‘How old are you, Irene?’ He looked her up and down.
‘She’s twenty, same as me, Mr McVey.’
He nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off Irene.
‘Where’d you work before?’
‘Ulster Linen Works.’
‘A stitcher were you?’
‘No. I painted the linen goods.’
‘Oh, so you’d be good with your hands then? A delicate touch comes in very useful in an aircraft factory. Isn’t that right, Myrtle?’
Myrtle blushed.
‘And why would you want to work here?’
‘I need the money.’
‘Is that so?’
Irene nodded.
‘You see thon ladder?’
Irene nodded again.
‘Well, let’s see you get yourself up that. Quick as you can now.’
Irene looked at Myrtle, who didn’t meet her eye.
‘I’ve my trousers in my bag. Should I go and put them on.’
‘Not at all, there’s no time for that. Just take your coat off. Here,’ he said, moving to the base of the ladder, ‘I’ll hold it steady for you.’
Irene had no choice. She wasn’t going home to tell Mammy she’d no job. She took a deep breath and without hesitating she went straight up and down the ladder, with McVey looking upwards the whole time.
‘Well now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a month’s trial. General scivvying duties in the Stirling section. Myrtle’ll keep an eye on you. You can go there now with her to have a look around and you can start tomorrow at seven.
Irene followed Myrtle through the factory, which was nothing like she’d imagined. There were people working at benches, others handling huge sheets of metal and everywhere was the strange smell of what she would later learn was hot metal and solder. There were deafening sounds too, of metal being cut, beaten, drilled, riveted into a thousand different shapes. Eventually, they arrived in one of the hangars where light flooded through the high windows on to a huge half-built structure, catching and glinting its angles.
A Stirling bomber. Irene had never seen anything more beautiful.
*
Peggy had a quiet morning in the shop, then just before lunchtime she made a sale − the Bush wireless. In a way she was glad to see it go. Every time she looked at it, she was reminded of Harry Ferguson. It had been a mistake to go to the Ormeau Bakery looking for him. If he’d got in touch after that, she would have told him the radio had been returned. She might even have apologised, but now…
It was still blustery as she nipped into Robinson and Cleaver’s to look at the pearl necklaces like hers for Irene and Pat to wear at the concert. At the jewellery counter she saw a string just the right length and asked the assistant how much they cost.
‘Five shillings, Madam.’
‘Oh, that’s a wee bit more than I expected.’
‘You could try Woolworths.’
Peggy was affronted. The fact that she couldn’t afford them was irrelevant. How dare a shop assistant speak to her like that? Woolworths indeed! She leaned against the heavy door and was about to push when it swung outwards. She marched out.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ came a voice.
She was aware of someone holding the door to her left. ‘Nothing!’ she snapped.
‘You know I could have sworn you said, “Thank you.”’
There he was smirking at her. ‘Oh it’s you, is it?’
‘As charming as ever I see, Miss Goulding.’ Harry tipped his hat. ‘Shall I call you a policeman, so you can have me arrested?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oh, ridiculous is it now? It doesn’t matter that I stole your wireless then?’
‘You didn’t steal the wireless.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. And there was me ready to flee the country with my ill-gotten gains.’
She began walking up Donegall Place and he fell into step beside her.
‘Maybe, now that my unblemished character has been restored, you might like to come out with me one evening?’
She stopped walking and looked directly at him. That was the trouble with him. He always seemed to be mocking her. How could she tell when he was serious? Anyway, he might not have stolen the wireless, but he had been up to something that day at Carrickfergus. Something that involved a lot of money.
‘I’m very busy these days,’ she said.
He looked sceptical. ‘Busy, is it?’
Peggy walked on. ‘Aye, I’m rehearsing in the evenings for our next concert.’
‘The one advertised in Goldstein’s shop?’
So, he’d been past, seen the poster in the window. ‘That’s it. It’s going to be even bigger than the last one. We’ve got a new company together.’ He probably knew that too.
He raised his hat. ‘I’ll bid you good-day then.’
She watched him go. Good riddance, she thought.
*
When Pat came through the back door that night she noticed two things: the smell of fresh paint and Jimmy McComb, large as life, drinking tea in the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken to him since their disagreement after her father’s death.
Martha greeted her. ‘Ah Pat, what do you think? Young Jimmy here came round after work and painted that wall in the bathroom that looked such a mess.’
Jimmy smiled awkwardly. Pat didn’t acknowledge him, but turned to her mother. ‘I didn’t know we’d any paint for that.’
‘That’s what’s so good about it. Jimmy had some left over from painting his bathroom and he brought it round here for us.’
