Upstairs, Irene carefully removed the sari and folded it in yard lengths, then held it to her face and breathed deeply. When the parcel was first opened she’d been aware of a faint smell. None of the others appeared to notice, but now it seemed the warmth of her body had drawn out a lovely but unfamiliar scent, one that would forever remind her of her silk sari, a faraway land and an airman whose face she could not quite bring to mind.
There was a soft knock on the bedroom door and Sheila came in.
‘Peggy says to hurry up.’
‘Well that’s rich coming from her!’
‘And I’ve got this for you.’ Sheila held out an envelope and Irene immediately recognised the Free State stamp. ‘I answered the door to the postman when he delivered the sari and he gave me this as well. I thought … I don’t know … maybe you might not want Mammy to see it.’
‘Will you two get a move on!’ Peggy shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
Irene took the letter. ‘Thanks, Sheila. You did the right thing.’
They rehearsed the three songs ‘Stormy Weather’, ‘Pick Yourself Up’ and ‘I’ll Take Romance’. Then Peggy insisted they try a new song. Goldstein had given her the sheet music and she’d practised it a few times in the shop when there were no customers. ‘Tuxedo Junction’ was a simple enough song and Peggy was comfortable playing it. Pat successfully followed the music, but it was difficult to work out the three part harmony. Martha listened to several attempts, but it was clear to her that it didn’t work. It was getting late. Maybe tomorrow it would come.
In the room she shared with Pat, Irene waited until her sister had fallen asleep then crept down stairs in her dressing gown, the two letters in her pocket. Which to read first? Sean’s letter, for it must surely be from him − she knew no one else over the border − or Sandy’s letter accompanying the beautiful sari? Sean’s was probably the most urgent and short. Sandy’s was to be savoured like his gift. She ripped open the envelope, inside was a hastily scribbled note. Tell Theresa I’m fine. I’m on the hill overlooking the Atlantic as I write this. She’ll know the place. Tell her not to write. It’s better that way.
Simple then, she had only to memorise the message and find Theresa in a bar on Northumberland Street, maybe tomorrow night after work. Sandy’s letter was longer; the script was carefully formed as though this was a fair copy and, like his speech, there were no wasted words.
Dear Irene,
I wanted to send you a gift that would be like sending a piece of India…
*
‘Well, I didn’t expect to see you the day, Missy.’ The foreman was standing at the entrance to hangar four watching the workers arrive. ‘Made of sterner stuff than I gave you credit for.’
‘The nurse said yesterday I’d be all right to work, but I’ve to see her at tea break and she’ll have a look at my hand and maybe put another bandage on it.’ Irene knew if she hadn’t shown up for work today she’d not even get to complete the month’s trial she’d been promised and she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that her fingers were stiff and aching. Luckily the cut was on her left hand so she was able to manage the rivets with her right. The sweeping was a bit more difficult, but she gritted her teeth and got it done. Later, when she collected the shavins, the men teased her a little.
‘Have ye rung fer the ambulance yet, Dave?’
‘He’s been on standby all mornin’, Joe.’
‘Hey, Dave, why’re they called bloody shavins?’
‘Cause that’s their colour when some people’s finished with ‘em.’
Irene sought out her rescuer who was welding at the far end of the plane. ‘Hello,’ she said.
He turned off the blow torch. ‘Hello. How’s the hand?’
Irene showed her bandage. ‘Still there I think.’
He nodded towards the cabin door. ‘You can manage the ladders then?’
‘Oh aye, couldn’t have done yesterday, mind you, so thanks for what you did; carrying me down.’
‘Ach, that’s all right. It’s not the first time I’ve carried someone down a ladder, I used to be a fireman, but you were one of the lighter ones!’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Robert.’
She shook it. ‘I’m Irene.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How?’
‘Myrtle.’
Irene laughed. ‘Of course, everyone knows Myrtle.’
‘You’re new on hangar four then?’
‘I’m new to Shorts. They’ve given me a month’s trial.’
‘So how’s it goin’ so far?’
‘Oh great, yesterday was my first day. I did two hours work, gave cheek to the foreman and went home two hours early with a cut hand that stopped all work in hangar four, while the workers had a good laugh watching me being carried head first down a ladder!’
Robert threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, sounds like a good start to me!’
‘I’d better get on with my work, if I’m to last the day. Thanks again.’
‘Anytime, you need a fireman’s lift …’
The Short and Harland nurse was a large bustling no-nonsense woman. Her green serge uniform was stretched tightly across her ample bust and the white apron, which strained with every movement, was held in place with a large safety pin on one corner and an upside-down watch in the other.
‘There’s a lot of dried blood under this bandage, but it’ll need to come off. We’ll try it the easy way first.’ She filled a basin with hot water and nodded in its direction. Irene gingerly put her fingers in and quickly withdrew them.
