‘I’m sorry, Mr Goldstein. I was just demonstrating the quality of sound to this gentleman.’ She had a sudden desire to laugh. Meanwhile her dancing partner had crossed to the door.
‘Well thank you, miss.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll think about it.’ And, with a wave of his hat, he was gone.
Chapter 4
The Grosvenor Hall was an imposing brick building with a grand portico at the lower end of the Grosvenor Road, just round the corner from the Opera House. Martha, Irene and Pat stood for a moment looking up at it, unable to believe that they were to perform there.
‘It’s huge,’ said Pat. ‘How many people did you say it seats?’
‘Don’t even think about that!’ said Irene.
‘Come on,’ said Martha, ‘let’s get inside.’
The entrance hall was deserted, but a table had been set ready with admission tickets and programmes, and posters advertising the evening were on display. Their heels clicked on the marble floor as they crossed to the doors leading to the hall itself. Irene reached for the polished brass handle then hesitated.
‘Go on,’ urged Pat. ‘We’ve come this far.’
Irene pulled open the heavy door and all three of them stepped into the hall. A sea of wooden chairs had been set out in neat rows disappearing into the distance, where the largest stage they had ever seen rose in a profusion of colourful flowers and foliage.
‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed Martha, her hand to her mouth.
They took a few steps further and stopped again, their eyes drawn upwards towards the vast space above them. The ceiling was dusky pink, the colour of the tea roses in their garden, bordered by an elaborate white plaster cornice. Like interconnecting cogs the three of them, still gazing upwards, moved in a circle to take in the vastness of the auditorium.
‘You know, girls. I’m not sure I—’ Martha was interrupted by a booming voice.
‘Hallo there!’ They turned to the stage where a smartly dressed man stood with his hands on his hips smiling at them. ‘You performers?’ he asked.
Pat stepped forward. ‘Yes. We’re the Goulding sisters.’ Then realising that wasn’t quite accurate she added, ‘Well, we’re the sisters.’ She indicated Irene and herself. ‘And this is our mother.’
‘Good show!’ His voice echoed in the empty hall. ‘I’m Derek, Stage Manager. Come on then, I’ll show you to the dressing room.’ With that, he took the steps at the side of the stage two at a time and signalled them to follow him.
Compared to the splendour of the hall, backstage was a disappointment. He led them down a passageway of green distempered walls, where buckets filled with sand or water had been placed at regular intervals. He stopped at a shabby door with the hand written sign ‘Ladies’ Dressing Room’ and pushed it open, making an expansive sweep of his arm to usher them in, whilst averting his eyes. ‘See you later, ladies.’ His voice boomed at the same volume it had in the hall.
Beyond the door was what looked like a school cloakroom with a continuous wooden bench running around the outside of the room, above which were brass coat hooks. A young woman dressed only in a slip had one foot on the bench and was leaning over fastening her tap shoe. Her blond hair had been rolled into little sausage shapes that framed her face. She looked up as they entered. ‘Hallo, there’s plenty a room over here if youse want te get changed.’ Her accent was broad Belfast. ‘Are youse all doin’ a turn?’
‘Yes,’ replied Irene. ‘We’re singing.’
‘Ach, are ye? That’s great. I’m dancing.’ She gestured towards a group of girls at the back of the room. ‘I’m with them uns. We’re The Templemore Tappers, so it’s not hard te guess we’re from Templemore Avenue.’
Martha moved over to the bench and hung up their bags. Her heart sank as she looked around the various female performers preparing to go on stage. She was forty seven years old, for goodness sake! What was she thinking about, coming here? This was a place for youngsters, not oul women like her. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her clammy forehead. That was all she needed, a hot flush. Lord, what would she do if she got one on the stage in the middle of playing?
‘Mammy.’ Pat touched her arm. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’
‘No, I’m not,’ she said bluntly, but could say no more. She couldn’t think straight; couldn’t put into words the notion of not being able to focus on anything, except the heat welling up deep inside her and the sweat beginning to seep through her pores. God, help me, she thought, I can’t even remember the names of the songs I’m to play, let alone the notes.
Pat knelt down in front of her. ‘What is it? Are you sick?’
‘I can’t do this, Pat. I thought I could. I wanted to do it to help you, but right now …’
‘Look, you just have to calm down. It might be a touch of stage fright that’s all. It’ll soon pass. Sure I get it all the time and Irene’s worse than me, but it just goes when you get up there.’ Martha groaned and shook her head. Pat hurried on. ‘We’ll find the toilet and you can wash your face and hands. It’ll make you feel better.’
Martha looked up into the face of her daughter so close to her own and saw the look of concern. It was a long time since she had been so physically close to Pat, to the rich auburn hair that framed her full face and those green eyes so like Robert’s. She tried to smile. ‘All right I’ll go.’ Pat glanced round for Irene and saw she was chatting away to the Templemore Tapper, like she’d known her all her life. That’s Irene for you, she thought.
