*
Myrtle met her at the gate as before and showed her how to find her card and clock in. ‘Have ye your trousers and scarf in your bag?’ she asked.
‘Aye, I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me in them,’ said Irene, then added quickly, ‘Not yet anyway.’ There was just time to get changed in the toilets. Myrtle took the scarf from her and folded the square into a triangle.
‘Bend your head over.’ Irene looked puzzled. ‘So your hair falls forward.’ She demonstrated. Irene did as she was shown and Myrtle took both ends of the triangle and tied them at the front, tucked Irene’s hair neatly in the pocket made and drew the final point of the triangle up to meet the tied ends and with a few deft touches tucked in the whole lot.
As instructed by Mr McVey, Myrtle took Irene to number four hangar and left her with the foreman. He looked her up and down.
‘I hope you’re quick on your feet and nimble with your hands, Missy, or you’ll not last long!’ Irene said nothing and he went on, ‘I’ll start you off counting rivets. Follow me.’ He led her to a bench with a high stool. Stacked high along the left-hand side were dozens of small tins, on the right, a box full of metal rivets each half the size of a farthing.
‘Fill every tin with twenty four rivets, get the lid on tight and put them on the cart behind you. You’ll need to get a move on, all tins to be full in one hour and exactly twenty four a tin, mind.’ With that he was gone, striding the length of the hangar, shouting as he went, ‘Right, lads, get stuck in, it’s a long time ‘til tea break.’
Easy enough, thought Irene, as she reached into the box and counted one at a time. In five minutes she’d filled five boxes. A quick bit of multiplication told her she’d be less than half way through in an hour. There must be a quicker way. She tried two at a time, still too slow. Then six lots of four. Eventually, she threw a pile of rivets on the bench and separated out four lots of six at a time, held the tin to the edge of the bench and swept them in. She finished the last tin as the foreman reappeared.
‘Good enough, good enough,’ he said. ‘Now away you go with the cart and see every riveter gets two tins and collect any empty ones and bring them back.’
‘Then do I fill them again?’
‘Oh don’t you be getting ahead of yourself, Missy! Next duty is to sweep the floor. Cleanliness is next to godliness in the work place. That’s my motto.’
The hangar was the length of Joanmount Gardens and twice as wide. The brush was huge and difficult to manoeuvre; she was also given a scraper to remove the bits of solder. Irene was exhausted by the time she finished and her back ached from the frequent bending. Once, she narrowly missed being burnt when a large drop of liquid solder splashed on the floor next to her. By the time the hooter sounded for teabreak, she felt she’d already done a full day’s work.
In the canteen, Irene queued for tea and bread and jam then joined Myrtle who was sitting with a group of women.
‘This is Irene, she just started today.’
An older woman, with a faded green turban and a cast in her eye, asked, ‘Are you skivvyin’, love?’
‘Well, I’ve been counting rivets and sweeping the floor so far.’
‘Then you’re bloody skivvyin’ and you’ll know the worst of it when you go back to collect the bloody shavins before your dinner, then do the whole friggin’ lot again ‘til clockin’ off time.’
Irene hid her surprise at the woman swearing and laughed with everyone else. Within minutes the hooter went and she took a quick bite, gulped down a mouthful of tea and followed the rest of the workers back to hangar four.
‘Missy!’ The foreman was waiting for her. ‘You’ve to take yourself away to the tool shop and tell them I sent you for the long weight. Mind, don’t you come back without it.’
The tool shop was at the far end of the factory. When Irene told the man who came to the counter what she’d come for, he said, ‘Sit yourself down there and I’ll see you get one.’ Then he disappeared behind the racks of shelves that stretched far into the echoing space beyond. Irene watched the grey sky through a high window above her and, as she waited, clouds of darker grey scudded past. Occasionally, through a break in the clouds, a shaft of sunlight fell on the worn oilcloth at her feet. Once the man put his head round the shelves and said, ‘Are you still waiting?’ But he was gone before she could ask how much longer. Then the door opened and a girl came in, red turban with green leaves.
‘Hello, you’re new aren’t you?’
‘Aye, I just started today.’
‘So, have you been waiting here long?’
‘Well, it seems like ages.’ Irene shrugged her shoulders. ‘But the foreman said I wasn’t to come back without it.’
‘Without what?’ Red turban raised a questioning eyebrow.
Pause. Understanding spread across Irene’s face and she nodded. ‘I suppose they do that to all the new workers?’
‘Only if they can get away with it.’
Irene had no problem seeing a joke, even if it was on her. Besides, chances were she’d escaped the ‘bloody shavins’ because dinner time couldn’t be far off. The foreman hailed her as she returned and Irene could sense those in the know looking at her, expecting some reaction. The more annoyed or embarrassed she was, the more amusement there would be, no doubt. Well, she’d show them neither.
‘Did you get the long weight, then?’ The foreman grinned.
‘No I didn’t,’ said Irene looking him in the eye. ‘They’d none left, but it’s all right, the storeman said I’d be welcome to come back every day until they got one in.’ Irene paused and looked around her. ‘But tomorrow I’ll bring myself a book to pass the time while I’m waiting.’