‘Good heavens, what’s the matter with you, girl. Get it in there!’ and she plunged Irene’s hand into the boiling hot water and held it there. Irene cried out in pain and the basin turned red. After a minute the nurse withdrew Irene’s hand. It was clear that most of the bandage had loosened, but in one place it was still clinging. In one swift movement the nurse ripped the rest of it off and Irene screamed again. It was even worse when the nurse wiped it with iodine, before applying a clean dressing.
The pain continued to throb through her hand for the rest of the day and it was clear that some fresh blood was seeping through the new bandage. The long afternoon dragged by and, knowing the foreman was watching her closely, she tried to ignore the pain and worked with all the enthusiasm she could muster.
At the end of the day, she desperately wanted to go straight home to bed, but she had asked Pat to tell her mother she was going to a friend’s house for her tea. That would give her a couple of hours to get to Northumberland Street, find Theresa and deliver Sean’s message.
Night was falling as she crossed the city centre, but as she went north along Divis Street she was amazed to see lights blazing in some shops and houses in defiance of the blackout.
The people she passed looked much the same as those elsewhere in the city. A mother came towards her with four children piled in a dilapidated pram. ‘Hould yer whist,’ she chided the snivelling boy who, too old to ride in the pram, ran alongside holding the handle. The mother’s coat was thin and offered little protection against the sharp wind whipping up the hill. A cotton headscarf framed her thin, gaunt face. She was probably no older than twenty five, but was stooped and aged beyond her years. Here, too, young men stood on street corners, hands in pockets.
‘What about ye, love!’ one shouted as she passed.
‘Ye not stapping fer a wee chat the night, then?’ from another.
Anything to get her to look, but she hurried on. Two girls stood outside a sweet shop with their back to her gazing at the pile of yellow man, no doubt wishing they had a farthing.
‘Excuse me,’ said Irene. They turned slowly, half an eye still on the sweeties. ‘Do you know where Northumberland Street is?’
‘Aye missus, sure that’s it there, the next road.
There was a public house on the corner; she’d try there. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior and the smell of beer, stale cigarette smoke and the lingering stench
of men, whose only chance of a good wash was an occasional trip to the local baths. She was conscious of a few men in the corners and a couple standing at the far end of the bar. She knew all eyes were on her, but the barman who was polishing a glass didn’t look up. She stood in front of him and waited. He held the glass to the light and said without looking at her.
‘The lounge bar’s next door. It’s men only in here.’ He reached up and put the glass on the shelf.
‘I don’t want a drink,’ said Irene. ’I’m looking for someone.’
‘Missus, if one a these uns is your man, you’re welcome to him, fer there’s none of them has the price of a glass of stout.’
‘I’m looking for Theresa O’Hara.’
‘Don’t know her.’
‘She told me she was going to work for her uncle who worked in a bar round here.’
‘Don’t know him neither.’
The smell was making Irene feel nauseous and her hand was aching again.
‘Look it’s really important I speak to her. Do you know Theresa?’
‘And who are you exactly?’ he demanded.
‘I’m Irene Goulding.’
‘That doesn’t sound like an Irish name.’ Irene was confused; was he making fun of her. ‘How do you know Theresa O’Hara?’
‘I worked with her at the Ulster Linen Works,’ then she added, ‘and her brother, Sean.’
He leant across the bar, his face so close to hers she could smell his foul breath. ‘What do you know about Sean?’
Irene’s head, already throbbing, began to spin and she felt the bile rise from her stomach. The bar was fast disappearing into the encroaching blackness, only the man’s threatening face was left.
‘I know where he is,’ she whispered and slumped slowly to the rush matting at her feet.
*
‘I’ll wait ‘til ten, then get my coat on me and go looking,’ said Martha. She was standing at the window watching the street as she had been, on and off, since eight o’clock.
‘Mammy, she’s probably missed the bus and she’d have to wait a while for the next one at this time of night,’ said Sheila.
‘She might have decided to stay the night at her friend’s,’ said Peggy, who had been restless all evening, demanding to know why Irene had gone off gallivanting instead of staying in to rehearse.
‘Ach away on with you, Irene wouldn’t do that when we’re expecting her home,’ said Martha, without turning from the window.
‘Mammy, come and sit down, you’re getting yourself in a state standing there,’ said Pat.
‘Who did you say this friend was?’
‘Her name’s Theresa. She and Irene used to sit next to each other at work.’
‘Used to?’
‘Aye well, Theresa left last week.’ Pat looked uncomfortable.
‘Theresa? Is that that wee Catholic girl she went to Stranraer with?’ Martha had turned away from the window, suddenly aware of other possibilities. ‘So, where does she live?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Pat wary of where the conversation could lead.
‘Somewhere up the Falls, wasn’t it?’ Martha held her breath.