*
On Saturdays Goldstein kept his Sabbath and Peggy kept his shop. He had opened up early and stayed just long enough to give Peggy her instructions. ‘Do not allow customers to handle the records; they might have dirty or greasy hands. Allow them only a brief look at the sheet music; they might try to memorise the words or notes. And don’t allow anyone to play a piano unless they look like they can afford to buy it.’ He would return just before closing time to put the day’s takings in the safe and lock up.
Rain was beating off the streets when he left and Peggy hoped it might keep some shoppers at home. But around eleven the rain eased off and the late September sun quickly dried the pavements. Trade was brisk for the rest of the day, especially at lunchtime. She had expected to miss her usual wander around the shops to look at the style, but there hadn’t even been time to have her dinner; it lay uneaten in her handbag under the counter. The new Bing Crosby was selling well. Not really her taste, so she played some Billie Holiday, but nobody bought it. After lunch a stiff breeze cleared the sky of cloud, so she left the door open, something Goldstein didn’t approve of, but it always brought the customers in.
‘Do you have the sheet music for ‘The Londonderry Air’?’ The woman wore a black costume, with white piping around the collar. She rested her expensive leather handbag on the counter. Peggy noticed that one of her pencilled eyebrows was shorter than the other and smiled.
She was tempted to say, ‘Of course we do, you stupid woman, we sell about fifty copies a week,’ but instead she held her smile and asked. ‘Would you like a copy with the words of ‘Danny Boy’ to accompany the music?’
‘Of course not!’ The woman was clearly affronted, exactly as Peggy intended. ‘It’s for my son to play on his cello.’ And not, Peggy mentally added, for a singsong round your house after a few port and lemons!
As Peggy turned to find the sheet music, someone shouted, ‘What about the music for ‘I Want to be Happy? I’d like it without the words too, so it doesn’t put me off my dancing!’
There he was, leaning on the far end of the counter.
‘Oh, do you find it difficult to concentrate on your steps?’ Peggy played along.
‘Only when my partner is very attractive and whispers in my ear.’
‘And what does she say … you’re standing on my toes?’
‘Ouch!’
She’d been trying to remember his smile and there it was. He straightened up. Was he really that tall, maybe younger too, twent
y two or three? She finished serving the woman and moved down the counter to face him. ‘I thought you were interested in a gramophone, not sheet music?’
He rubbed his chin and pretended to consider. ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind. I’d need to hear the different models again, I think.’ He looked at the small queue that had built up at the counter. ‘But you’re a bit busy, so perhaps I’ll call in another time, when there are less customers to get in the way of the dancing!’
The afternoon dragged by. By five it had clouded over and the rain began to fall, slowly at first, then as it turned darker she put the lights on and stood in the open doorway watching the rain. Mammy, Pat and Irene would be at the Grosvenor Hall by now. They hadn’t asked her again if she would play, hadn’t even asked her if she was going to watch. It didn’t matter, she would have said ‘No’ to both. But right now she realised she wanted to be there, desperately. Well, either there or with Bogey! Where was he now? In a bar somewhere drinking with his friends, or at home relaxing, without his jacket and his tie undone, as it had been that afternoon at the City Hall? Peggy crossed to the baby grand and began to pick out the opening bars of ‘I Want to be Happy’.
‘Miss Goulding! What are you doing?’ Goldstein was in the doorway, taking down his umbrella and shaking it vigorously into the street. ‘The door is open to the pouring-down rain, all the lights are ablaze and you …’ He came inside and shut the door behind him. ‘… and, you are playing the piano!’ He raised his voice at the end as though it was a question and one look at his face showed he clearly expected an answer. Peggy was terrified he’d dismiss her on the spot.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Goldstein. The last customer mustn’t have closed the door properly and it’s blown open in the wind.’ That’ll do for a start she thought, and the piano playing? ‘… and I needed to rehearse,’ she said calmly.
‘Rehearse?’ That really was a question.
‘Yes, rehearse. I’m playing in a concert.’ She felt like her voice had a will of its own, picking words out of the air. ‘You know … the benefit concert …’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘… at the Grosvenor Hall.’ She relaxed. That was it; say it again. ‘I’m going to be performing with my sisters. We’re the Goulding Sisters.’ Goldstein looked puzzled. ‘We sing,’ she added.
‘Peggy.’ Dropping the ‘Miss Goulding’ was a good sign. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ He was clearly delighted. ‘Let us lock up quickly and I will give you a lift to the Grosvenor Hall, yes?’
‘No it’s all right. I couldn’t take you out of your way. It’s not far to walk.’
‘It’s not out of my way at all.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I too am going to the concert. The organisers have sent me a special invitation to thank me for my donation. You will be on the stage and I,’ he paused for effect, ‘will be on the front row!’
*
About the same time as Peggy was settling herself into the leather seat of Goldstein’s Sunbeam Talbot, Sheila was climbing on board a tram at the end of Manor Street. She, too, had had a busy day. They’d brought Aunt Hannah downstairs after her breakfast to sit in the kitchen in front of the fire. It proved to be a mistake. She was constantly calling through the curtain for Aggie. Could she get her a drink of tea; another cushion; the fire needed poked; needed more coal; she was too hot; too cold; thirsty; hungry. As if that wasn’t distracting enough, every now and again she’d recognise a customer’s voice and call out, ‘Is that you, Mrs Jackson?’ or whoever, followed by, ‘Come on through and let’s have a bit a craic.’ Then it would be, ‘Aggie, will you not give the woman a cup of tea in her hand?’ Again and again, until Sheila was left alone in the shop serving customers, while poor Aggie served Aunt Hannah and half the street in the back kitchen.
