“Hey there, save us a bit of that!”
There were two of them in uniform, RAF. One tall and quite dark; he jumps up on to the railing and sits there swinging his legs and he’s the one doing all the shouting. His friend turns away, has his back to us, saying nothing. He’s shorter, kind of sandy auburn hair. Well, Theresa’s not a bit backward in coming forward and she shouts, “Why, what’s it worth?”
“What will you take?” says the dark one.
“Away on with you! I don’t even know you.” Theresa shouts back.
‘Next thing, the dark one’s over the rail and running down the slope towards us, while his friend walks the long way round and down the steps. They’ve got fish and chips. You know how it is, when you smell the newspaper wet with vinegar and you start to drool and you’d do anything for a chip.’
‘Oh aye …’ Myrtle nodded her head in a knowing way.
‘No, it wasn’t like that. We shared the food and they had some beer and we had some brown lemonade. The dark one was called Tommy and his sandy friend was, you’ve guessed it, Sandy. They were based just outside Stranraer.’
‘God, were they pilots?’ asked Myrtle.
Irene laughed. ‘No, they weren’t posh or anything. They were radio engineers.’
‘Sounds posh enough to me. So, what happened then?’
‘Tommy was really taken with Theresa and after a while Sandy said he was going down to the harbour to look at the fishing boats. He nodded at me as if to say come on. I knew what he meant, Theresa and Tommy had forgotten we were there sitting like dummies, while they made eyes at each other.’
‘And did you like this Sandy?’ Myrtle leaned forward now as if Irene might be about to reveal some secret.
‘Ach he was nice enough, a bit quiet. We walked along the harbour wall. He had his hands in his pockets looking at his feet. He told me he was from the North East of Scotland. Right enough, his accent was very strong, hard to make out sometimes. He stopped and talked to some wee boys who were fishing. I watched him. He looked happy, down on his hunkers looking at the fish they’d caught, helped one boy get a fish off the hook. He stood up then and smiled at me, a nice smile, one that you’d give a friend.’
The light had faded, but Myrtle was reluctant to draw the black out curtains and turn on the light, feeling that it might signal the end of the story. Irene went to the window and leaned her head against the pane, trying to conjure up Sandy’s face. Finally, she turned.
‘Time to get ready, ay?’
‘Aye, in a minute,’ said Myrtle. ‘Finish your story. What happened then?’
‘Nothing. It was time to get the boat home. We walked back to Theresa and Tommy, but just before we reached them he stopped and said, “I’m going to be posted overseas again soon. Can I write to you?”
‘I wondered what he’d find to say in a letter, when he’d hardly spoken to me in the hour we’d spent together, but he had a nice smile so I said yes.’
‘So really he’s a pen pal?’
‘That was the idea. Trouble is, he never wrote.’
‘Ah well, sure never mind,’ said Myrtle. ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves dolled up and see what make of man we can meet the night.’
*
John Dossor’s was one of the best night spots in Belfast: resident band, dancing, even lessons for those wanting to do more than shuffle round the floor. It was on the corner of Victoria Street close to the Albert Clock which leaned like the Tower of Pisa on its sandy foundations. Above the door was a banner proclaiming: ‘Grand Halloween Dance’ and inside a flight of narrow, dimly lit stairs ran up to the first floor where an elderly lady in a hair net and rouged cheeks sat behind a table, taking the money and stamping hands.
‘Keep on the right side a her,’ whispered Myrtle, ‘if ye don’t want te be barred.’
On the first floor there were dance studios and posters advertised lessons at one and six an hour. ‘Up again to the dance,’ said Myrtle. Irene turned to follow her then stopped dead. The stairs were lined on either side with young men, some of them wearing ghoulish false faces making spooky noises, laughing, calling to them to come up the narrow space they had left through the middle. At that moment, Irene would gladly have fled, but Myrtle grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up through the loud jostling youths and into the sanctuary of the ladies’ toilets. Inside was already packed, noise levels were high and the smell of disinfectant was slowly being replaced by Midnight in Paris and 4711 cologne. Myrtle found a spot in one corner with a chance of seeing the edge of a mirror and carefully re-shaped the waves in her hair. Irene reapplied the carnation lipstick and offered it to Myrtle who slicked on an extra layer.
‘Here, let’s get into the Halloween spirit. Look what I’ve got.’ Myrtle pulled out two cardboard eye masks, one black with white lace the other pink with black lace. ‘Choose,’ she said, offering them.
‘I don’t know, you pick.’
‘You have the pink, then. I’ll be more daring in the black.’ She slipped the shirring elastic over her head and grinned as Irene did the same.
‘Now we can say an’ do whatever we like and no one will know it’s us!’ Myrtle’s laugh was infectious and soon both of them were giggling away in the corner.
‘God, Myrtle,’ said a thin girl with long black hair, holding a bottle of sweet sherry. ‘How much have you had?’