‘That’s very good of you, Jimmy.’ Her tone was frosty.
‘Well, I’ll be away now, Mrs Goulding. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Not at all, Jimmy. Thanks for the painting and don’t forget about the concert, now.’
‘I won’t. Cheerio.’
When he’d gone Martha noticed the look on Pat’s face. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Why have you invited him to the concert?’
‘Sure he’s a family friend, Daddy’s apprentice after all.’
‘Ach Mammy, can you not see he’s round here trying to get in with me. I told you about him asking me out, didn’t I?’
‘Pat, what’s the matter with you? Jimmy’s a nice boy, good family. You could do worse.’
‘Look, he can paint all the walls he likes and mend as many fences,’ said Pat, ‘but I am not going out with Jimmy McComb and that’s an end to it!’
*
At that moment, a hundred yards away Irene was hurrying home when Ted Grimes in full Royal Ulster Constabulary uniform called out to her.
‘Irene, a word please, if you don’t mind.’
She was startled to see him, but tried not to show it. ‘Hello Mr Grimes, have you been to see Mammy?’
‘No. No.’ He did his usual staring into the distance and spoke over her head. ‘It’s you I need to speak to, Irene.’
Something in his tone sounded at once formal and sinister. She struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ll not go round the houses. Fact is you’ve been seen with a wanted man, wanted on the gravest of charges. Do you understand?’
Irene thought about denying it, but what was the point, he’d clearly seen her with Sean. Then she remembered; dear God, he’d seen her kiss him! She lowered her head, her voice barely audible. ‘Yes.’ Her heart was thumping. He’d tell Mammy. Or he’d take her to the police station. She didn’t know which was worse. But she’d done nothing wrong, had she?
‘Ye realise that man is a Roman Catholic.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Don’t ye get clever with me, young woman!’ Then his tone changed, softened. ‘Now I need to know what your involvement is in this matter. Ye need to tell me everything. We’ll start with how ye know him and then ye can tell me where he is now.’
‘Honestly, Mr Grimes, I only know him to see. I worked next to his sister. H
e wanted me to tell her not to worry about him, that he’d be all right.’
His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. As he spoke he squeezed it harder and harder as if to emphasise each word. ‘Only know him to see?’ Squeeze. ‘Ye were courtin’ an’ kissin’ him.’ Squeeze. ‘A disgrace ye are.’ Squeeze.
‘Mr Grimes, you’re hurting me. Please.’
‘Please is it? I’ll give ye please. He shot a policeman. You knew that and ye stood there wi’ your arms round him.’
‘No he didn’t. He didn’t. He was just scared and ran away. And I don’t know where he is now. Honestly, I don’t know!’
He let go suddenly. ‘Now, listen you here, I know what you’ve been doin’, but for your mother’s sake I’m goin’ te say nothin’ for now. But you’ll keep in with the sister and find out where he is and then come an’ tell me. Do ye hear?’
Irene nodded and rubbed her arm.
‘And make sure ye do, or you’ll get what’s comin’ to ye. Now get out of my sight!’
Irene hurried away, great sobs shaking her. She had to stop for a minute or two to compose herself before she went round the back of the house and in the door.
Martha was at the stove finishing off the bacon and cabbage and Sheila was setting the table when she came in.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Sheila.
‘I wasn’t well on the bus. I was nearly sick.’
‘You’re as white as a sheet, so you are.’
Martha looked her up and down. ‘Away and splash some water on your face. You’ll be as right as rain. This’ll be ready in five minutes. Oh aye, and there’s a letter for you on the mantelpiece.’
Irene did as she was told, not wanting to arouse any suspicions. A few minutes later she came back and sat at the table, just as Sheila shouted up the stairs to Pat and Peggy to come for their tea.
‘There’s a letter for you on the mantelpiece,’ said Pat as she sat down.
Then a moment later Peggy arrived and asked, ‘Did you know you’ve a letter?’
Irene looked at her wearily. ‘Oh have I? Where would it be, do you think, on the mantelpiece maybe?’
Sheila laughed and Irene shot her a look.
It’s not like Irene to snap at people, thought Martha. ‘Leave her alone now,’ she said. ‘Can you not see she’s unwell?’
The chat round the table was lively. Sheila described a bomb shelter being built close to the school. ‘It’s so small and dark; nobody would want to sit in there?’
Peggy told them about the expensive pearls. ‘Never mind,’ said Pat, ‘We’ll save up. Now what are we rehearsing tonight?’
Irene sat through it all without speaking and eventually, when she’d eaten enough of the bacon and cabbage so as not to upset her mother, she excused herself. ‘I think I’ll go up and lie down for a bit.’
