‘That’s great,’ said Irene.
‘Aye, but I’ll be expected to bring some work home to do in the evening. I was thinking I’ll need a briefcase. I’m sure there was an old one up in the loft, wasn’t there?’ and she turned to Martha who didn’t answer.
‘Will you get a pay rise?’ asked Irene.
‘A modest one, but it should help us out ’til you start back at Shorts. Isn’t that good, Mammy?’
Martha pursed her lips. ‘Humph,’ she said, ‘and who might this permanent secretary be?’
Pat lowered her eyes and said quietly, ‘William Kennedy.’
‘Pat, be careful, only walk on the joists, or you’ll end up coming through the ceiling,’ shouted Irene from the landing.
‘I can see the briefcase but there’s so much stuff on top of it.’
There was the sound of something being dragged, followed by a sudden shout, ‘Wait till you see what I’ve found!’ Moments later, Pat’s face appeared through the square hole in the ceiling. ‘I’m going to pass it down to you so get ready, it’s heavy,’ and she momentarily disappeared.
‘What is it?’ shouted Irene, sensing the excitement in her sister’s voice.
Pat’s face reappeared and in her hands she held a heavy coil of rope.
‘What is it?’ Irene asked again.
‘Don’t you recognise it? It’s our skipping rope!’
Together they carried it downstairs and into the sitting room where Peggy was filing her nails. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
By this time the rope was beginning to sag and the ends were trailing. ‘Grab it, Peggy, before it falls!’
All three of them squeezed through the door into the kitchen where Martha was standing at the sink. ‘Let’s get it on the table.’
‘Away on with you, it’s filthy. Take it outside!’ shouted Martha.
They carried the rope into the garden and laid it like a snake on the grass.
‘Do you remember when Daddy brought it home from the shipyard for us?’
‘He had it over his shoulder and we didn’t know what it was at first.’
‘It had a funny smell, a mixture of tar and the sea.’
‘Still does.’
‘We took it out into the road at the front.’
‘All the kids came to skip with us.’
‘We were still there when it went dark.’
‘Under the street lights.’
‘Skipping and skipping.’
‘I went to bed and skipped in my sleep!’
Irene picked up one end of the rope and without a word Pat walked to the other end and picked it up. Peggy took the slack in the middle and in procession they marched through the gate and out into the street.
The rope stretched the entire width of the road. Irene stood on one pavement, Pat on the other. After a couple of false starts they had the heavy rope turning and soon Peggy got into her stride and skipped effortlessly. All three instantly remembered the skipping rhymes as though the words were in their heads just waiting for the turn of a rope.
Jelly on the plate, jelly on the plate,
Wibbly, wobbly, wibbly, wobbly,
Jelly on the plate.
Peggy wiggled and wiggled, never missing a jump of the rope.
‘My turn now!’ shouted Irene. Peggy took the end of the rope from her, but a hand immediately relieved her of it. It was Martha’s. She had heard the singing and laughter from the kitchen and had come out to see what all the excitement was about. She smiled at Peggy and started another chant.
Ingle angle silver bangle,
Ingle angle out,
If you’d have been where I’d have been,
You wouldn’t have been put out!
First Irene skipped then Peggy joined her and pushed her out. Irene ran quickly round Martha just in time to come in again and push Peggy out. Some girls playing jacks on the pavement further up the street came to join them and soon they too were dodging in and out of the rope. Martha and Pat quickened the pace until the rope was turning at speed with the skippers rushing in and out. Shrieks and laughter filled the balmy evening, drawing other girls and women into the road where they lined up to take their turn. Even Martha was persuaded to join in a frantic game of tig – in and out of the ever-turning rope.
‘Heavens above, Martha, where do you get your energy from?’ Mrs McKee, attracted by the noise, had come out to join the fun. Martha, her face red, left the skipping line and she and Mrs McKee went to sit on the kerb to watch.
‘I must be mad. My heart’s thumping. I’ll give myself a stroke!’
