Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘But I don’t want another cottage and I don’t want to go to another country!’

  ‘It’s not another country.’

  ‘It is to me!’

  ‘Irene, you knew what it would be like. I have to go where I’m sent. You know the other wives, they’ll be going too. You always enjoy it when we have a night out in the NAAFI with everyone. It’ll be just the same.’

  ‘No it won’t!’

  A party was planned for the night before the squadron was to leave RAF Ballyhalbert, and Irene had spent the morning baking a cake. Sandy, on the other hand, had spent the day in the NAAFI drinking and playing cards. Just after dinner Jeanie popped her head over the half-door. ‘I was just down at the post office, collected a letter for ye.’

  Irene examined the writing. ‘It’s from my friend Macy, the American, remember I told you.’

  ‘The one who builds planes?’

  ‘The riveter, yes.’

  ‘Well, sure I’ll leave ye to get on.’

  Irene hadn’t heard from Macy in a long while, not since she wrote to say she’d got a waitress job to tide her over until the aircraft factory started up again. The letter was short, but it was everything Irene wanted to hear: ‘Great news, girl, Short and Harland are back in business. We start in a week, so get yourself back here.’

  Irene sat at the table and stared at the letter, turned the cake out to cool and read it again. She wandered up the lane with the letter in her pocket and leaned on the gate for a long time.

  Sandy had promised to return by five for something to eat and afterwards they would walk down the lane together to the party. His tea was still in the oven at six when she went upstairs to get ready. She chose her mauve polka dot dress with the sweetheart neckline and sat in front of the mirror to put on her make-up. She had never felt less like going to a party and the thought of telling Sandy about the aircraft factory reopening filled her with dread. At seven he arrived in a rush, with a flushed face and smelling of whiskey.

  ‘Sorry, love, didn’t realise the time. Got talking with the boys, you know how it is. Great you’re ready, let’s go.’

  Irene went to the table to get the cake tin. Macy’s letter was there beside it and she slipped it under the tablecloth.

  They left the NAAFI when the hokey cokey started. Irene had felt the strain building all evening, listening to the chatter about the new base, trying to keep a smile on her face. Sandy would leave in the morning and she still hadn’t told him about the letter.

  ‘Look at that sky,’ said Sandy as they walked the lane to Road End. ‘So many stars tonight, one for everybody in the world and millions to spare.’ He stopped at the five-bar gate overlooking the top meadow and pulled her towards him. ‘Choose the most beautiful one,’ he said.

  At any other time she would have warmed to such a romantic notion. ‘I can’t, they’re all the same.’

  ‘No they aren’t! You see the brightest star just there?’ He put his cheek next to hers and pointed upwards. ‘That’s the North Star. It’s fixed, you can always find it. Sailors use it to get their bearings. That’s my star. I’ve known it all my life ever since my father showed it to me when he first took me out on the trawler. Even when I was in India, I would look for it and know the people back home could see it too. Look at the smaller star, just to its right. That’ll be your star, always next to me.’

  Sandy left early the following morning, promising to find them somewhere to live near the new base. ‘Now, you’re to stay on here where I know you’ll be safe from the bombing and you’ll have Jeanie for company. I’ll try to find somewhere near the new base as quickly as I can, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t go back to the city.’ Irene promised and when he had gone, she packed her bag, said goodbye to Jeanie and caught the afternoon bus to Belfast.

  Irene could hear the laughter coming from the back garden as she came up the side of the house. They were all there sitting on blankets that were spread out on the grass and she stood for a moment realising how much she had missed them.

  Sheila saw her first. ‘It’s Irene!’ she screamed and ran to hug her.

  The others were quickly on their feet and lining up to do the same.

  ‘Bless us!’ said Martha. ‘Here you are without a word to tell us you were coming! We thought you were staying on until Sandy sent for you.’

  ‘I was going to, but when Sandy left …’

  ‘You decided to come home,’ Martha finished her sentence, ‘and sure why wouldn’t you.’

