when he died and I sold my hair because we needed some money. How do you know these things?’

  ‘The same way I know how to breathe.’ The kettle began to rattle gently on the range. ‘Give me your hands again.’

  Curiosity got the better of Sheila’s fears and she didn’t resist when Bridie took her hands and turned them palms upwards. This time Bridie did not close her eyes, but instead examined Sheila’s hands, tracing her fingers along their lines

  ‘I see you all alone in a bright light and there’s music all around you.’

  ‘I don’t remember that,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Don’t worry, you will.’ The kettle began to whistle and at the same moment there was a soft tapping on the back door.

  ‘Now Sheila, I want you to make a pot of tea and, when I tell you, bring three cups to the table for you, me and the visitor. The rest of the time you’re to sit in the chair by the fire and be absolutely still.’ With that Bridie opened the door and an elderly woman wearing an ancient hat of brown felt pulled low over her brow came in. Her coat was good tweed, but many sizes too big for her and on her feet were Wellington boots.

  Sheila busied herself making the tea, but kept an ear open to the conversation. The woman had the strong Dungannon accent, but fortunately Bridie did most of the talking.

  First she took the woman’s rough hands and closed her eyes. ‘Ye lost a beast, did ye?’

  ‘Aye, aye. A pig …’ The cause, though given, was indecipherable.

  ‘Rows with yer son again – he’s not tellin’ ye the truth, ye know.’

  And so it went on: Bridie seeing and the woman believing, until she released the woman’s hands and called, ‘Sheila, fetch Mrs McCann a cup a tea, will ye?’

  All three sat at the table drinking, the two women swapping gossip, while Sheila tried hard to catch the gist. Mrs McCann drank noisily and drained her cup past the dregs, so they stuck to the side of the cup. Then she pushed it across the table to Bridie, who with an almost imperceptible nod of h
er head signalled to Sheila to move away. Bridie placed the cup upside down on the saucer and turned it three times before lifting it to examine the tea leaves.

  ‘You’ve a store of apples from last year. You need to get them used or they’ll not be fit to eat.’

  Mrs McCann nodded. Bridie turned the cup.

  ‘There’s a letter here, from across water on its way to ye.’

  ‘That’ll be me brother in Manchester.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bridie. ‘This is from very far away.’

  Mrs McCann opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. She glanced over at Sheila, who appeared lost in her book, then leaned across the table and whispered, ‘Could it be from Amerikay?’

  ‘Aye, it could, right enough,’ said Bridie.

  Mrs McCann’s eyes opened wide. ‘And is it good news I’ll be gettin’?

  ‘Suffice it to say, there’ll be money involved.’

  ‘Well, I never, after all these years.’

  When Mrs McCann had gone, Sheila went to the table where Bridie was sitting quietly. ‘You saw those things in the tea leaves?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So it wasn’t true?’

  ‘Ach, it might be. We’ll have to wait an’ see.’ Bridie picked up a silver florin that lay on the table and went to the dresser.

  ‘And she pays you to read the future?’

  Bridie opened a cocoa tin and dropped the money inside. ‘Not at all, she gives the money to me and I give it to the missionaries to help the wee black babies.’

  By the end of the week, Jane Eyre had seen the death of her dear friend Helen at Lowood School and, with an authorial sleight of hand, had grown into a young woman – no longer a pupil, but a respected teacher. In the McManus kitchen Sheila had seen two more women drink their tea to the dregs and learn their future and Bridie had finished the matinee coat and was struggling to shape the matching bootees.

  ‘Bridie, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Ask away,’ came the reply.

  ‘Could you teach me to do that?’

  ‘What … knit bootees?’

  ‘No, teach me to tell a person’s fortune!’

  ‘Sure what would ye want to do that for?’

  ‘Well, those women come in and they look sort of worried and when they leave they seem easier in their minds somehow and …’ Sheila struggled to explain, ‘I just thought it would be good to help people like that.’

  ‘Aye, but maybe they’re worried because they know they shouldn’t be dabbling in things they don’t understand and when they leave me they’re relieved I’ve told them nothin’ bad.’

  Sheila’s eyes widened, ‘You see bad things too?’

  Bridie raised her eyebrows as though surprised at Sheila’s naivety. ‘Look, I see what I see, but I tell them what they want to hear.’

  ‘But how do you see it all? Will you not tell me?’

  Bridie rested the knitting in her lap, ‘Come over here and sit down, Sheila. Now then, take my hands like I take theirs.’ Sheila took Bridie’s large soft hands and held them. ‘Close your eyes and try to clear your mind; the only thing you’re to think about are my hands in yours. Sit quietly and wait for an idea of what to say to enter your head.’

  Sheila did as she was told. Time passed, her mind wandered and she struggled to bring it back to Bridie’s hands. In not much more than a minute she opened her eyes to see Bridie smiling at her.

  ‘Well, what did you see?’

  ‘Nothing, I saw nothing at all.’ Sheila couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  ‘Ye must’ve seen something.’

  ‘I didn’t. Nothing to speak of anyway.’