‘Ach, you’re as fit as a fiddle, so you are, and it’s good to see your Irene’s got a bit more energy.’
‘Aye, a wee bit – thanks to the platefuls of onion soup.’
‘Have ye heard from your Sheila at all?’
‘No, not yet,’ Martha tried to keep her voice light.
‘But you’ll have written to her …’
‘No.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘It’s not that easy,’ Martha sighed and wondered if it wasn’t time to speak of her fears. As a mother, Mrs McKee might understand her worry. ‘I don’t have an address. She went to Dungannon, I know that, but she could be anywhere within five or even ten miles of the place. The truth is she seems to have vanished into thin air. I’ve no idea where she is.’
Mrs McKee heard the break in Martha’s voice. ‘Don’t fret yerself, she’ll be fine I’m sure. You know our Brian went missin’ once. We looked everywhere; further and further afield we went. In the end, we found him in the most obvious place – fast asleep in his bed.’
‘Well Sheila isn’t in her bed, that’s for sure.’
‘No, but maybe she’s where she’s meant to be – right there in Dungannon. Can you not ask the people who sent her there where she is?
‘Pat’s been asking at Stormont, but the paperwork is very slow at coming through.’
‘Surely to God they wouldn’t give a child to someone as if they were a side of beef without asking who they were and where they were taking her.’
‘You’re right, I know it. It’s just that with all that’s gone on with the bombing and everything … ’
‘Martha, I’m sure she’s there and safe, you’ll see.’ She stood up. ‘Now, tell you what, me and you’ll get this rope crackin’ and see how fast these wee girls can move!’ With that she went over and took an end of the rope and Martha did the same.
‘Come on now, youse uns! All in together girls,’ shouted Mrs McKee and they rushed to form a queue. Rapidly, one after the other, they timed their run, caught the rhythm and soon they were all jumping in time, jostling and giggling.
The rope quickened, but no one faltered. Their feet went faster and faster and the chanting grew louder and louder. ‘All in together girls. Never mind the weather girls … ’
Chapter 11
The early morning train to Dungannon was packed, but Martha just managed to get the last seat in a carriage. She stowed her old shopping bag containing a change of clothes, nightdress and toiletries on the luggage net drooping above her head. She thought it doubtful she would have to stay the night anywhere, but still … she didn’t know what might – or, worse, might not – await her in Dungannon. She kept her handbag on her knee and her handkerchief up her sleeve just in case.
The day after the skipping Pat had come home from work with worrying news. ‘I spoke to the woman who is responsible for information about evacuees. She’d had the return from Dungannon’s evacuation officer – Sheila’s name wasn’t on the list.’
Martha caught her breath, ‘Dear God, where can she be?’
Peggy, who had been on the floor cleaning her work shoes, stood up, a shoe over one hand like a glove, and shook a brush at Pat with the other. ‘What kind of people lose a fourteen-year-old girl? I wouldn’t trust a civil servant as far as I could throw them!’
Her malice was not lost on Pat. ‘Look Peggy, that’s uncalled for. There’s a war o
n and it was a huge undertaking to evacuate all those children.’
‘But you were supposed to keep them safe, not forget where you left them! If you ask me they’d be better off taking their chances with the bombs.’ Peggy polished the shoe vigorously.
‘Pat, is it possible that she’s on the Coleraine list? You remember she was down to go there?’ Martha asked.
‘No, Mammy, she’s not. On the Coleraine return it said “Did not travel”.’
‘What are we going to do, Mammy?’ asked Irene.
‘We’re going to sleep on it,’ said Martha calmly.
The night was warm and humid and trying to imagine where Sheila might be sleeping was enough to keep Martha tossing and turning until the house martins under the eaves began their morning chorus. Then, when on the cusp of dreaming and waking, she again heard Mrs McKee’s voice – ‘She’s where she’s meant to be.’