  ‘My goodness, Mammy, look at the colour of you. I thought you went to Dungannon not Africa!’

  ‘You’re a one to talk! Have you been working in the fields like me and Sheila?’

  ‘Been doing a lot of gardening,’ said Irene and she held up a wicker basket. ‘Brought some stuff home with me.’

  They sat in the warm sunshine with the scent of tea roses all around them and caught up on everything that had happened in Ballyhalbert and Dungannon. Irene scanned the faces of her family. Martha and Sheila tanned by the sun and looking well fed. In fact, Irene was sure if Sheila stood up she would be two inches taller. There was also something about the way they spoke, the way they held themselves that suggested more subtle changes. Sheila seemed more confident, more grown-up and her mother less anxious, content almost. Peggy too looked different, older maybe, slimmer too and she had done something with her hair that made her look more sophisticated. Only Pat, sitting towards the edge of the blanket, gave Irene cause to worry. She had said very little since Irene’s arrival. She was much thinner and her normally expressive face registered little emotion.

  As the afternoon wore on, Peggy, Pat and Sheila went inside to cook tea and Martha and Irene sat side by side in the garden.

  ‘There’s been no more raids then?’ asked Irene.

  ‘No, praise be to God, though there are still too many alerts breaking up our night’s sleep.’

  ‘Awful news about William Kennedy, wasn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I read your letter. What was he doing in Dublin?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Didn’t Pat know why he was there?’

  ‘She was off sick when he was killed.’

  ‘Sick? It’s not like Pat to be sick. How did she take his death?’

  Martha shook her head.

  Irene answered her own question. ‘Very badly, I would think. She always had a hankering after him, hadn’t she?’

  ‘I think it was a lot more than a hankering,’ Martha lowered her voice. ‘By the time I came home she was in such a state …’ Martha bit her lip. ‘I can’t tell you, I hardly knew her.’

  ‘She’s still not right, is she? I can’t believe the change in her.’

  ‘Well, maybe now you’re back she’ll buck up a bit. You talk to her, will you? See if you can help her at all.’

  ‘I’ll try. So it was just Peggy with her when she heard about William?’

  ‘Aye, and I’ll give Peggy her due, she tried so hard to help her. Strange, when you consider those two are always going at it hammer and tongs.’

  ‘No it isn’t, they’re closer than you think, Mammy.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but the trouble is Peggy’s so caught up in this dance band nonsense at the Plaza, she’s no time for anything else. Says she’s in with a chance of becoming band leader. Keeps talking about this character Devlin, can’t fathom what manner of man he is, but he’s good at giving out orders and kicking up a fuss when things aren’t to his liking.’

  ‘She’s met her match then.’

  ‘God, I hope not.’

  ‘Well at least she’s got her wish to play in a dance band.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, I always say.’

  It felt so good to be wearing her trousers and turban again and to be crossing the Queen’s Bridge on her way to the Short and Harland aircraft factory. Irene was looking forward to having money in her pocket and friends to have a laugh with. From a distance the bomb damage to the factory looked extens
ive, with huge sections of the roof burned away, but inside the Stirling bombers stood damaged, but not destroyed. The workers were told to go straight to the canteen where the manager was waiting to address them.

  ‘I’ll not lie to you,’ his voice was grim and his face was etched with exhaustion. ‘We’re a brave way from getting this factory back to full production, but we’re on site and our job now must be to clear the debris and salvage what can be repaired. Work on the burned-out areas is well under way and as soon as it’s complete the raw materials will arrive and we’ll be back in business.’

  Irene was assigned to a team clearing the floor area under one of the planes while skilled workers began stripping away the damage from the fuselage.

  When the hooter sounded for tea break Irene went in search of Macy and found her sitting in the sun smoking a cigarette.

  ‘How does it feel being back to bomb sites and food shortages?’ Mary asked her.

