Martha's Girls

by Alrene Hughes

  Theresa hugged her. ‘You’re a good friend, so ye are. Will ye get in awful trouble?’

  ‘No, there’ll be no trouble at all.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Cause I won’t tell her!’

  ‘You’ll have to tell her. There’ll be no money.’

  ‘Look, it’s Thursday so I’ll only lose two days’ pay and I’ve a bit of overtime to come. That’s this week sorted and I’ll take myself down the town now and find another job. Go round the shops asking. I’ll get something. Why don’t you come too?’

  ‘No, you go on. Ye’ll have a better chance of getting something if you’re on your own. Anyway, I’ve an uncle runs a bar on Northumberland Street. He’s always asking me to work evenings. I’ll be all right.’

  Outside the day was brightening up. ‘I’ve been wondering,’ said Theresa, ‘why Sean found you to pass on the message.’

  ‘Well he couldn’t risk going anywhere near a Catholic area, but nobody would think to look for him where I live, would they?’

  ‘But he—’

  ‘He knew no one would expect him to contact me.’ Irene went on quickly. ‘Now promise me you’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘I will.’ Theresa hugged her. ‘And, Irene …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks … for everything.’

  *

  ‘And you’re to sing two duets in this concert, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes Aunt Kathleen, but William, I mean Mr Kennedy, and I are not sure what to sing. That’s why we need you to give us some advice.’

  ‘Your voice has developed over the six lessons you’ve had, and you are certainly capable of giving a passable account of yourself, but Mr Kennedy is the unknown quantity.’ She paused to consult her silver pendant watch. ‘I hope he will be punctual. This could take some time.’

  At that moment the long case clock in the hall chimed the hour and there was a knock at the door. In the hallway, Pat made the formal introductions and Kathleen shook William’s hand.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Kennedy, are you one of the Lisburn Kennedys?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not. My family come from Ballymena.’

  Kathleen stood a little taller. ‘Do they indeed? I’m not acquainted with any Ballymena Kennedys.’ She pronounced the word Ballymena as though it was something she would want to keep at arm’s length. ‘Do come into the drawing room.’

  Kathleen sat at the elegant upright piano and had them warm up their voices. ‘Good, good, now let me see what you are thinking of singing.’ Pat produced the sheet music from her music case and Kathleen looked through it quickly, making two piles. ‘Suitable and unacceptable,’ she said, reaching for the smaller of the two piles. ‘We’ll start with these.’

  ‘But Mr Goldstein particularly wants us to sing “The Indian Love Call”’, said Pat, rescuing it from the unacceptable pile.

  ‘Good gracious, no. That’s pantomime music! You can do better than that.’

  She set a duet from Puccini’s ‘La Boheme’ on the stand in front of her and played the introduction. Pat and William moved closer to read over her shoulder.

  When they had finished, Kathleen swivelled round in her seat. ‘Pat, your voice is strong, but does not convey sufficient emotion. Mr Kennedy, your breathing is at fault. Have you forgotten you have a diaphragm?’

  And so it went on. All afternoon they sang and Kathleen criticised. When the clock struck four, she announced that they would have a final run through of what she considered their four best songs. There was no doubt her coaching had made a difference and when the final note ended Pat and William were smiling with the exhilaration of it all. After Aunt Kathleen, two hundred paying customers would be easy.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Kathleen, standing up to shake them both by the hand. ‘You know, I think I’ll buy a ticket myself, just to check the quality of the final performance.’

  *

  ‘Irene, you knew when you walked out of the mill that we couldn’t manage without your wage.’

  ‘But, Pat, I was sure I’d have another job by Monday.’

  ‘Oh aye, and now it’s Sunday and you’re still unemployed. And you know what the worst of it is? I’ll tell you − deceiving Mammy. Pretending to go out to work and coming home at the normal time.’

  ‘I’ve spent every day wandering the town looking for a job.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to tell her now, won’t you?’

  ‘Maybe not, something could turn up next week and by Friday I could have a wage to give her.’

  Pat shook her head. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

  ‘Irene, she’ll find out anyway. Mammies always do!’

  *

  The noise inside York Street Presbyterian Church Hall was deafening.

  ‘Can you please be quiet … we need to make a start!’ Peggy shouted from the stage.

  No response.

  At that moment the compere, Sammy Reid, gave a shrill whistle through his teeth. The room quietened and with a wave of his hand he left the stage to Peggy.

  ‘Mr Goldstein will be along at two o’clock, and a full run through will begin then. I’ve pinned up the running order at the back of the hall. So, I suggest you spend the next half hour practising.’

  Myrtle flopped down in the seat next to Irene. ‘My God, ye look like you’ve lost a pound and found a ha’penny.’