‘Aye, somewhere round there, but she’ll come to no more harm there than she would up the Shankill. You know that.’
‘Given the choice I’d rather she wasn’t either place, but home in her bed!’ With that, Martha went and got her coat and headscarf. ‘I’ll walk down as far as Cliftonville Circus. It’s better than standing here doing nothing.’
*
‘What the hell did ye bring her down to the cellar for?’
‘For Christ sake, she knows where Sean is and I’ve never seen her before in my life.’ The barman’s voice betrayed his nervousness, ‘Sure she fainted on my floor, out cold. What was I to do? Ring for an ambulance to take her away?’
Irene felt the hard cold floor beneath her and was aware of the strong smell of beer mixed with damp. She tried to raise her head, but the world tilted and fell away again. Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her eyes so heavy they had to close.
*
Martha waited in the doorway of Carson’s Butchers from where she could see any passing bus, but only one had come by and that was empty. Late on a cold November night, it seemed wise people were at home by their own firesides. A few shadowy figures passed, but none of them had the build or gait of her eldest daughter. A dog howled over towards the Waterworks and was answered by another close by. A figure emerged out of the darkness, unmistakable. Pat had come to find her.
‘Is she home? Did I miss her?’ The words tumbled out in a rush of hope.
‘No, Mammy. She’s not come home. Peggy and Sheila have gone to bed, it’s after eleven. Should you not come home and wait?’
‘Where is she, Pat? It’s not like her. Something’s happened. I know it!’
‘Mammy, there’s something …’
Martha wasn’t listening. She turned to Pat, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Ted Grimes. He’ll find her for us. Sure isn’t he in the RUC?’ She began to walk quickly in the direction of his house.
‘Mammy, what can he do?’ Pat shouted after her. ‘She’ll be home soon. I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, you away on home then and wait for her. Me, I’m going to find her!’
*
‘What did you say her name was?’
‘God, Michael, I don’t know! Irene somebody, I think.’
‘Don’t ever think of applyin’ for the intelligence unit. You’ll never pass the entrance exam!’
Michael Todd sergeant in the 2 Belfast Brigade of the Irish Republican Army knelt down beside Irene and shook her roughly by the shoulders, ‘Irene, Irene, wake up! D’ye hear me?’
A low moan from Irene followed by ‘Stormy weather …’ a snatch of slurred song. ‘Bloody shavins, Myrtle … Brown paper and sealing wax …’
He put his hand to her forehead. ‘She’s running a fever; we’ll get no sense out of her.’
‘Why don’t we just dump her out on the street, like she’s never been here? Somebody’d call an ambulance.’
‘Aye, then in her next ramblings she mentions Sean’s name! We can’t risk it.’ He stood up. ‘Where are they? They should be here by now. Go and see if there’s any news. Then bring some cold water and a cloth. We’ll try and bring her temperature down.’
*
Ted Grimes had come off duty at ten and Vera had left his dinner on a low light as usual. She was fast asleep and snoring by the time he turned his key in the lock. He took off his tunic and hung it behind the kitchen door. Then undid his collar studs front and back and removed the stiff white collar, which had been annoying the boil on the back of his neck all day, and set it on the dresser. The dinner of bacon, cabbage and fried potato was just as he liked it, crisp around the edges, and the buttermilk he fetched from the bucket of cold water in the pantry, was cool to wash it all down.
He had just let out a huge belch when there was a pounding on the front door. He knew Vera wouldn’t wake and he was in no hurry to answer it. Instead, he remembered his training. Turning out the light, he took his revolver from its holster, cocked it and moved silently to the back door. Outside he looked from right to left. Then silently, gun at the ready, he crept around the side of the house. He crouched low and peered through the darkness at the small figure already lifting her hand to pound the door again.
*
‘A strong sweet cup of tea, that’s what you need.’ Ted Grimes couldn’t believe his luck; a distressed Martha Goulding in his back kitchen close to midnight. He’d played the strong supportive friend, arm around her shoulders, leading her round the back. Once inside, he had the coat off her and persuaded her to sit close to the fire.
‘Gone missing, ye say?’ He took control. ‘Now, Martha, when did you last see her? Who’s this friend she went to see? Falls Road, ye say?’
Martha was flushed; heat rising from deep inside her. ‘Something’s happened to her, Ted, I
know it.’ She looked up at him, tears in her eyes, one blink and they’d fall. ‘Help me find her.’
‘Martha, I already have some information about Irene’s friend and her family through, let me say …’ he cleared his throat, ‘… official sources.’
‘You have?’
He sat down at the opposite side of the fender, facing her. His expression was the one he used to break bad news to relatives. ‘Theresa O’Hara and her family are well known IRA sympathisers. Father’s in the Crumlin Road jail and the brother fled the city after the young policeman was shot.’
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