Devlin stopped suddenly in front of Robinson and Cleaver’s.
‘What is it?’ asked Peggy.
‘That.’ he nodded at the window display.
Her eyes widened in surprise. It was the kingfisher cocktail dress, the one she had dreamt of wearing to play in a dance band. The one she had tried on the day she first met Devlin.
‘You’re the focal point of the band, eyes are drawn to you,’ he was saying, ‘but you shouldn’t be in black and white like the men. You should be a splash of colour, of drama. That’s why I’m going to buy you that dress.’ And Peggy began to think that perhaps she might consider playing in the band again. By the time she emerged from the changing room in kingfisher blue and twirled in front of Devlin’s admiring gaze she had decided she would.
While the shop assistant wrapped up their purchase, Peggy admired a green silk dress on a mannequin.
‘You like that one too?’ asked Devlin.
Peggy nodded. ‘Oh I don’t have my clothing coupons with me!’
Devlin gave a humourless laugh. ‘Coupons? We don’t need coupons,’ and he produced a roll of banknotes from his inside pocket. As they left the shop Devlin took her arm again and turned towards the Plaza.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Plaza; you can try on the dresses again.’
‘No I can’t. Mr Goldstein doesn’t like it if I’m late back from lunch. I’ll try them on again at home.’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, strictly speaking they’re my dresses. So I’ll keep them at the Plaza and you’ll change into them there when you arrive for work.’
That evening when Peggy arrived home, she could see at once that Pat had been crying again. On the table was a typed letter with the government crest. ‘What’s this?’
‘Just read it.’
‘Now they’re going to stop paying you altogether? I thought you were entitled to sick pay – you’re in this state because of them!’
‘It’s the rules. I can’t argue.’
‘But that’s so unfair!’ Peggy was outraged. ‘After all you’ve been through.’
‘It’s no good. I’ll have to go back,’ Pat cried. Peggy tried to calm her, but Pat’s breaths were coming faster and faster. Suddenly, she rushed to the back door. ‘I can’t breathe … I can’t breathe!’ she shouted.
Peggy ran after her. ‘You’re fine. Don’t panic. Breathe in … now out …’ and she repeated the words over and over until Pat’s breathing slowed.
Later, when Pat was calmer, Peggy again broached the idea of her seeing the doctor, something Pat had flatly refused to do. ‘There’s no point,’ Pat argued, ‘what’s he going to say? Pull yourself together, that’s all. And I know he’s right and I am trying to pull myself together, but I just can’t do it!’
‘Pat, will you at least let me tell Mammy?’
‘No!’ Pat shouted. ‘I’m not going to bring her and Sheila back here. They’re safe where they are. What if they came back because of me and they died in the next bombing? It would all be my fault.’ She covered her face and wept yet again and for the first time Peggy could no longer hold back her own tears. She cried for her sister in her grief and because of the strain of looking after her, but most of all because she knew what they both needed was their mother.
Chapter 18
The weather held, the oats were gathered in and the ceilidh was organised for the Saturday. Sheila was beside herself with excitement at the prospect of her first real dance and, although she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, Martha shared some of the same emotions. It was over twenty years since she’d been to a dance. Dear God, she didn’t even remember how to dance! But that didn’t matter – she’d got to know everyone through the companionship of hard work and was looking forward to spending an evening with them. She hoped too that she’d have a chance to talk to Vincent. Each day in the fields they had chatted a little – simple exchanges to pass the time of day, nothing more than that, but as the days passed, she found herself looking forward to him appearing at her side underneath the sycamore. On the day after her hands were sore he’d come to ask her if the vinegar had worked and she confessed that the pain had gone, but that the smell would be harder to shift. She offered him his gloves back, but he urged her to keep them, and she had worn them every day.
On the night of the ceilidh the faded pink of the hay shed at Higher Farm paled into the shepherd’s delight sky. Inside, the trestle tables, hidden under a patchwork quilt of tablecloths, were covered with all manner of platters and pots, bowls and pitchers full of all that the land could offer and the women could cook. There was no electricity so far out of the town, but hurricane lamps lit the scene. Bridie and Rose were treated like guests of honour and the best parlour chairs were set out for them. Bridie and Vincent’s mother sat with them. The company was good and Martha couldn’t remember being so free of worry since she was a girl.