Just then the hooter went for dinner.
Irene had no need to recount the story of the long weight to the other women. Red turban was just finishing the tale when she sat down. ‘Good on you girl!’ said the faded green turban. ‘He deserved taking down a peg or two.’
Irene wasn’t so sure. ‘I’d better keep my head down, or I’ll not make it to that pay packet at the end of the week.’
‘What pay packet’s this? Don’t you know you have to work a week in hand?’
‘You mean I won’t have a wage for a fortnight?’ Irene was dismayed. ‘What am I supposed to live on?’
‘Maybe your family could help ye out,’ suggested Myrtle. ‘Your ma would understand, wouldn’t she?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Irene was beginning to panic. ‘I still haven’t told her I’ve left my other job.’
The women fell silent, each understanding how tight money was. How they too had struggled with the week in hand rule.
The foreman was waiting for her when she returned from dinner. ‘You’ve a lot of catching up to do, Missy. Take the cart round now and collect the metal shavins. Up the ladders, quick as you can, carry down the bags of shavins and empty them in the cart.’
Irene looked down the length of the plane. People had been running up and down the ladders all morning. Now it was her turn. They were higher than the one Mr McVey had asked her to climb and much steeper than the one in the theatre with Myrtle. The foreman read the look on her face.
‘Not afeard of heights are you? Or you’re no good to me.’
One ladder was much like another, thought Irene, climb one and you can climb them all.
‘Mind the shavins, them’s sharp, Missy,’ the foreman shouted.
She was aware of him watching her, no time to hesitate. Foot on to the first rung, a moment to test its steadiness then she was off. Hands and feet synchronised, a steady climb. The top was tricky; she’d never had to climb off a ladder before. She leaned forward and eased herself over the lip of the cabin door and scrambled on all fours inside. She looked down at the foreman and a few other workers who stood looking up, no doubt hoping for a bit of sport. She gave them a wave and disappeared into the fuselage in search of ‘bloody shavins’.
She worked her way up the length of the plane. The shavi
ns were slivers of metal trimmed from the welded joints that collected at the feet of the workers. Some of the men, seeing a new face, stopped for a moment asked her name, or tried a bit of banter. Her bag was about half full when she noticed a piece of metal caught in the space between two spars. She reached for it and pulled. It was stuck fast and her hand slid up the length of the sharp metal. She let out a cry and watched as one red globule of blood after another appeared in a line across her palm. She felt a lightness in her head and sat down quickly cradling her hand in her lap. The man nearest to her called for a first aid kit and seconds later one appeared.
‘Looks like a clean cut; not so deep. I don’t think you’ve damaged anything.’ He raised her hand, placed a pad of cotton wool over the wound then bandaged it tightly. All the time he spoke to her in a soft voice. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll be all right. It’s Irene, isn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘We’ll need to take you to the first aid post. There’s a nurse there will sort you out.’ He got her up on her feet. ‘You can lean on me.’ But before her head reached his shoulder, black spots appeared before her eyes and her knees buckled.
‘Irene … Irene … listen I’m going to carry you down. Just stay completely still.’ And with that he swung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. She closed her eyes tightly and endured the weird sensation of descending head first, holding her hand in the air, bouncing all the way. Back on the ground he set her upright and Irene opened her eyes to see the foreman scowling at her.
‘Well we didn’t get much work out of you the day, did we?’
Then Myrtle arrived. ‘My God, Irene, what happened?’
‘The shavins, Myrtle, the bloody shavins!’ she replied.
Chapter 10
‘You’ll have to tell Mammy now, Irene.’
‘No, why should I?’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ve a cut hand that’s still dripping blood, for one. And number two, you’ve no wages coming for a fortnight.’
Irene had met Pat as she got off the bus outside Deerpark post office to walk home with her as though they’d been to work together. If she had expected some sympathy from Pat as a result of her injury, she was mistaken.
‘I’m going to say I cut it on a packing case; you know how Mr Briggs sometimes asks us to unpack deliveries of paint when he can’t be bothered.’
‘Irene, I’m not lying to Mammy! And even if she believes you about the hand, what idea have you to explain the lack of wages? Tell me that!’
‘I don’t know.’ Irene was close to tears. It had been an awful day and in a few minutes it could get a great deal worse.
The smell of onions frying greeted them as they came through the back door. Martha was removing a piece of raw liver from a shallow dish of pink milk. She didn’t look up, intent as she was on transferring it to the pan without it dripping. Sheila was setting the table and greeted them excitedly.
‘Irene, you’ll never guess what! Wait here.’ She threw the cutlery in a heap and ran into the sitting room, returning in seconds with a parcel. ‘Your present from India. It must be.’ She thrust it into Irene’s hands. ‘Open it, open it!’
The brown paper was thick and crumpled as though it had been handled many times. The string was rough and fraying, held together with misshapen blobs of sealing wax at its knots. Irene held it, as if the parcel itself was the gift to be explored and marvelled at. And indeed it was, for she had never before received a parcel of her own. But there, as if to prove its validity, was her name in capitals across the brown paper, weaving in and out of the string.
