Golden Sisters

by Alrene Hughes

  ‘I’ve an idea that might work,’ said Peggy. ‘I want you to carry on with the evening as if nothing’s happened. Welcome everyone, get the dinner served, and for goodness sake smile, will you! I’ll be back in under an hour.’

  ‘An hour! You can’t leave me with this mess. Where are you going?’

  ‘To get us a show.’

  Peggy had never been in a taxi in her life, but she headed straight for the rank outside the City Hall, shouted her destination through the window to the driver and climbed into the back. ‘And make it quick! This is an emergency!’ she yelled, just as she had seen it done in countless American films.

  When the taxi arrived at Joanmount Gardens she told the driver to wait. ‘Irene! Pat!’ she screamed as she came through the back door. The kitchen was empty, so was the sitting room. ‘Where are you?’

  Pat met her halfway up the stairs, ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Where’s Irene?’

  ‘Gone to the pictures with Macy. Why?’

  ‘Aaargh!’ Peggy screamed with frustration. ‘I need you and Irene to come to the Plaza. John McCormack can’t sing and there’s a hundred people sitting down to their dinner right now looking forward to a show.’ She sank down on the bed, ‘Oh God, what am I going to do?’

  ‘Wait a minute, are you suggesting we sing at the Plaza?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Instead of John McCormack?’ Pat laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

  ‘It’s the only chance of saving the whole evening.’

  ‘But we haven’t rehearsed for ages, not since Irene went away to Ballyhalbert and we haven’t performed since … I don’t know when.’

  ‘Irene’s wedding. But it doesn’t matter. We’ve sung the songs so many times – all those concerts with the Barnstormers, and the huge audiences at the army camps. We can do this!’

  ‘Peggy, I don’t think I can–’

  ‘Please, Pat,’ Peggy pleaded, ‘just say you’ll do it. You’re the best of the lot of us. You can really make this work. Irene and I are nothing without you. Say you’ll do it!’

  ‘But we’re no substitute for somebody like John McCormack.’

  ‘But if we give our very best, people will enjoy it. That’s better than sending them away with nothing. Please, will you? Will you just do it for me?’

  Pat sighed, ‘I might, but I have to say it’s against my better judgement, and there’s a problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re still a Golden Sister short.’

  Pat remembered only that Irene was meeting Macy at the YWCA and they were going to see The Philadelphia Story. She had no idea what cinema. On the way back to the city centre in the taxi, with the hour almost up, Peggy wanted to call at the McCracken shop for Sheila, but Pat was adamant.

  ‘She’s no experience at all. She sang three songs with us at a concert and that was over a year ago. No, if we can’t find Irene, that’s it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But how will we find her?’

  ‘Stop!’ Pat shouted.

  ‘What is it?’

  She pointed to the paperboy on the corner shouting, ‘Telegraph.’ ‘We’ll look at the cinema listings.’

  There was a queue round the block for the second house at the Ritz when Peggy jumped out of the taxi. Along the line she went, searching every face. Irene wasn’t there. She could have wept with frustration. It was almost eight o’clock and back at the Plaza she knew they would be serving the strawberries and ice cream. Then she noticed that some people were already in the cinema foyer queuing for tickets. The commissionaire stood in front of the doors. ‘I need to find my sister,’ she told him.

  ‘Back of the queue please.’

  ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘Back of the queue please, miss.’

  Suddenly Peggy caught sight of flaming red curls, a woman as tall as the men: Macy. And just beside her Peggy could see Irene. ‘She’s just there, please tell those two girls. It’s a matter of life and death!’

  The commissionaire laughed. ‘Well I’ve not heard that one before. You’d better go and get her then.’

  The diners had finished their dessert and were being served coffee and petite fours when Peggy and her sisters arrived and went straight to Devlin’s office.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he shouted. Then he noticed she wasn’t alone. ‘Who’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘This is Irene and Pat and together we’re the Golden Sisters.’ Peggy tried to look confident and added, ‘The girls with the golden voices.’