After they’d eaten, the space was cleared and several of the men, whom she recognised from the fields, gathered in one corner with fiddles, penny whistles, a squeeze-box, a bodhrán, and even spoons. They started with a few reels and people tapped their feet as they chatted. The band moved on to a jig and some clapped, whilst a few took to the floor, confident in the steps learned in childhood. A few times, Martha caught sight of Vincent making his way round the gathering talking to neighbours and friends, many of whom had helped with the harvest. At one point, when he was over speaking to his mother, he looked in Martha’s direction and inclined his head slightly. She spotted Sheila too, clearly enjoying herself. She had been one of the first on the floor to dance and had hardly stopped since.
After a while Bridie came to find Martha and handed her a drink. ‘Have a drop of that,’ she said.
It tasted of apples and something else. ‘Is it cider?’ asked Martha. ‘It’s not alcohol is it?’
‘Not at all … not really,’ said Bridie and grabbed Martha’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s have a dance!’
‘Ach, I don’t know any of these dances.’
‘They’re easy. See yer man there, he’s going to call out the steps. Listen to him and follow me, and you’ll soon get the measure of it.’
And so it proved. Martha danced the jigs and reels and paused now and again to catch her breath and quench her thirst. At one point she noticed that Sheila was no longer in the barn and, feeling warm herself, she wandered outside in search of her. There was the sound of voices down the lane a little and Martha caught sight of a group of six or seven young people, sitting on the fence of a small paddock. She heard Sheila’s laugh and, satisfied that she was safe, turned back towards the barn.
He was standing in the shadow of an outbuilding. ‘Hello, Martha.’ She jumped at the sound, but relaxed immediately because there was no mistaking his voice.
‘Hello, Vincent.’ The silence lingered between them.
‘Are you havin’ a good time?’ he said at last.
‘I am indeed,’ she replied. ‘I came out to make sure Sheila was all right.’ She indicated the paddock. ‘And to cool down – it’s thirsty work this dancing.’
‘Tell you what, would you like a taste of the coolest, sweetest water there ever was?’
Martha smiled, ‘You know, I think I would.’
They walked through the farmyard to the back of the house. The well was surrounded by a low wall. Vincent took a bucket and lowered it carefully. She watched him lean over, head to one side listening for the soft splash of the bucket before he pulled on the rope to retrieve it. He dipped his hand in and put it to his lips.
‘Straight from the Cappagh Mountain,’ he said, ‘sweetest in Ireland.’
He moved the bucket towards her and she plunged her hand into the water. It was icy cold in her mouth. She dipped her hand again and drank some more. It ran down her chin and she laughed. He reached out and wiped her lips with his thumb.
A moment of uncertainty.
&nbs
p; ‘I’ll show you the hill it runs from, if you like. You can see it just a wee walk up thonder,’ he pointed.
‘I’m not sure’ – Martha looked in the direction he’d indicated – ‘it’ll be dark, won’t it?’
‘Not in this moonlight. It’s such a sight to see.’ His voice had a soft pleading tone.
All her life, she had never taken a risk, never done anything on a whim or without thoughts of the consequences. She had scarcely recognised a desire of her own, let alone succumbed to one. But what did it matter at her age, anyway? She took a deep breath and stepped into the unknown. ‘Yes, I’d like to see it.’
The path was easy enough underfoot and there was light to see it rise gently before them. After a ten-minute climb, Vincent stopped at an outcrop of rock worn flat like a bench and they sat down. ‘You’ll see most of the farm from here,’ he said. ‘There’s the two meadows and, beyond that, the field where we worked those first days. Over toward the house there’s an acre of potatoes. They’ll be ready in October.’ The sound of a horse whinnying carried up the hill. He laughed. ‘And that’s Jinny in the paddock; she always has plenty to say for herself!’
‘You’re lucky to have all this, Vincent.’