  ‘Ye can say anything that comes into your head.’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t be seeing something from your past or something that’s going to happen to you in the future, would it?’

  ‘Sheila, ye asked me to teach ye how I do it and that’s it, I’ve told ye. How to get it right can’t be taught. I think it’s something in my head that’s switched on, but in other people it isn’t.’

  ‘Can I have another try?’

  Bridie nodded. ‘I’ll be happy if you tell me these bootees’ll be finished before my grandchild arrives.’

  Sheila concentrated hard, her grip on Bridie’s hands tightened, she felt them slip a little, and for the briefest of moments she imagined them smeared red with blood like Frank’s when he carried the trays of meat into the shop.

  ‘I can see you. You’ve been helping Mr McManus with the butchering,’ said Sheila and opened her eyes.

  ‘Have I indeed? Well that’ll be a first!’

  The Municipal Technical Institute was one of Belfast’s grandest buildings with elaborate carved stonework and elegant turrets topped by copper domes, but the Goulding sisters had no wish to raise their eyes from the pavement to marvel at its splendour. Instead, as the rain beat off the streets, all three of them huddled under one umbrella and dashed across College Square, intent only on avoiding puddles.

  At the heart of the Institute was a large auditorium with arched ceilings. Along one side of the room were tall thin stained-glass windows, giving it a church-like feel, but instead of biblical scenes they depicted the crafts studied by the students. Several performers stood around chatting, others were already seated and each new arrival was greeted with hugs or handshakes and a noticeable rise in the noise level.

  ‘Mr Goldstein invited all the Barnstormer acts along, but there’ll be new acts who want to audition as well,’ explained Peggy. ‘He’s asked me to accompany anyone who needs backing music, so I’ll go and get ready at the piano.’

  ‘Peggy, you remember the songs we’ve agreed on?’ asked Pat.

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’

  ‘It’s an important one. I want to be sure you won’t play the introduction to a song you prefer, rather than what we’ve rehearsed.’

  ‘Ach, catch yourself on. Why would I do that?’ and she flounced off.

  ‘Because that’s what you usually do!’ Pat shouted after her.

  The room was filling up fast and Goldstein was already at the front checking his watch when Irene caught sight of someone coming through the door.

  ‘She’s here!’ she shouted and waved both hands. ‘Macy, I’m over here!’

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ Irene whispered to Macy as they took their seats.

  ‘Thanks for asking me to come along.’

  ‘Are you going to audition?’

  ‘Sure am, wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  ‘Did you bring your music?’

  Macy smiled, ‘Yeah,’ she tapped the side of her head, ‘it’s all in here.’

  Goldstein had made his way on to the stage, where he straightened his dicky bow, put his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and called for silence.

  ‘Thank you all for giving up your Sunday afternoon and coming out in such awful weather. You will know from my letter that I am keen to get the Barnstormers performing again. You have only to look into the faces of your family and friends and people you pass in the street to know how badly affected they are by what has happened to our city. Some people might argue that it is the wrong time to be putting on a show – singing, dancing, telling jokes – but I say to them, this is exactly when shows are needed. You are talented young people with the power to help others through these dark days and I am determined to give you the opportunity to do so.’ He paused to let his words sink in, then with a flourish he announced, ‘I am proud to say that our next concert will take place in less than three weeks’ time in this wonderful hall!’

  The Barnstormer acts went through their usual routines and some like the Golden Sisters had new material. Peggy stuck to the agreed songs and they gave a good account of themselves. Pat and William sang a duet and it was clear they were under-rehearsed, but Irene also thought their performance lacked the connection between them that was so exciting when they first started to sing together. But the biggest disappointm
ent was the Templemore Tappers. Their energetic dance routines always lifted the show; they weren’t the greatest of dancers, but their sense of fun and enjoyment usually made up for their lack of precision. It was sad to watch them go through the motions: not quite achieving the straight line; an uncertainty in the changes of formation; high kicks a little lower than before; and fixed smiles that quickly faded away. The Tappers were dancing, but Myrtle wasn’t there to lead them. Irene felt the tears prick at her eyes, she blinked and they fell, she wiped them away and they came again. Her friend was gone, leaving her and the dancers bereft. The routine ended and the Tappers, heads bowed, left the stage. Goldstein sensing the mood had altered within the hall called a break after which the new acts would audition.

  ‘Come on,’ said Macy, ‘let’s find somewhere where I can change and put on my make-up.’

  In the ladies’ toilets, no bigger than a broom cupboard, Macy quickly applied her make-up in front of a tiny mirror hung behind the door and finished with the reddest lipstick Irene had ever seen. Then she pulled a pair of black trousers and a white shirt from her bag followed by a pair of men’s shoes.

  ‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ said Irene.

  ‘Sure am.’

  ‘But they’re men’s clothes.’

  ‘Yep.’ Macy changed quickly, then took a black tie from her trouser pocket, deftly tied it and straightened her collar. She put on the shoes and tried out a few tap steps – the metal tips rang out on the tiles. Finally, she pinned up her mass of red curls and covered them with a black homburg tilted forward at an angle. She held out her arms and spun round on her heels.