Martha broke the silence. ‘What have you done to your hand?’
‘Oh … I don’t know … I think I cut it at work emptying some packing cases.’
‘What do you mean ‘you think’? Don’t you know what happened?’ Irene had turned away and was trying to open the parcel.
‘Pat, did you see what happened to her hand?’
A moment’s hesitation. ‘No. No, I didn’t. I wasn’t there.’
‘Come on, Irene,’ screamed Sheila. ‘Open it. Let’s see what’s in it!’
‘Don’t do that!’ shouted Martha, momentarily distracted by the sound of ripping. ‘We’ll need to save the paper and string.’ She took the parcel from Irene and carefully worked the knots loose, only handing it back for the paper to be removed to reveal the gift. The moment had passed, the hand forgotten and Irene breathed a sigh of relief.
First there was the colour which drew gasps. Blazing like an orange split open to glisten in bright sunlight. Irene touched it. ‘It’s so soft. What is it, silk?’
‘Let me feel,’ said Martha. ‘Aye, it’s silk all right. Just like your Aunt Anna’s favourite scarf, only this is finer, softer.’
‘Indian silk, then,’ said Pat, as though she knew.
Irene stood up with the end of the silk in her hands and walked backwards as Martha began to unwind the bolt of cloth revealing a border of silver embroidery. Irene reached the end of the room and Pat took up the cloth and followed in Irene’s footsteps. Meanwhile Irene walked round to the far side of the table. Sheila took up the next unwinding following Pat, who followed Irene as she circled the table. Eventually all the silk was revealed winding from sister to sister like a broad, bright ribbon around the Belfast kitchen; an exotic visitor, brightening their lives. No one spoke. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. The liver sizzled gently in the pan.
The back door opened and Peggy came wearily into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on? What’s all this?’ A wave at the silk.
‘It’s Irene’s present from India,’ Sheila said excitedly.
‘Oh, very nice, I’m sure,’ said Peggy making her way around the outside of the silk circle.
‘Is that all you can say?’ asked Sheila.
‘No it’s not,’ said Peggy. ‘I’d also like to say. What on earth is it? And where’s my tea?’
The spell had been broken. Martha turned her attention to the liver. ‘Right let’s get all this put away and the table set. Tea’ll be ready in five minutes.’
Around the table, talk of the silk continued. ‘What will you do with it, Irene?’ asked Pat.
‘I don’t know. Keep it, I suppose, and look at it now and again.’
‘It’s a lovely thing right enough, but neither use nor ornament, if you ask me,’ said Martha.
‘I wonder what he thought you’d do with it,’ said Sheila. It was the first time the sender had been mentioned.
Peggy said bluntly, ‘I wonder why he sent it. I mean, to someone he only met for a few hours.’ All eyes turned to Irene. Only she could answer that. The truth was she was as mystified as the rest them. She’d been surprised when he mentioned a gift in his letter and now that she had received it … What she did know that they didn’t, was that the gift was not all that had been in the wrapping paper. In her pocket was an envelope that had been folded into the first section she unwrapped. She had put it away quickly when all eyes were on the silk and was saving it to read when she was alone.
Pat leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘I’ve a notion what it is.’ They stared at her. ‘What it’s used for, I mean.’ They waited. ‘In India that is …’
Sheila could contain herself no longer. ‘What, Pat. What is it?’
But she would only say, ‘After we’ve washed the dishes, we’ll have a little experiment.’
Pat took charge of the second unwinding of the silk. ‘Draw the curtains, Sheila. Now, Irene, move away from the fire and you’d best take your jumper off.’ Then she took up the first yard’s worth and, wrapping it in half lengthwise, she draped it across Irene’s left shoulder. ‘Right Sheila, you get hold of the rest of the material and follow me, feeding it out as I need it.’ Pat proceeded to walk clockwise round Irene winding the silk as she went until Irene was wrapped like an Egyptian mummy in orange and silver.
‘Now this is the tricky bit,’ said Pat. ‘There’s something that happens with the arm …’ She hung the remaining material over the crook of
Irene’s arm. ‘There you are! I think it’s called a sari. Now you’re dressed like an Indian woman.’
‘Not quite,’ said Peggy, ‘Get me some warm water in a bowl, Sheila.’ Peggy took a comb from her bag and dipped it in the water, smoothing down and slicking back Irene’s dark hair. Then she pulled it into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and fastened it with some clips.
‘Well, I never saw the like!’ said Martha.
‘How did you know what it was?’ asked Sheila.
‘Saw it in a film once,’ said Pat.
‘‘Elephant Boy’,’ added Peggy.
‘I’m going upstairs to look at myself in the mirror,’ said Irene. ‘That’s if I can climb the stairs.’
‘Then we’ll need to get rehearsing,’ said Peggy pulling out the piano stool. ‘It’s less than two weeks to the concert, don’t forget.’
Martha's Girls Page 15