‘Indeed I am, but it’s not really mine. I’m just havin’ my turn at lookin’ after it. It’s the ma’s farm and after me it’ll go to Dermot.’
‘You’ve none of your own to pass it on to.’ It was a statement not a question. Bridie had discussed her bachelor brother quite a bit, lamenting his lack of a sweetheart when he was young and his lack of a wife as he got older. ‘Married to Higher Farm, that’s the problem. That an’ the ma sayin’ the girls were only after the land,’ she had said.
‘It’s a lonely life,’ his voice was low, each word tentative. ‘Sometimes I think I should …’ A low rumbling sound seemed to roll towards them from the other side of the hill. With each second, it deepened and became louder and louder. Closer it came, less a wall of solid sound now, and more like oscillating waves. Deafening. They were on their feet just as the plane screamed over the hill. The vast metal fuselage hung above them so close they could see the swastikas on its wings. Without a word, Vincent took her hand and together, slipping and sliding, they rushed down the hill to the barn.
‘What direction was it travelling in?’ shouted Martha.
‘Northeast I’d say, to Belfast probably.’
‘Oh dear God, not again! Where might those girls of mine be this time of night? Please God let them be at home under the stairs!’
They arrived in the farmyard to find the crowd had left the barn and were standing around discussing the plane, many of them still looking skywards.
Sheila was with Dermot, a short distance from the paddock where she’d been earlier. ‘Mammy, Mammy, where were you? Did you see it?’
‘I just went a walk to cool down. It came over my head.’
Vincent appeared at her side. ‘I’ve just bin talkin’ to Seamus. He knows about planes. He says it wasn’t a bomber. It was a Henschel reconnaissance plane – no bombs, just high-powered cameras on their way to take photographs of Belfast. The pilot probably strayed off course and was trying to get his bearings. It’s all right, Martha, Belfast isn’t being bombed.’
‘No, not the night, it isn’t, but, when they’ve got all their photographs of the damage they did last time and the targets they missed, for certain they’ll be back and God help us then.’
Whether it was the cider, the excitement of dancing, or the sight of the German planes that kept Martha awake half the night, she knew as dawn broke that it was time to go home. Sheila might want to stay; she enjoyed living in the country and there was her fondness for Dermot to consider. Martha too had mixed feelings. The stay in Dungannon had lifted her spirits more than she could ever have thought possible, thanks to the fresh air and good food, the companionship of Bridie and Rose and, she finally admitted to herself, her friendship with Vincent.
The previous night she had felt a stir of emotion so unexpected and unsettling that she was tempted to dismiss it as the effect of cider on a foolish woman, but what if . . ? Unbidden, Vincent’s words immediately before the first drone of the plane came back to her: ‘It’s a lonely life, sometimes I think I should …’ He had reached out and touched her hand but she, startled by the noise above her, had stood up abruptly. Like random notes picked out on a piano, she sensed the tune his words might have become. Sheila might be happy to stay in Dungannon and what was to stop her staying too? Was that what he had been about to suggest?
‘Ach, catch yourself on!’ she said aloud. ‘An oul woman like you!’ But there was no doubt he had sought her out when they rested in the fields and he’d given her his gloves. She remembered his finger on her lips, the invitation to climb the hill, and the hand reaching out for hers. She had no inkling how courtship was carried on in middle age, but maybe these were indications that she was indeed being courted!
But later, in the grey dawn light, she reviewed the evidence again and found it circumstantial, inconclusive and deliberately put it to the back of her mind.
Martha left Sheila sleeping and crossed the yard to the kitchen, as she had done every morning since she had arrived in Dungannon, to make the fire and bake some soda bread.
It being Sunday, the McManus family ate a hearty breakfast then went to early Mass, leaving Bridie and Martha to prepare Sunday dinner.
They stood at the table peeling potatoes over a bowl of water, a relaxed silence between them, then Bridie spoke, ‘We had a good night last night, didn’t we?’
‘We did sure enough,’ said Martha.
‘Ye had a bit of a talk with our Vincent then?’
‘Aye, we walked up the hill to look at the farm.’
‘You know he’s taken a notion for you, don’t ye?’