  ‘Great!’ laughed Irene. ‘But shifting what’s left of the ceiling off the floor is hard on the back.’

  ‘Now what you need, Irene, if you’re going to stay at Short’s, is a skilled job.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, is it? I’m not skilled at anything.’

  ‘But you could be. Hell, once they get this mess cleared up, they’re gonna increase production and that means more manpower, or in our case womanpower. They’re gonna want apprentices and you have to apply!’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’m too old to be an apprentice and I think someone might notice I’m a woman, don’t you?’

  ‘No problem. You can be my apprentice. I’ve already spoken to Mr McVey. You know I’m one of his favourite workers, don’t you?’ Macy gave an exaggerated wink. ‘I’ve told him training another woman would be a good idea.’

  Irene looked at her friend, so strong and confident and almost believed her. What had she to lose? ‘No harm in applying I suppose.’

  Chapter 21

  Peggy had talked of nothing else for weeks. The Summer Dinner Dance at the Plaza would be the social event of the year. With tickets at ten pounds a head, only the very wealthiest of Belfast’s citizens could afford to be there. The whole idea had been hers from the start, of course. Devlin, with all his talk about making the Plaza the top venue in the city, hadn’t built on the success of the dance competition. No imagination, was Peggy’s verdict.

  ‘You need to ask yourself what would draw the wealthy to a dance hall,’ she told him.

  ‘Champagne?’ he suggested.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘They can get that at the Imperial Hotel round the corner. Now what can we offer that isn’t available?’

  Devlin shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘John McCormack,’ said Peggy.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The greatest Irish tenor ever, a singing sensation, and if you can persuade him to come here, there’ll be Bentleys pulling up outside and more diamonds than you could shake a stick at coming through the doors.’

  Once pointed in the right direction, Devlin knew how to cut a deal. John McCormack had been touring England, giving concerts in aid of the Red Cross for several months, and had recently returned home to Dublin. He agreed to come north in exchange for a handsome donation to the charity. The caterers too were from over the border and promised the very best Irish beef in quantities unrestricted by rationing. Devlin applied for a drinks licence, the first time ever that alcohol would be sold at the Plaza.

  In the weeks leading up to the event Devlin came to rely on Peggy more and more. He had entered the unknown in terms of such a high-class event and became increasingly uncertain when making decisions. Whereas Peggy, although she had never done anything like this before, seemed to know instinctively what was needed and grew in confidence with each passing day. Every evening when she finished work at the music shop she would walk round to the Plaza to discuss the latest plans with Devlin. He would report on the progress he’d made with the arrangements so far and they’d draw up a list of what he would sort out the following day. At times he would be frustrated by delays in supplies or angry about the cost of the event and Peggy would soothe him by reminding him of the expected ticket sales. Sometimes she was tempted to reach out and smooth his worried brow or to touch his bottom lip which he chewed when anxious, but he gave her no sign that he would respond to such intimacy. He had kissed her before in an aggressive way and another time fleetingly when they had danced but she had no sense that he really cared for her. Sometimes, before she went to sleep, she thought of the night she lay alongside him during the air-raid alert and wished she could remember what that felt like.

  On the day of the dinner-dance Peggy called at the Plaza in her lunch hour. The dark blue carpet (red being common, according to Peggy) had already been rolled out across the pavement and matching silk ropes had been strung from chrome stands from the road to the entrance. The foyer was resplendent in blue and silver and a large poster of the smiling John McCormack proclaiming ‘Here Tonight’ hung from the ceiling. Inside the ballroom, circular tables, each seating ten people, had been arranged around a smaller than usual dance floor. In the centre of each table were tall silver vases filled with dark blue flowers and silver foliage that stretched in elegant arcs above the gleaming silver cutlery, wineglasses and napkins. Perfect.