‘Nothin’ at all, we don’t need drink in us te have a good time.’ She took Irene’s arm and led her back into the corridor. Out of earshot she whispered, ‘She’ll be paralytic in an hour and outside throwin’ up in two.’
The dance hall was bathed in yellow light. At the far end there was a six piece band playing ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’. Several couples were waltzing around the floor, some of them girls dancing together. Round the outside of the room were wooden tables and chairs. Soft drinks were being sold from a hatch. Young men were standing about in groups at the edge of the dance floor chatting and laughing as they weighed up the girls. Several of them were wearing Halloween false faces which, combined with the yellow light, gave them a sinister look.
‘Don’t they dance?’ asked Irene after they’d bought themselves bottles of Ross’s orange with paper straws and found an empty table.
‘Some of them don’t bother. They try an’ get ye to talk te them, then the next thing ye know, they want ye te go outside with them.’
‘So you don’t get many dances with a boy then?’ Irene couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘Ah, there’s some of them can dance, some very good.’ Irene wasn’t convinced she’d be doing much dancing and sighed. ‘Look,’ said Myrtle, ‘we’ll have some of our drink an’ then we’ll have a couple of dances together. It’s never very long before one of them lifts ye.’
‘Lifts you?’
‘Aye lifts ye. Comes up te ye while you’re dancin’, taps ye on the shoulder, an’ when ye turn round, they start dancin’ with ye.’
There was an interval while the band took a break, during which some of the boys Myrtle knew from Shorts came over to say hello then the band returned with a singer.
‘This is more like it,’ said Myrtle. ‘Some of those fellas will ask us te dance now, just you wait an’ see.’ Sure enough, they were just getting into the swing of a quickstep when they simultaneously felt a tap on their shoulder and turned round to the shock of green cardboard Frankenstein masks. Irene gasped, but before she could say anything, she felt a vice-like grip around her waist and was whisked away at great speed. When the song ended Irene faced her partner and clapped. ‘Thank you,’ she said and turned to walk away. Just then the music started up again and her partner reached after her and took her hand, swinging her around in a circle, back into his arms; a waltz this time and a chance for her to catch her breath and speak to him.
‘Why don’t you take your mask off?’
‘Why don’t you?’
Irene’s hand went up to her face. ‘I’d forgotten I had it on,’ she smiled and
added, ‘anyway, mine just covers round the eyes.’
‘Well, you can see my eyes too.’ They crinkled up, smiling. ‘They say the eyes are the windows of the soul.’
‘That’s all very well, but I don’t know who you are.’
‘Yes you do!’
‘No I don’t, who are you?’
The blue eyes glittered. ‘Course you do. I’m Frankenstein!’
‘Then shouldn’t you be in a lab somewhere, instead of waltzing round John Dossor’s?’
‘I sneaked out to find a mate.’
‘You’ll never find one,’ Irene laughed.’ You’re far too ugly!’
‘I’m not underneath. I just need someone to kiss me and I’ll turn into a handsome prince.’
‘You’re in the wrong story for that.’
‘No I’m not; just kiss me and you’ll see.’ He stopped waltzing, bent his head and pulled her closer.
Irene stood on tiptoes, put her lips on the green cardboard and made a kissing sound. Frankenstein laughed and pushed the mask to the top of his head and Irene found herself looking into the very handsome face of Theresa’s brother.
‘Sean!’ She stared in amazement. ‘I never guessed it was you.’
The band switched to a tune with a fast rhythmic beat. ‘Can you tango?’ he shouted.
‘Can I what?’
‘Tango. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Irene did her best to follow his lead, but the steps were so strange and unpredictable that she quickly realised she needed to relax and let Sean take control and guide her movements. The beat was throbbing in her head, he held her firmly, and she felt herself pushed and pulled. Slowly she began to sense the pattern of steps and the drama conveyed by their body shape. Suddenly, Sean stopped abruptly and arched her backwards from the waist until she found herself staring at the ceiling, the music ended and he bent over and kissed her. Irene could hear applause and cheering a long way off, but she kept her eyes on Sean’s face as he helped her up and pulled her towards him. Her head was light and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sean had turned away to listen to a man in a serpent’s mask speaking urgently in his ear. As she watched, he nodded several times then the man melted into the crowd. Sean gripped her elbow and led her off the dance floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began, ‘I’m going to have to go.’ He paused as though struggling to shape his words. ‘Something’s happened. I need to …’ He gave up trying to explain, kissed her quickly on her cheek and followed the serpent out of the building.
*
Across town in their shop on Manor Street the McCrackens, John, Aggie and Grace, were entertaining Sheila and Martha. Martha had arrived after tea to buy her groceries and spend a couple of hours with her cousins before she and Sheila went home. Inevitably, as they settled in front of the fire with tea and homemade cake, the talk turned to war.