Martha hesitated, unsure how to answer. ‘Maybe he has, I’m not sure.’
Bridie pressed on. ‘And what about you, have you a notion for him?’
‘To tell you the truth, Bridie, I like him, but sure I’ve no knowledge of what a man would be thinking. I’m not some lovesick young girl. I’m not sure I ever was. I remember when I first met Robert, it seemed like before I knew it I was married without being aware of any kind of decision being made.’
‘Aye, I know what ye mean, but you’re older and wiser and you must do what’s right for you. I’ll say this, though, our Vincent’s a decent man. You could do a lot worse.’ Bridie set the potatoes in a pan of fresh water and began scraping the carrots while Martha shelled the peas.
After a while Bridie put down her knife. ‘Your Sheila was reading a book before you came, Jane Eyre it was called, about a young woman who seemed like she was pushed from pillar to post, who had to make a lot of decisions, some wise, some not so wise. But the thing is, she was true to herself and in the end that’s what it comes down to. Life’s a contract between us and God and He expects us to make the best decisions we can.’
There was a rattling of the yard gate, the back door opened and Vincent came into the warm kitchen.
‘Speak of the Divil!’ said Bridie.
‘What? Were youse talkin’ about me?’
Bridie laughed, ‘If the cap fits wear it!’
Vincent, mistaking her meaning, quickly pulled off his cap and twisted it in his hands. ‘What are youse doin’?’
‘What does it look like? And what are you doin’ not at Mass?’
‘Oh, well, I borrowed Seamus’s pony and trap and I thought you and Martha might like to come out for a wee jaunt.’
‘We’re just making the dinner, Vincent–’ Martha began.
‘Ach, never mind about that,’ said Bridie, ‘sure I’ll get it done meself. Away you on out, the pair of ye. Come back in a couple of hours and we’ll all have our dinner.’
‘Are you sure, Bridie?’ said Martha. In reply, Bridie gave her a look of mock disbelief and nodded towards the door.
Martha fetched her scarf and handbag and minutes later she was ridi
ng out in a pony and trap into the countryside.
Vincent had clearly decided where they were going and along the way he pointed out places that had some connection with his family or childhood. Martha was content to listen to the rise and fall of his soft voice, noticing now and again pronunciation and words that were unfamiliar to her. As he talked and handled the pony, she watched him from the side. He wore a white shirt, crisp with starch, tweed trousers and brown well-polished brogues. He’d taken his cap off and it hung over his bent knee. His hair was longer than you would see in the city and on the grey side, but dark flecks suggested the younger man. His high cheekbones had the ruddiness of a farmer; the rest of his skin, including the back of his hands, was the colour of hazelnuts.
They stopped at a ruined church at the front of which stood a Celtic cross. He tied the reins to the iron railings then helped her down, keeping hold of her hand as he pushed open the gate.
‘Used to walk here after mass when I was a boy,’ he said. The cross retained a faint outline of its original carvings though one side had been colonised by bright yellow lichen. They walked around it.
‘Last night we didn’t get the chance to talk,’ he began. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about you a lot, Martha. I know you’re not long since a widow and maybe I’m rushin’ in here sayin’ something you’ll not want to hear, but …’ – he turned to face her and she felt his hand tighten on hers – ‘I’ve really taken to ye … you’ve a lovely way with ye …’ He bowed his head and spoke to the floor, ‘I haven’t the words to explain such things, to tell ye what I feel … but when you arrived in my fields and sat under my sycamore and gathered in the corn I’d planted … well, Martha …’ He looked up suddenly and must have caught in her eyes a glimpse of understanding. His arms drew her in and he kissed her softly like something precious, something valued.
This is what it could be like, she thought … to be loved again. They sat in the shade of the church and he kissed her again. It seemed now he had found a way without words to explain what he felt. And she understood and kissed him back and touched the thick hair on the back of his neck and looked into his hazel eyes. And knew with absolute certainty that this was a moment stolen from a life that could have been, a moment that she would hide from prying eyes to uncover and marvel at down through the days of her life.
Golden Sisters Page 19