Martha left her bed immediately and, when the girls came downstairs for breakfast an hour later, she was sitting in the front room washed, dressed and ready for her journey.
She was due to arrive in Dungannon at ten. The last train back to Belfast was at four. Five hours to do what she could. How big was the town? Where should she start looking? From her handbag she took the photograph of Sheila taken at the Waterworks the previous Easter. It was a good enough likeness, although her hair was short then, but the eyes and the smile … surely someone would remember her if she’d ever been in Dungannon.
Martha felt the heat rise from the pit of her stomach and spread upwards; knew that her face was flushed. She resisted the urge to wipe the sheen of clammy sweat from her forehead.
The guard clipped her ticket and asked, ‘You all right, missus?’
‘Yes,’ Martha forced a smile. ‘It’s very warm today, isn’t it?’
‘Aye ’tis. Tell ye what, I’ll open the window a bit for you. How’s that?’
‘Do you know Dungannon at all?’ she asked.
‘I know you walk up the hill from the station to the main square, that’s all.’
‘Would there be a police station there?’
‘Oh I’m sure there is.’
Martha found the square easily enough and when she got there she asked a young woman for directions to the police station. She soon found herself face to face with the sergeant. When she showed him Sheila’s photograph, he examined it closely. ‘Evacuated, you say? Don’t think I’ve seen her, but she could be anywhere in the parish. There’s many a young ’un workin’ on the farms around here.’
‘Is there anyone else I could ask? Maybe at one of the churches? I’m sure she’ll be going to church on a Sunday.’
The sergeant handed back the photograph and scratched his chin. ‘Now, let me see. Yer best bet would be the Church of Ireland. Go to the far corner of the square and follow the road to the left – look for the steeple with a clock, you can’t miss it. I’ve a feeling someone from there was involved in sortin’ out the childer from Belfast, matchin’ them up wi’ families an’ the like.’
The church was imposing, with arched windows and doorways. She was relieved to find the door open and the interior as cool as marble. There was no one inside, but she wasn’t worried; she would find the rectory once she’d cooled down and collected her thoughts. Sitting at the back, she marvelled at how elaborate the church was with its high roof and raised altar, but it was a stained glass window depicting Jesus blessing the children that gave her hope. The door opened and a thin white-haired woman emerged carrying two large vases full of delphiniums.
Martha watched as she made her way towards the altar. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Heavens above!’ said the woman. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘I’m sorry I startled you.’ Martha moved up the aisle towards the woman. ‘Can I help you with those? They look very heavy.’
‘Yes, thank you. Here, take this one, would you? It goes over there,’ and she nodded towards the pulpit.
‘They’re beautiful flowers.’
‘Indeed they are and a wonderful colour,’ said the woman and added, ‘especially for a church. My husband says they’re the colour of prayer.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes, he’s the rector.’
‘Oh, I was hoping to speak to him,’ said Martha. ‘Is he at home?’
‘No, he’s out visiting at the moment. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’
Martha’s face fell.
‘Maybe I could help?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t got much time. I’ve come from Belfast …’ Martha’s voice wavered.
‘Look, it seems to me that both of us could do with a cool drink. Why don’t you come to the house? It’s not so far to walk and who knows, maybe he’ll be back sooner rather than later.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Lynne.’
The rectory kitchen was vast, with a huge range and a tiled floor in a black-and-white checked pattern. Martha sat at the kitchen table and Lynne fetched two tumblers.
‘And there’s no record of her ever being here, you say?’
‘Nothing, it’s like she’s disappeared into thin air.’ Martha’s lip trembled.
Lynne pretended not to notice her distress and disappeared into the walk-in pantry and emerged with a jug of apple juice. ‘Now, as far as I know, the children arrived by bus at the church hall. I wasn’t there that day. I’d gone to visit my sister.’ She stopped pouring suddenly. ‘I’ve just remembered there was someone in charge, an evacuation officer. I know his wife. Look, we’ll have our drink then I’ll take you round to their house. He’ll be sure to know.’
