‘How do I look?’
‘Amazing!’ said Irene.
Macy stood in the middle of the stage, hands behind her back, head bowed and her face hidden under the homburg. There was no music just the sound of one foot moving from side to side, tapping out a rhythm. A stillness fell and the audience held its breath. From behind Macy’s back came the sound of clicking fingers. She slid one foot out to the side and spread both arms wide, then lifted her head to reveal her beautiful face – the audience gasped.
Later, when those who had watched Macy dance tried to describe what they had seen, they found only inadequate words. It was brilliant and astonishing and all those other superlatives, but none could explain how the combination of grace, rhythm and the simple sound of tapping metal had mesmerised everyone in the room.
Chapter 10
Two weeks after Sheila sprained her wrist, Jane had married Mr Rochester, Rose had taken to her bed exhausted and not a single letter had arrived from Belfast.
‘Why doesn’t Mammy write?’
Bridie stopped scrubbing the frying pan and gave Sheila a hard stare, ‘I couldn’t say, but there again ye haven’t written to her, have ye?’
‘She promised she would and she knows I’ve got a bad wrist, doesn’t she?’
‘Yer wrist’s fine now. There’s a writing pad and envelopes in the sideboard so you’ve only to write it and stick a stamp on it.’
‘I’ll do it on Sunday then.’
‘Well, see that you do.’
But on Sunday morning there was a knock on the door of Sheila’s little house in the yard and when she went outside there was no one there – just her bike against the wall. She sat on it and turned the handlebars from side to side testing the strength of her wrist. Something made her look up and there was Dermot at his window watching her. He made to step back out of sight, but she signalled for him to come down.
‘Did you fix my bike, Dermot?’
He smiled shyly. ‘Yes, me and me da. It wasn’t too bad, just a buckled front wheel and a puncture.’
‘It’s great to have it back. I thought I’d never see it again.’
‘Me da says you’ve to be more careful on it. You might not be so lucky next time.’
‘I know. I’ll maybe keep off the main roads for a while.’
‘You could ride around the Black Lough – there’s no traffic there. I could show you, if you like.’
‘Would you?’
Dermot grinned, ‘No problem, sure I’ll get my bike and you can follow me.’
The path alongside the lough was narrow so they rode in single file. In places it was overgrown with trees and bushes. Every now and again Dermot would shout a warning for her to take care, but apart from that they did not speak. After a while the high hedgerows gave way to fields of oats and the path widened. Sheila quickened her pace and came alongside Dermot. He did not acknowledge her, but she felt him glance in her direction from time to time. The morning grew warm and they stopped in the shade of an ash tree to rest.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Dermot took a bottle of lemonade from his saddlebag and offered it to Sheila.
‘No it’s yours, you have it.’
‘No, you take it. I brought it for you.’ He set the bottle down beside her.
‘We’ll share it then,’ said Sheila and unscrewed the top. It was warm, but felt good on her dry throat.
He took a white paper bag from his saddlebag and sat down next to her. ‘Do you like Paris buns?’
‘Sure, they’re my favourite.’
He broke the bun in half and offered it to her.
‘Just like a picnic,’ said Sheila and handed him the lemonade.
Dermot hesitated.
‘Go on,’ she laughed.
He took the bottle and raised it to his lips.
‘Good?’
Dermot smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘very good.’
They sat in silence a while then Dermot asked, ‘What’s it like in Belfast?’
‘Have you never been?’
‘No, but I’m going to go.’
‘Well, there’s more people, houses, shops, buses and we have trams.’
‘And the sea … have you been to the seaside?’
‘Of course, have you not?’
‘No, me ma and da have been to Bundoran, but that was years ago, before Rose was born. Now it’s hard to leave the shop and the slaughterhouse.’
‘You can see the water in Belfast, but that’s just the lough. The real seaside is where there’s a beach and you can paddle in the sea. Sometimes, we go along the shore to Carrickfergus, or Holywood, or even Bangor, where you can make sandcastles and paddle in the water. But that was before Daddy died.’
‘You live with your mother and sisters, don’t you?’
‘Yes, there’s Irene – she’s the oldest – then Pat, Peggy and me. I’m the youngest.’
‘Do you miss them?’
Sheila thought for a moment. ‘Sometimes I do, like at night when I can’t get to sleep, but in the day …’ she sighed. ‘It seems like they’re so far away. I don’t just mean the journey on the bus.’ She picked some pebbles from the path and made a circle of them. ‘I forget all about them sometimes.’
‘You haven’t had a letter from anyone have you?’
‘No.’
‘You should just write to them.’
‘Yes, I know.’
She gathered up the pebbles, threw them out into the lough and watched the circles of interconnecting ripples spread and die.
They rode on together in silence until the path split in two. ‘Which way now?’ asked Sheila.
‘Right will take us back to town.’
‘And left?’
‘There’s a wee wood further on with a great rope swing.’
‘The rope swing it is then,’ said Sheila.
The sunlight shone through the trees, creating a dappled effect on the dry riverbed. On the bank of the river stood a tree and from one of its branches there hung a rope with a stick tied to the end. Polished dry earth marked the runway on one side of the tree and a similar patch – a kind of landing strip – was on its other side.