‘Don’t forget your letter!’ they chorused together and, in spite of herself, Irene smiled.
‘Yes I remember. It’s on the mantelpiece, isn’t it?’
It bore no stamp, only a smudged franking mark, impossible to read. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, turned it over. Nothing. Inside was one page of neat script.
Dear Irene,
I hope you remember me. We met at Stranraer in the summer.
It was him, after all this time.
I’m in a city called Karachi. It’s an amazing place. Teeming with people and so hot it’s like standing in an oven. We only work in the morning. The rest of the time we try to stay out of the sun. But yesterday, Tommy and I went for a walk and found a market. Everywhere was colour: people’s clothes; the fruit and vegetables, most of them we didn’t recognise; rugs and silks hanging everywhere. I hope you don’t mind, but I bought something for you. It will probably arrive after this letter because it’s a parcel. Will you write and tell me if you like it?
Sandy
Irene read it again and again. He hadn’t forgotten her. He’d gone to the other side of the world and thought of her. He was even sending a present! She couldn’t wait to see it, whatever it was. She tried to conjure up an image of him in his RAF uniform, slim, thick auburn hair, but she couldn’t bring his face to mind. She remembered his eyes were brown and knew she’d liked his gentle smile, but his face wouldn’t come. She put the letter under her pillow and went downstairs. In the sitting room she found Pat, Peggy and Sheila standing in their underwear and Martha handing out turquoise blouses.
‘When did you finish these, Mammy?’
‘Finished the last one today. I didn’t want to show them to you until I had them all done. Now get them tried on to make sure they fit.’
‘You made four then?’ asked Irene.
‘Aye, there was just enough material. So I did one for Sheila as well, even though she’s not singing.’
‘You never know,’ said Sheila. ‘I might be singing in the future. Isn’t that right, Mammy?’
‘Now we’re not going over all that again, Sheila. You’ve your schooling to finish. There’ll be plenty of time to sing after that.’
‘Look at this,’ said Peggy. She was standing on tiptoes looking in the mirror over the fire. ‘Do you see how nice the pearls are with this style and the colour? I wish we could all have them.’
Pat spoke sternly. ‘Well, we can’t and that’s an end to it.’
Irene tried on her blouse. She loved the sweetheart neckline, the peplum and the deep cuffs. Peggy was right, the style was dramatic.
‘Right, come on,’ said Peggy sitting down at the piano. ‘Let’s get on with rehearsing. What will we start with?’
‘How about Irene’s mysterious letter?’ said Sheila.
Irene found herself blushing. ‘What?’
‘What do you mean, ‘What’? The letter from the mantelpiece, are you not going to tell us who it was from?’
‘And what it was about?’ added Peggy.
‘I suppose I might as well tell you,’ said Irene and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. ‘You remember when I went to Stranraer in July and I told you we got talking to two RAF boys? Well, it was from one of them.’
Everyone seemed to talk at once.
‘What’s he called?’
‘Where’s he from?’
‘Why’s he suddenly writing now?’
Irene laughed. ‘Sandy, he’s from Scotland and he’s been posted to India.’
‘India?’ said Sheila.
Peggy laughed. ‘Perhaps you should be learning the ‘Indian Love Call’ instead of Pat.’
‘That’s not funny,’ snapped Pat.
‘It is when you sing it!’
‘For goodness sake girls, don’t start all that again. Peggy you know how Pat feels about having to sing that song. Don’t rub it in.’ She turned to Irene, who knew what was coming. ‘What do you know about this airman, besides his name, nationality and present posting?’
‘His rank and serial number?’ whispered Peggy.
Martha glared at her.
‘Nothing really,’ admitted Irene. She was going to say his smile was nice, then thought better of it and added, ‘He’s sending me a present.’
‘Bless us,’ said Martha, ‘a present! Well, I suppose he’s harmless enough … in India.’
*
It was easy for Irene to sneak out of the house half an hour earlier than usual the following morning for her first day at Short and Harland. She could hear her mother snoring gently as she crept downstairs and knew she wouldn’t rise until eight to make a quick breakfast for Peggy and Sheila. She left the door on the snib knowing Pat would close it properly when she left at their normal time. She had decided not to tell her mother about her new employment. Sacking was a disgrace in Martha’s eyes and working in a factory was a long way from the refined occupation of painting linen. Pat knew, of course, and would have nothing to do with deceiving their mother.
‘It’s underhand, Irene. I hate lying.’
‘You’re not lying. You’re just not telling her. It’s different.’
‘She won’t. Why would she?’
‘Well, if she does, I’m not making anything up.’
Martha's Girls Page 14