  ‘Aye, well, you’re not far wrong,’ moaned Irene. ‘Trouble is, next week I won’t even have two ha’pennies to rub together.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  Irene told her about Theresa and how she’d lost her job. ‘I’ve been tramping round the town for the three days and there’s no work to be had at all. I tell you, if the rag man offered me a job yelling from his cart I’d take it.’

  Myrtle laughed again.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter. You haven’t heard the worst of it.’ Irene’s voice faltered. ‘I … I haven’t told Mammy yet.’

  ‘Can ye climb a ladder?’

  ‘What? Myrtle, this is serious. Without my wage we won’t be able to pay the rent.’

  ‘I know, but answer me this, can ye climb a ladder? And I don’t mean clingin’ on for dear life. Could ye run like a whippet up and down wi’ your hands full?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If ye can do that, ye could have a job same place as me − the aircraft factory.’

  Irene’s eyes lit up. She could get a job and Mammy wouldn’t know she’d been sacked. She’d just tell her she’d got a new, better job. Only one problem; she’d never climbed a ladder.

  It was dark and dusty at the back of the stage. Myrtle led the way. ‘I’m tellin’ ye, they do plays here and ye see thon lights.’ She pointed to the ceiling above the stage. ‘Well, they need a ladder te reach them and if we can find it ye can have a wee go.’

  It took four of them ten minutes to manoeuvre the ladders on to the stage. They’d have done it more quickly if they’d had a better sense of right and left and hadn’t collapsed with laughter every time someone got caught in the side curtains. Then it took an age for them to stand the twelve foot ladders upright. Finally, Myrtle stood back and surveyed the scene.

  ‘Right Irene, go and put these on.’ She threw her a pair of trousers. Irene nipped behind a curtain and took off her skirt. The coarse material felt strange against her legs and fastening the fly buttons was even stranger, but walking on to the stage she felt a sense of freedom, or was it confidence? Whatever it was, she needed it to face the crowd of people, who, on hearing what Irene was about to do and why, stood waiting for her to appear.

  ‘All right, up ye go. Quick as ye can!’ shouted Myrtle.

  There were a few shouts of encouragement and Irene took a deep breath. She could do this. People climbed ladders every day. She gripped both sides, tested the steadiness, put a foot on the first rung, then the next and the next …

  ‘Go on, ye can do it!’

  ‘Keep going!’
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  Up and up she went always looking at the top of the ladder, never down. She was aware of some noise, but kept moving one arm, one leg, other arm, other leg. Start again, one arm, one leg … then there were no more steps, only a flat square of wood, just right for sitting on.

  Down below, people were clapping and cheering. There was Pat and Peggy and Myrtle, waving her hand in a turning motion and shouting. ‘Turn round now, Irene, and come back down. Careful, turn round …’

  She swung out of her seat and felt for the rung with her foot. There it was. Easy. She watched the top move further and further away. At last, her feet touched the floor and Myrtle threw her arms around her. Everyone was clapping and cheering loudly and Irene, finding herself on the stage at the end of her performance, smiled and took a bow.

  From the back of the hall came Goldstein’s booming voice, ‘What have I missed, a trapeze artist?’ He made his way to the front closely followed by Horowitz. Then he saw Irene’s trousers. ‘Or is it one of those Burlington Bertie impersonators? Now, let’s clear the stage and get rid of the ladders.’

  Minutes later everyone was sitting quietly in the hall.

  ‘In five minutes we shall start the run through.’ Goldstein paused, and waited for two Templemore Tappers at the back to stop talking. Someone nudged them and he went on. ‘These instructions are very important: Everyone on in the first half will be back stage and ready. Sammy will be our compere and introduce you. Come on quickly and perform. Then you will bow and leave the stage. If anything goes wrong do not apologise, simply carry on as though nothing has happened. Then we will have the interval, when you can have something to eat and I will give notes before moving on to the second half. Five minutes, everyone!’

  Sammy Reid was a good choice for compere: broad Belfast, plenty of jokes and he gave each act a big build up before announcing their name. Goldstein sat a few feet from the stage and occasionally shouted out some directions to the performers. ‘Louder! … Smile!’ The Goulding Sisters were the last act before the interval.

  ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, three girls and a piano … the lovely Golden Sisters!’

  Irene hesitated and turned round to Pat mouthing the words ‘Golden Sisters?’ Then Peggy pushed them forward and they almost fell over each other on to the stage.

  Peggy stuck to the agreed songs in the right order and their rehearsal went without a hitch. As they took their bow Goldstein stood up.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful, but your entrance was ragged. You have to walk on stage with purpose, looking at the audience and smiling.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Goldstein, it was my fault,’ said Irene. ‘I thought Sammy called us the Golden Sisters.’

  ‘You are right, he did.’ Goldstein turned to Sammy who checked his copy of the running order.

  ‘Oh sorry, should have been the Goulding Sisters, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Goldstein and he spoke the name softly to himself. ‘Golden Sisters, I like that. It sounds right.’