They’d locked the shop door at six o’clock, just enough time for Sheila to have a good wash and change into her black skirt and mauve blouse. She tied the bow several times in front of the mirror in Aggie’s bedroom, but she just couldn’t get it to sit right. Never mind, Mammy would sort it when she got there, if there was enough time. She managed her hair much better. When she had taken out the rags that morning, her hair was in tight ringlets and she managed to resist the urge to put a comb through them so that they would fall into soft curls. She was to comb them out just before she left the McCracken’s, when there would be just enough bounce left in them to look natural by the time she got to the hall.
It was raining when she left the shop so she tied her scarf around her head and hoped it wouldn’t flatten her hair too much. The tram was full and she had to stand up. When the conductor came for her fare she asked him to put her off close to the Opera House. As the tram lurched its way forward in fits and starts through the heavy rain, she began to feel a little sick trying to keep her balance. The smell of damp clothing and sweat wafted around her. Next to her a man sniffed constantly and she had to turn away each time he was wracked with coughing.
An elderly woman sitting further along the tram stood up and rang the bell for it to stop. Sheila moved to one side to let her pass and the woman looked up at her and frowned. ‘Didn’t you want the Opera House, dear?’ Sheila nodded. ‘Well, you’ve missed it I’m afraid, it was the last stop.’ Seeing the look of panic on Sheila’s face she added, ‘See these conductors, you couldn’t trust them. Why don’t you get off here with me and I’ll show you where to go.’
In the growing dark and heavy rain, in a part of the city she didn’t know, Sheila ran as fast as she could, back the way she had come, praying she would get there with enough time and breath to sing.
*
‘And your woman over thonder, pacin’ up an’ down talking to herself, looks like a school teacher? That’s because she is one. But on the programme she’s down as an elocutionist, so she is. Do ye know what one a them is?’
Irene nodded. ‘Poems and things?’
‘Aye, she usually starts with ‘Up the airy mountain’. Do ye know that one?’ The Templemore Tapper, whose name was Myrtle, seemed to have the measure of most of the other performers.
‘What about the wee girl,’ asked Irene. ‘What’s she doing here?’
Myrtle rolled her eyes ‘Pain in the arse that one. Mind out fer the ma but, she’s even worse.’
The child knew she was being talked about and skipped towards them. Her strawberry blond hair was caught up in bunches tied with red satin bows and someone had painted large freckles all over her nose. Her gingham dress was far too short and on her feet were ankle socks and the inevitable white tap shoes. She removed a brightly coloured lolly from her mouth.
‘What are you called?’ she said.
‘Irene.’
‘Irene what?’
‘Irene Goulding.’
She pulled a face. ‘That’s not a very good name for the stage.’ She held out the edges of her skirt and twirled. ‘My name’s Twirly Semple and I sing like Shirley Temple, so I do. D’ye wanna hear some?’
‘Not really, no.’
Too late, Twirly was off tapping and skipping across the room. ‘On the good ship Lollipop,’ she sang.
‘Fifteen minutes to curtain up. Make sure you check the running order, behind the door. Oh yes, and another Goulding Sister has arrived.’ Derek had acquired a clip board and a sense of urgency.
‘Thank goodness, Sheila’s made it on time,’ said Pat. ‘She’ll be able to catch her breath too; we’re not on until the second half.’
Twirly Semple had reached her finale by turning cartwheels across the room towards Martha. Suddenly, the child panicked, struggled to right herself and, as she did so, vomited all down her gingham dress. At the same time an ordinary looking woman stood up and began to yodel. Martha looked from one to the other and let out a cry. At that moment, the door opened and Peggy stood there smiling broadly.
‘Aah, have you come to wish us good luck?’ Irene assumed the best of Peggy.
Pat said sharply, ‘What are you doing here?’
Martha didn’t need to say anything, she kn
ew exactly why her self-centred daughter had appeared and, in a rare moment of selfishness, she was so glad to see her.
‘Where’s the programme? What time are we on?’ Peggy was taking off her coat. ‘Mammy, let me have your blouse. God, I hate mauve, so I do!’
‘Don’t move, Mammy,’ Pat commanded. ‘Now you listen here, Peggy Goulding. You’re not a part of this. You can’t just walk in here and go on the stage with us. We’ve rehearsed all this and you haven’t. So you are not playing in this concert.’
Peggy ignored her and turned to Irene. ‘You know Mr Goldstein, from the shop? Well, he’s here, on the front row, he gave me a lift.’ Peggy paused for them to be impressed then added, ‘in his car.’
‘So that’s it, is it? Out to impress your boss. Well, I don’t care about Mr Goldstein, you’re still not performing,’ Pat shouted. At the sound of raised voices the dressing room fell silent as they watched the sisters face each other, hands on hips.
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