‘Do you swing out over the riverbed and come back?’ asked Sheila.
‘Not exactly – I’ll show you.’ Dermot took the rope and placed his hands on either end of the stick, then he ran at full speed until there was no more bank and jumped into the air; the rope tightened and seemed to pull him back. At that exact moment he twisted and, by some mystery of force and counterforce, he flew in a wide semi-circle out over the riverbed and returned to the tree. Sheila watched in amazement and clapped to see him skid to a halt right next to her. His face was flushed, his eyes wide with the exhilaration of it.
‘My turn, my turn!’ Sheila reached for the rope.
‘Whoa! Not so fast.’ Dermot lifted it into the air above her head. ‘You can’t just do it. It took me two weeks and a lot of skin from my back to learn how to do that.’
‘Don’t be daft. I can do it!’ Sheila jumped for the rope.
‘Look, you don’t want to have another accident, do you?’
‘All right then, teach me.’
Dermot explained the need to build up speed on take-off, how to turn in the air, and how to brace against the hard landing.
Heart beating fast, Sheila took the stick, her eyes tracing the route Dermot had followed. She held her breath and ran until there was no solid ground beneath her. She felt her arms twist upwards past her ears and then suddenly she was hurtling backwards. Light and leaves flashed across her vision. She had no breath to scream, but screwed up her eyes and waited to come against something solid …
He caught her in his outstretched arms and, as one, they fell backwards on to the hard earth. He broke her fall, but nothing broke his. The stick flew from her hands and her head banged against his shoulder. Instinctively, he closed his arms around her and held her fast. They lay still for a moment, each acutely aware of their own body and its pain, and
just as aware of the one they were pressed against.
‘Dermot?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to get up now.’
No answer.
‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes.’
She rolled off him and lay on the ground, still feeling the impression of his body beneath her.
‘Sheila, are you hurt?’
‘No.’
She sensed him sit up, felt his arm on her shoulder. She knew she had only to sit up and face him.
He kept his arm on her shoulder, his fingers just touching her neck. She turned and looked into his eyes and in one movement raised her head to bring her face level with his, neither moved. They came towards each other. A first kiss, unexpected, unforgettable.
‘Irene, will you get up out of there!’ Martha shouted from the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock.’
‘I’ll get up soon.’
‘You’ll get up now, young lady!’
Irene came into the kitchen still in her dressing gown and slippers, her parting had disappeared and her thick black hair stuck up at odd angles. Martha was busy ironing, but she kept half an eye on Irene who ate her breakfast in silence while staring straight ahead, as she had done every morning since the aircraft factory was bombed. Martha took a letter from the high mantelpiece and put it on the table. ‘Looks like another letter from Sandy,’ she said.
Irene left it where it was.
‘Are you not going to open it?’ Martha couldn’t keep the sharp edge from her voice.
‘Maybe later.’
‘Did you answer the other letters he sent?’
‘Mammy, I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But he’s your husband!’
‘Sure, I know that.’
‘Irene, what’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
Martha stood the iron on its end and sat down opposite her daughter. ‘Now look here, there’s something amiss, that’s for sure. Look at the state of you. You look dreadful, you’ve lost weight and, God knows, there wasn’t much of you before.’ Martha shook her finger. ‘And if this is about your marriage, you’d better get it sorted.’
‘What makes you think it’s about him? Could it not be because I’ve no work to go to and no wage coming in?’
‘Then why aren’t you away down the town looking for work instead of lying in your bed? You know that factory won’t be open again for months. And more to the point, why are you so low in spirits you can hardly be bothered to talk to people – answer me that!’
Irene slumped over the table, her head on her arms.
Martha sighed and smoothed her daughter’s unruly hair. She tutted, but when she spoke her voice was softer. ‘Irene, what’s the matter?’
Irene raised her head. How pale she is, thought Martha.
‘I just can’t be bothered, Mammy, I’m so tired.’
‘We’ve all been through a lot, you especially, first with Myrtle and then Sandy being away.’
‘He’s been posted to Ballyhalbert; they’re setting up a new base there and he wants me to go and stay for a while. There’s a wee house nearby we could rent.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I said I’d think about it, but now he keeps writing and asking when I’m coming.’
‘And you don’t want to go?’
‘I really want to see him, but I just can’t face going away.’
Martha shook her head and tried again. ‘Do you remember the time when your Aunt Anna was ill?’
‘When she was rescued from the mailboat that struck a mine?’
‘Aye, well you remind me of how she was after that – no interest in anything, not even her wee girls and Lord knows she loved them. I went to a herbalist and he told me to make onion soup every day for her – gave me herbs to put in it – and, right enough, she slowly got her energy back and a bit of spark. Maybe we’ll get you some of that, what do you think?’
Irene gave a half smile. ‘I think it’ll take more than onion soup, Mammy.’
The windows were gleaming, the door was open and the sun had shown its face for the first time in a week. ‘What more can we ask?’ said Goldstein as he finished painting the words ‘Grand Re-opening’ on the window and added a flourish underneath.