  Devlin gave a humourless laugh and shook his head. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Right now you’ve got a hundred paying customers waiting to be entertained and we’re the only entertainers in the building so, no, I’m not joking.’

  ‘But they’re expecting someone famous not …’ He looked from one girl to another. They looked like they’d just walked in off the street – which of course they had.

  ‘That’s why you’ve got to convince them we’re worth listening to.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘You’ll start by serving them a free after-dinner brandy, while we get to work transforming ourselves into three glamorous singers. Then you’ll explain that John McCormack can’t perform and give us a big introduction.’

  Twenty minutes later, the girls were ready. Peggy’s expertise with stage make-up had worked its magic and their hair had been brushed and shaped. Finally, Peggy produced the three beautiful dresses that Devlin had bought her. They didn’t match, but they seemed to suit the girls’ personalities: Peggy in the Midnight in Paris ballgown, strong, dark, and with a flash of creativity in the silver sash; Irene in the kingfisher silk, mercurial, lively; Pat in the emerald green, deep and sensitive. They looked like Hollywood starlets.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Devlin remembered to smile. Peggy had warned him that he must hold his nerve and show the audience that he was confident that the rest of the night would be a success. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I hope very much that you have enjoyed the excellent dinner. At this point in the evening I know you are all anticipating the appearance of our guest performer John McCormack.’

  There was cheering and banging of tables.

  ‘Unfortunately, I have just been informed that he is unable to perform because he has laryngitis.’

  The noise level in the room rose as people turned to each other in disbelief, questioning what they had heard. There were shouts, demands, accusations …

  Devlin held up his hand. ‘Please let me explain.’ The microphone ensured he was heard and slowly the audience quietened. ‘At the last minute we have managed to bring you a wonderful act; three young Belfast women, who have made quite a name for themselves singing in concert halls and army camps. If you enjoy the music of the Andrews Sisters, I’m sure you will love these girls–’

  A man near the front stood up, ‘But we’ve paid good money to see John McCormack, that’s the only reason we’re here.’

  ‘Give us our money back,’ another shouted.

  Devlin ignored them both. ‘Please understand that it can’t be helped. Mr McCormack is ill. No one could have foreseen that. Now I’m sure you’ll agree you’ve had an excellent dinner and there will still be dancing later. So I hope you’ll allow the girls to perform.’

  There was some grumbling about wanting half the money back, but one or two people were calling out, ‘Let’s give them a chance.’ Eventually the room quietened.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ – Devlin’s smile had slipped a little – ‘all the way from the Oldpark Road, the talented Golden Sisters!’

  They ran onstage, smiling warmly. Peggy went straight to the grand piano that had been moved centre-stage and Irene and Pat stood at the microphone alongside it. They’d decided which songs to sing as they had been getting ready. They’d begin with ‘Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart’ and Peggy would introduce each subsequent song so the girls wouldn’t have to worry about rememberin
g the order.

  Peggy played the introduction and they smiled warmly and swayed to the music. On cue Peggy and Irene began to sing ‘Dear when you smiled at me …’ Instantly, they knew the sound was wrong – too thin, no depth. The harmonies were there, but the central melody, the power of the song – Pat’s voice – was absent. Peggy brought it round again; another chance for Pat to pick up. Irene glanced sideways at her sister and saw her breathe deeply, shape her mouth to the words … but still no sound emerged.

  For Pat, the Plaza had ceased to exist. Darkness was all around her, the only sound was the clump and crack of bombs. The old woman had told her to watch over him, but he was out on the streets, it would be her fault if … The explosion that killed William, discordant and deadly, filled Pat’s head and there was no music or words to be found inside her. She turned and walked off the stage.

  Chapter 22

  The summer of 1941 was sweltering. The tar melted on the roads and small boys with sticks poked at it until their hands and clothes were stained brown. Outside the City Hall adults lazed on the grass: men with no hats, ties undone, sleeves rolled up; women, who hadn’t worn stockings since the war began, exposed winter-white legs to the hot sun. Peggy ate her Spam sandwich and listened to the chatter of two women just behind her.