‘The fact is that we’re totally unprepared. Belfast will be tried and found wanting in this war. You mark my words.’ John had talked of nothing else for weeks.
‘But sure, John, we have the ARPs like yourself,’ said Martha.
‘Let me tell you, it would take thousands of trained, I say again, trained men to protect this city, but people won’t hear the call.’ He shook his head and bent to poke the fire into a blaze. ‘We’re too few and there’s no training to speak of at all.’ His sisters fell silent and busied themselves with their knitting.
Martha ventured an opinion she’d heard in the queue at Carson’s butchers that morning. ‘We’re a powerful distance from Germany. How would they ever get themselves away over here?’
‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, Martha, there’ll be planes coming up the Lough dropping fire bombs like apples out of a basket and they’ll be falling on our heads.’ John got into his stride. ‘We’ve neither anti-aircraft guns, nor bomb shelters. Sure we haven’t even got hoses to put out fires. They have us practising with baths full of water and stirrup pumps.’
‘It said in the Telegraph they were going to provide Anderson shelters for workers in the shipyard and the aircraft factories.’ Martha tried to be positive. John slumped back into his chair as though he suddenly realised that Martha and his sisters had no concept of the scale of the disaster he felt certain would befall them all. After a moment he stood up and took down the family bible and found a passage about Joshua and the walls of Jericho and read it to them. When he had finished they sat there quietly, each thinking about their city lying in the path of danger. Then Sheila began to sing softly ‘Abide with me …’ One by one they joined her, finding comfort in the familiar words they’d known all their lives. Suddenly a banging on the back door made them jump, the notes cut in their throats. John was on his feet in an instant shouting, ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’
‘It’s Ted Grimes. Come to see if Mrs Goulding is still here?’
‘Wait. I’ll turn the light out and open the door.’
Martha had never seen Ted so agitated. ‘Aye it’s a bad do all right.’ His face was grave. ‘Young man from Cullybacky not long since joined the force; they’ve taken him to the Mater Hospital. God knows what they can do with a bullet in his chest.’ He took a drink of the strong, sweet tea Aggie handed him.
‘Anyway, Martha, I thought as I was going off duty, I’d call and see you and Sheila safe home; there’s a lot of people on the streets, both sides, very angry. There’ll be trouble before the morning, so there will, especially if there’s more internment of these IRA men the night.’
Chapter 7
Sunday dawned with overcast skies and the threat of rain, but by the time Peggy set off to walk the ten minutes to Cliftonville Circus a stiff breeze had sent the clouds scudding over the Cave Hill and the sun was making a half-hearted attempt to break through. Peggy, never one to be rushed, had taken her time getting ready and tried on two or three different skirts before deciding on her A line navy one with the inverted pleat at the front and neat rows of covered buttons up either side of the hips. It went well with her blue and cream striped jumper. She had only one coat, brown tweed flecked green with wide lapels. She hated it and wondered whether she could get away with not wearing one. In the end, she decided to wear it open, so that the first impression would be of her skirt and jumper. She tried her black work shoes, but they’d be too high if they went for a walk, so she settled for her dark blue suede with the low heel.
She came downstairs and saw herself revealed slowly, from the feet up, in the large mahogany mirror in the hall. She was happy with how she looked until she saw her hair. It was pulled back to the nape of her neck and fastened with a tortoise shell clasp. Maybe she needed a headscarf, but hers were horrible. Pat had a nice one though, Chinese looking with heavy-headed chrysanthemums …
She could hear the roar long before she saw the car. It shot out of the Oldpark Road and round the circus, a low two-seater with the top down. It went round twice then headed up the hill and made a U turn finishing up alongside her. He leaned across, opened the door and greeted her with a dazzling smile.
‘Hallo there, hop in.’ He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, no tie. ‘Is that a scarf?’ Peggy nodded. ‘Put it on then. You’re going to need it!’ he shouted as he put the car into gear and they roared off. ‘Thought we’d head out the Shore Road, see how far we get, eh?’ She nodded again.
‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Goulding?’
‘How’d you know my name?’
‘It’s what your boss called you the day he interrupted our Ella Fitzgerald moment,’ he laughed, ‘but I can’t call you that all day, can I? What’s your first name?’
‘At least you know one of my names. I don’t know any of yours.’
‘That’s true.’ He took his right hand off the steering wheel and held it out to her. ‘I’m Harold Ferguson, but you can call me Harry. How do you do?’
Peggy shook his hand. ‘Margaret Goulding, but you can call me Peggy.’
They turned left on to the Shore Road and followed it along
the north side of the Lough. There were few cars about; not many wanted to use their petrol allowance for Sunday afternoon trips to the seaside. Harry chatted on and Peggy studied his profile. Very dark hair, strong, almost Roman nose, firm jaw, smiled a lot. His hands on the wheel were long and thin, the nails clean and neat. Elegant, a pianist’s hands, she thought.
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