  ‘But, Mr Goldstein,’ Pat began, ‘it’s our family name and we’ve been know as the Goulding Sisters since we—’

  Goldstein interrupted her. ‘That’s as maybe, but a name needs to send a message to the public about what to expect and I think golden will suit you very well.’ Then he turned to speak to the rest of the performers. ‘That first half was adequate. No more. Let’s see how good the rest of you are. Five minutes break, then I’ll give the notes.’

  Pat was furious. ‘He’s got no right to change our name like that. What will Mammy say?’

  ‘But it’s a better name, so it is,’ snapped Peggy. ‘People will remember it. Everyone gets Goulding wrong. Remember when we were at school?’

  ‘But can’t you see what he’s doing? Goldstein … Golden … it’s like we belong to him. We’re not us anymore! You understand don’t you, Irene?’

  Irene understood that Peggy and Pat would never agree. ‘I don’t think we should worry about the name right now. Mammy’ll be here shortly and we can talk about it then.’

  Pat gave her a furious look and, picking up her music, stormed off backstage to get ready for her duet with William.

  In the second half Goldstein was constantly shouting, ‘Pace, pace!’ The Templemore Tappers including Myrtle seemed under-rehearsed, lagging behind the music. The conjurer too was hesitant, fumbling a trick, giving away the fact that the string of brightly coloured handkerchiefs was not coming from the top hat, but was being clumsily pulled from his inside pocket.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, a real treat! Belfast’s answer to Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy − Miss Patricia Goulding and Mr William Kennedy!’

  Pat’s voice began softly, the Italian sounds echoing strangely around the Belfast church hall. She turned to look at William remembering all of Kathleen’s advice about conveying emotion in her voice. He sang in reply, at first lifting his head towards the audience, concentrating on his breathing, then looking at Pat and taking her hand. He held it while she sang, her eyes directed at the floor as though his boldness made her shy. His voice came back stronger, then hers too. Now she looked up into his eyes as their voices blended together; two distinct sounds weaving in and out. In the hall no one moved or spoke. Irene, close to the stage, watched her scarcely recognisable sister holding William Kennedy’s hand and singing of her love.

  Oh my God, thought Irene, can everyone see this? She looked sideways at Peggy, who sat stony-faced. Goldstein on the other hand was enthralled, but maybe it was simply the music. The duet reached a crescendo, both voices powerful and complementing each other, Pat and William turned to face the audience for the final moments. As the last note ended there was silence. Pat stood looking upward towards the roof, seemingly unaware of her surroundings and then suddenly everyone began to clap and she looked startled then quickly recovered and bowed on William’s cue.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ shouted Goldstein jumping to his feet. ‘Now we must hear ‘Indian Love Call’ before the finale.’

  Pat and William looked at him blankly.

  ‘You must finish with that. I gave you the sheet music, remember.’

  ‘We’re not going to sing that,’ said Pat.

  ‘What? You must sing it! It’s the American Sweethearts’ most famous song.’

  Pat was about to repeat herself when William interrupted. ‘We haven’t rehearsed it properly. It’s not ready to be heard yet.’

  Goldstein pouted, weighing up their conflicting replies, but it was getting late and he decided to press on. ‘Right everyone on stage for the finale.’

  Chapter 9

  A sharp November wind cut into Irene’s face as she crossed the Queen’s Bridge. Around her men walked briskly, their caps pulled down, mufflers around their necks, carrying piece boxes under their arms. No doubt some, like her, were heading for the aircraft factory, but thousands more were making for the shipyard. There were hurrying women too. The office workers took care to hold their coat flaps in place to stop their skirts from blowing up, but the girls in trousers had no such trouble. They linked arms, chatted and laughed. Irene shifted the cloth bag containing an old pair of her father’s trousers over her shoulder and fell in behind them and as she did so she said a silent prayer that, when she crossed the bridge in the opposite direction, she’d be one of them.

  She rounded the corner and there it was in front of her, a long, single-storey building. The ground level was solid brick, above which were tall glass windows topped with a series of steep roofs, running like zig-zag stitching against the sky into the far distance. Irene hesitated a moment, but was quickly carried along by the flow of hundreds of workers behind her. At the main entrance she was relieved to see Myrtle, cigarette in hand, waving frantically in her direction.

  ‘Right, Irene,’ she explained as they went inside and queued for her to clock in. ‘We’re goin’ te see James McVey. Mind, I told ye about him?’

  ‘Aye.’ Irene remembered he was in charge of hiring and sweet on Myrtle.

&nbs
p; ‘I’ve already spoke for ye. So ye should be in with a good chance of gettin’ taken on.’

  James McVey was middle aged and balding. He wore a suit that was too tight on him with a shine round the elbows and cuffs.

  ‘Now then Myrtle, this is your wee friend, is it?’

  ‘Aye, Mr McVey, this is Irene.’