  ‘I’m telling you it shut down overnight, no notice or anything. They say there was no money to pay the bills. It’s a real shame. The Plaza was a great night out. I met my husband there, you know.’

  Peggy threw her half-eaten lunch in a bin and headed for Chichester Street. The doors of the Plaza were secured by a heavy chain and on a cardboard sign behind the glass a scrawl of red paint proclaimed it ‘Closed’. Devlin, no doubt, was gone. After the John McCormack concert that never was, his rage had been frightening, most of it directed at Pat. He had stood over her screaming, until Peggy dragged him away, and then ordered them off the premises immediately. They left, still wearing the beautiful dresses, while Devlin went alone to face the customers demanding their money back. Pat didn’t say a word until they were safe at home then she broke down. It had been stage fright she said, but both Peggy and Irene knew that Pat was the least likely person to be struck dumb on a stage. Besides, she had shown no anxiety at all at the thought of performing. It was quite simply that when she opened her mouth to sing nothing came out.

  Peggy peered through the Plaza doors. The blue silk ropes and chrome stands were lying on the floor, the poster of John McCormack hung skewwhiff from the ceiling. She thought of what might have been – the wonderful night she had planned to perfection, the romance she had hoped would blossom – but the tears that pricked her eyes were all for Pat and her lost voice.

  Goldstein was waiting for her when she returned to the shop. ‘Such a beautiful day, Peggy, so many people out and about. I think it’s time for one of your impromptu concerts to encourage people to buy.’

  Peggy sat at the piano. ‘Do you know the Plaza’s closed?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but you play it and I’ll hum it!’

  It wasn’t like Goldstein to make jokes. He really must be in a good mood, thought Peggy. ‘Mr Goldstein …’ she hesitated, not knowing how to broach the subject. ‘I know I’ve let you down over the last few months, playing at the Plaza on Saturday nights and not helping with the Barnstormers at all.’

  He held up his hand. ‘Not at all, Peggy, not at all, you saw an opportunity to play in a dance band and you were right to take it.’

  ‘But it didn’t amount to much, did it?’

  Goldstein shrugged. ‘But you have more experience. Did you not score the music for the band? Did you not organise a large event?’

  ‘Ha! You mean the one that ended in disaster?’

  ‘Do not be so hard on yourself. Is it your fault the star of the show did not turn up?’

  ‘No but–’

  ‘But nothing,’ he insisted. ‘I will be honest with you, Peggy, we have really missed the Golden Sisters at the Barnstormers concerts. We have nothing like your act and’ – his eyes twinkled – ‘your glamour! With the lighter evenings and the fact there have been no bombings since May we should attract bigger audiences for our next concert. What would you say to joining us again?’

  ‘You mean the Golden Sisters?’

  ‘Yes, you and your sisters and, now that Horowitz has left Belfast, I need a new assistant director. I think you would do a good job.’

  ‘Oh Mr Goldstein, I’d really love to be your assistant director, but there might be a problem with us singing.’ Peggy was unsure whether Goldstein would have heard about the sisters’ disaster at the Plaza, but how could she pretend everything was fine with them.

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Aye, when John McCormack couldn’t perform, we were going to sing in his place, but we couldn’t …’ she hesitated, reluctant to reveal what had happened with Pat. ‘When it came to it, Pat wasn’t able to sing. She said it was a touch of stage fright.’

  ‘Stage fright? Pat? Never!’

  Peggy shrugged her shoulders. ‘We were surprised too, but she just couldn’t do it. ’

  ‘Couldn’t sing?’ Goldstein thought for a moment. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine once she’s had a chance to rehearse. Why don’t all of you come along to our next rehearsal, Sheila and your mother as well, if they want to? Pat will be fine, I know it.’