  ‘Peggy! I need a word with you quickly.’ Devlin emerged from his office, his brow more deeply furrowed than she had ever seen it.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she called to him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The tables, the flowers,’ she spread her arms wide to encompass the entire room. ‘Everything!’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s what we agreed,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’m worried about Mr McCormack’s music.’

  She followed him into his office. ‘Everything’s fine. I told you, I’ve scored the songs he’s to sing. The orchestra have rehearsed, you’ve heard them, they’re very good.’ Her voice was calm and soothing.

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts. I said I’d look after everything to do with the music, it’s my responsibility and you’ve got to trust me.’

  ‘But I’m trying to tell you. I’ve just had a phone call from his manager to say he’ll be late for his rehearsal.’

  Peggy shrugged. ‘It won’t matter. He’s a professional and so are we. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘It had better be! You know the money that’s been spent on all this.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve told me often enough and you’ve sold all the tickets, so what are you worried about?’

  ‘I know, but I won’t be happy ’til it’s all over and people are going out the door saying it’s the best night out they’ve had in years and asking when’s the next one.’

  She caught him by the arm. ‘Look at all we’ve done here. In a few hours this room will be full of people dressed to the nines eating a dinner the likes of which they haven’t had since the start of the war. They’ll be entertained by one of the world’s greatest singers then they’ll dance the night away. For a few hours they’ll forget about the chaos out there and it won’t be long before they’re coming back for more.’

  His voice softened. ‘You’re right. I know I couldn’t have done this without you,’ and he leaned towards her and kissed her cheek. Peggy was thrilled at the look in his eyes. Surely later, she thought, when everyone has gone and we’re alone …

  ‘I’ve bought you something for tonight.’ He took a large box from behind his desk. Peggy’s eyes widened at the name in copperplate across the lid – the most expensive dress shop in the city. She opened the box and pulled back the tissue paper to reveal an exquisite full-length ball gown in midnight blue taffeta with silver chiffon ruched around the waist and tied at the side in a bow.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she gasped and held it up against her. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of a way,’ he whispered.

  It was late when Peggy locked up and left Goldstein’s music shop. A customer had
arrived ten minutes before closing time to buy a recorder for his daughter and couldn’t make up his mind which one to choose or which ‘How to play’ book would be most suitable for an eight-year-old. By the time Peggy had dealt with him, cashed up and made sure everything was secure, it was already 6.30 p.m.

  She had arranged to go straight to the Plaza where she would change and run through the final instructions with the orchestra before John McCormack’s arrival. She was thrilled to be meeting such a star; her sisters were so jealous and she would enjoy telling them all about appearing on the same stage as him. She’d get him to sign her copy of the ‘Ave Maria’ sheet music as a souvenir. In fact, in a fit of generosity, she had decided she would also get his autograph for each of her sisters.

  Devlin was pacing up and down in his office when she arrived. ‘Disaster!’ he shouted. ‘A bloody disaster! I knew it would be!’

  ‘Calm down,’ she told him, ‘it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Oh, it is! I’m telling you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Star of the show, John bloody McCormack!’

  Peggy caught her breath, ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s not coming!’

  ‘But he’s already here at the Imperial Hotel.’

  ‘Aye, he’s there all right, in bed with a dose of laryngitis and no voice to speak, let alone sing! His manager’s just been on the phone.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Peggy could feel the panic rising in her chest – all those people getting ready, putting on their finest clothes, booking taxis. All that roast beef!

  ‘We’ll have to give all the money back. I’ll get the sack!’ Devlin wailed. Suddenly he turned on her, jabbing his finger. ‘This is all your fault! You talked me into this. John bloody McCormack indeed! I should never have listened to you!’

  ‘Will you shut up and let me think!’ Peggy knew all the arrangements were good: the ballroom looked magnificent; the food would be excellent; the orchestra would play brilliantly for the dancing. The only thing missing was the star act. John McCormack might be irreplaceable, but nevertheless they had to replace him. They just needed an excellent, entertaining act and the sympathy of the audience to carry the night.