They left the rectory and made their way back to the square. Lynne, aware that Martha was becoming ever more tense, kept up the conversation all the way there. ‘You’ll need to describe Sheila in some detail to him: what she was wearing; her height and build; something of her facial features.’
Martha stopped and opened her bag. ‘I have this.’
‘Good heavens, a photograph. That’s splendid. May I have a look?’
Martha handed over Sheila’s picture and Lynne squinted at it. ‘It’s no good, I can’t see without my glasses.’ She moved it further and further away, until at arm’s length she gasped. ‘Wait a minute.’ She stared across the street. Martha followed her gaze and read the name of the shop opposite: ‘Francis McManus and Son, High Class Butchers and Slaughter Men.’
‘I know this girl,’ Lynne was smiling. ‘I bought some meat from her last week. We’ve only to cross the road and you’ll have found your daughter!’
Martha hesitated at the shop door. She was overwhelmed with relief and knew when she went inside that she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears. She stepped to one side until she was partly hidden by the sheets of brown paper that hung from the steel butcher’s hooks above the window display. She saw Sheila then, smiling and chatting to a customer as she weighed and wrapped, took money and gave change. How precious her daughter was, and what pride she felt seeing her now as a stranger might.
When the customer left, Martha slipped into the shop. Sheila was rearranging mutton chops on a tray.
‘Hello, love.’
Sheila looked up and her eyes widened. ‘Mammy!’ she screamed in delight, ran round the counter, threw her arms around her mother and hugged her tight. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked past Martha, searching. ‘Where’s everybody else?’
Martha stepped back and smiled as she took Sheila’s hands in her own. ‘I’ve come looking for you. Your sisters aren’t here. There’s only me and this is Lynne; she helped me find you.’
Sheila’s voice was tearful. ‘Why didn’t you write to me, Mammy? Did you forget about me?’
‘Bless us!’ said Martha, touching her daughter’s cheek. ‘Of course not, sure I didn’t know where you were. How could I have written? You didn’t write and tell us your address.’
‘But my wrist … they told you about my accident, didn’t they?’
‘Accident? What accident?’ Martha was
alarmed, and looked her daughter up and down. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course she is. She’s grand.’ Bridie McManus hearing the excited voices had come through from the house and immediately realised what was happening. She crossed the shop with her usual slow gait, her hand outstretched. ‘And you must be Martha Goulding.’
‘Indeed I am.’ Martha shook Bridie’s hand.
‘I’m Bridie McManus.’ She looked past Martha to Lynne. ‘Hello, Mrs Jones. Have you come for your meat?’
‘No, I’ve been helping Martha to find Sheila. I couldn’t believe it when she showed me a photograph and I realised it was the girl in your shop.’ Lynne smiled at Martha. ‘Well, now that you two have been reunited, I’ll be getting back.’
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ said Martha. ‘I’d never have found her without you.’
‘Not at all, glad to help … so pleased it was a happy ending.’
Bridie wasted no time in locking up the shop. ‘Sure, it’s nearly lunchtime anyway and Frank’s away to a cattle market so he’ll never know if we have a nice long dinner.’
She ushered them into the kitchen. ‘Come on in and sit yerself down. Now, Sheila, let’s get the kettle on and some roast beef sandwiches on the table.’
Little by little, the whole story came out – Frank thinking he’d gained a messenger boy with his own bike and Sheila’s decision to say she was Sheila Gardiner for fear of being sent back to Belfast, then the accident and the sprained wrist and the official letter sent to the wrong family. And finally, Sheila’s feeling of being forgotten and Martha’s desperate worry over her disappearance, though never openly expressed, were silently shared.
‘Mrs McManus–’ Martha began.
‘No, no, yer to call me Bridie, please.’
Martha inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement of the connection between them through Sheila. ‘Bridie, I can’t thank you enough for taking Sheila into your home and for looking after her so well.’
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