  Martha liked nothing better than waking up in the morning to a clear blue sky and the promise of a warm day. She especially liked it when it was pension day. Ten shillings wasn’t much for a widow, but since her girls were all out earning, it meant Martha could afford a few treats now and then. Carson’s beef sausages were always good quality – not full of fat and gristle like some she’d had – and she picked up a bag of gravy rings from the bakers as a nice surprise for the girls after their tea. She was coming out of the home bakery, when she ran into Vera Grimes, an old friend she hadn’t seen for a while – not since that business with Vera’s policeman husband Ted, who had bullied Irene over a friendship she had with a Catholic family.

  ‘How are you keeping, Martha?’

  ‘Fine. How’s yourself?’

  ‘Ach, I’m a martyr to the rheumatism.’ She leaned in closer as though sharing a confidence, ‘And you know my heart’s not strong.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but sure you’re looking well,’ said Martha.

  ‘What about the girls?’

  ‘Aah, they’re great.’

  ‘You’re blessed, so you are, Martha.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose I am.’

  Martha walked back up the hill in the sunshine weighing up Vera’s words. She was blessed – they were good girls – but she’d been a mother long enough to know there was always something to worry about when it came to children. Pat was working hard in her new job at Stormont. Never one to do things by half, she had thrown herself into her work, but she’d been hard hit by William Kennedy’s death for sure. Sometimes Martha would catch a glimpse of the sadness she tried to hide, and longed to put her arms around her and rock her as she did when she was a child. Irene was happy enough, though God knows why she’d become an apprentice and a riveter at that. What sort of a job was that for a woman? And what sort of marriage had she with Sandy away in England and still no word of a house so she could join him? Well, at least Peggy was out of the dance hall and away from that Devlin character – it was no place for a respectable young woman. At one time she thought Peggy and Harry Ferguson might have made a go of it, but then he took himself off to England to join the army and she’d never mentioned him since. Then there was Sheila, growing up fast and turning into a real beauty. Yes, Martha knew Vera was right, count your blessings and make the most of every day.

  She had just turned into Joanmount Gardens when she heard the bell of a bike behind her. Sheila was back from helping the McCrackens in their shop. Now if we can just find her a proper job, thought Martha.

  ‘Guess what I’ve got?’ said Sheila

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A piece
of Cheddar, just big enough to have for our dinner.’

  They sat on the back step eating their cheese on toast, savouring each mouthful.

  ‘What would you say to a wee trip out on Sunday, if the weather holds?’ asked Martha.

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘No, all of us, the whole family together, a trip to the seaside to blow away the cobwebs.’

  Martha was always excited by trains – billowing steam, gleaming engines, and the heavy clang of slamming doors all promised adventure. Who wouldn’t want to be whisked away from ordinary life to hurtle through the countryside, leaning out the window until your eyes streamed and little smuts of soot smudged your face?

  The railway station was heaving with people, even at nine on a Sunday morning, all anticipating a day in the sun at the seaside. A huge blackboard at the entrance advertised ‘Bangor and Back for a Bob’ and Martha parted with her five shillings and gave each girl her own ticket. Sheila and Peggy immediately rushed ahead to the platform to claim an empty carriage so they could all sit together.

  In no time they were clear of the city and heading out along the south shore of the lough, past the gantries and slipways until they had a clear view out across the water to the far shore. At Holywood station several people left the train, no doubt heading for the small beach there, the first one along the coast.

  ‘Your daddy and I came here to see the Titanic sail down the lough on its maiden voyage,’ Martha told the girls. ‘We could have gone down to the docks at the shipyard – thousands of people did – but Robert said he’d been right up close to the ship for so long while he was working on it that he wanted to see all of her just once, in her glory, leaving the city where she was built. It was like a Twelfth of July holiday down on the shore; people were all dressed up, from the poorest to the wealthiest, and were waving and cheering. Sure they would never have heard us on board, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t about them. It was about us, we’d built it.’ She sighed, ‘Ah well, t’was others sunk it.’