‘Now, Esther, remember the stock is limited, but if we haven’t got the gramophone record or sheet music a customer asks for, you must suggest an alternative that we do have. Peggy, your idea to play the piano in the shop was a stroke of genius’ – Peggy beamed in delight and gave an impromptu bow – ‘it proved to me that even when things seem hopeless, it’s possible to lift people’s spirits by entertaining them. So I think you should stay on the piano unless it gets really busy. It doesn’t matter what you play, as long as it is uplifting. No dirges today; people are miserable enough shopping in a bombsite, without us playing an accompaniment to it.’
Just before lunch, when Goldstein nipped out to the Belfast Institute to discuss the forthcoming concert with the manager, Esther and Peggy were at last able to chat.
‘You promised to tell me about this boy who’s just come over from Poland,’ said Peggy. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Esther smiled shyly. ‘He’s called Reuben and he’s tall and slim with dark hair, a little long you might say, and lovely brown eyes.’
‘What does your uncle think of him?’
‘He introduced me to him. He plays the violin, so that’s a good thing, and he is also an instrument maker which is even better. He attends our synagogue too, so my uncle thought it would be good for us to play together.’
‘And you’re going to perform with him in the concert?’
‘Maybe,’ she blushed. ‘We’re going to rehearse every evening and if we’re good enough …’
‘I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘He’s a bit shy and his English is not good. So you mustn’t ask him lots of questions, and you’d better not flirt with him either.’
‘I never flirt,’ Peggy pretended to be annoyed.
There was a shout from the doorway. ‘Yes you do!’ and Devlin strolled into the shop. Esther took one look at his serious face and whispered, ‘I’ll go and sort the sheet music.’
‘Have you come for the lunchtime sing-song at Goldstein’s music shop?’ laughed Peggy.
‘No. Are you coming to the Plaza to help clear up the bomb damage and get it ready to re-open?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re one of my employees and I’m telling you to.’
‘But I work for Mr Goldstein all week. You only employ me on Saturday nights.’
‘Never mind Goldstein, you get yourself round to the Plaza first thing in the morning, or you can wave goodbye to your job!’
At that moment, Goldstein came through the door. ‘What is going on here? You are shouting in my shop, young man, and I think maybe you should leave.’
‘And I think maybe you should mind your own business,’ snapped Devlin. ‘I’m talking to one of my staff.’
‘No, you are not, you are threatening one of mine and if you do not go now, I will call the policeman on point duty outside.’
Devlin ignored Goldstein and turned to Peggy. ‘You’d better be there tomorrow,’ and the look on his face left her angry and shaky for the rest of the afternoon.
Peggy finished work at six o’clock and stood on the pavement outside the music shop deciding what to do. Common sense told her she ought to go straight home, but an indignant voice hammered in her head, how dare he! And, before she knew it, she was pushing open the doors of the Plaza. The foyer was littered with broken glass and the smell of smoke hung in the air. She found Devlin in the ballroom, up a ladder, pulling down the charred remains of the stage curtains.
‘How dare you come to the shop and speak to me like that!’ Peggy shouted. ‘You’ve no right to order me about,’ and she marche
d the length of the ballroom to stand in front of him, hands on hips.
‘Well, it’s brought you here, hasn’t it? So you can get to work right now if you know what’s good for you. Start by sweeping up the glass in the foyer. Then come in here and mop the floor. After that you can sort out the smoke damage on the walls. Those bloody incendiaries damn near burnt us to the ground. Good job I was here fire-watching, or there’d be no Plaza left,’ and he walked away.
‘I’m not your skivvy,’ she yelled. Devlin turned slowly, his eyes dark and menacing, and came towards her. She stood her ground.
‘You’re whatever I say you are – cloakroom girl, skivvy, cheeky madam,’ and in one swift movement he reached out and grabbed her. His kiss was crushing and took her breath away. In her shock she didn’t struggle. She knew how volatile his temper was, but this was something else. He set her down and released her arms. She raised her hand, hesitated, uncertain whether to slap his face. In a flash he had grabbed her wrist, twisted it and pushed her away.
‘You’ve work to do!’ he barked.
Her breath was coming in short bursts as she struggled to find words to hurt him. In the end she turned and ran across the ballroom into the foyer and straight out the front door.
Peggy threw down her knife and fork. ‘Mammy, what is this we’re eating?’
‘Sprats.’
‘What in God’s name are sprats?’
‘Fish, and don’t swear please.’
‘What sort of fish?’
‘I’ve told you – sprats.’
‘I’ll have it, if you’re not going to eat it,’ said Pat and scraped the fish on to her plate. ‘The ministry recommends eating plenty of fish.’
‘It’s bad enough having the ministry rammed down our throats every night, without having to eat their sprats as well!’
‘Peggy,’ said Martha sharply. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but you’ve had it on you since you came through the door, and I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’
‘Talking of the ministry–’ said Pat. Peggy groaned and rolled her eyes. Pat ignored her. ‘I’ve got some good news, I’ve been promoted!’ she beamed. ‘I’m going to be clerk to the permanent secretary.’
Golden Sisters Page 11
