Eden Burning
Page 7
Years later, on a cold wintery February in 1939, Elfie lifted a pint of Guinness in the Crown Bar in Belfast. He held the glass perfectly vertical before taking the first sip, the creamy top sticking to his upper lip. “What will you be having?” he called to Danny, Eddie and Sam. The frothy cream settled slowly at the bottom of the glass as he struggled to his feet, squeezed out of the cubicle, to walk with heavy slow feet to the bar. He placed four pints of Guinness on a wooden tray, walked back towards the cubicle, placed the tray precariously on the edge of the rectangular oak table. Then he held his hands in the air as if he had remembered something important to say, or wanted to ask permission to speak. He coughed gently, patting the air, as if acknowledging an invisible wall. A hush fell over the bar. The silence spread to the enclosed cubicles, bounced off the opaque etched glass windows, the dusty arched mirrors, the fleur-de-lis, the marble pillars. Elfie smiled and with a small nod of his head to the right and left, acknowledging the silence or surrendering, he took another step forward, towards the table, where the tray, now holding one pint of Guinness, was stable. His lips moved but no words could be heard. His arms and shoulders circled while his legs remained steady on the tiled floor. The circle widened. His lips moved again, this time two words were heard by everyone.
“Thank you.”
He dropped backwards, falling in a perfect 90 degrees arc to the floor, his head crashing onto the polished black and white mosaic tiling, breaking open like a dropped Easter egg. A thin snail trail of blood oozed from his nose, the sunlight danced on his curly red ringlets, forming a halo around his head. It was the first time in his life that Elfie had said thank you for anything.
Tom on the other hand was a man who was a grateful for life. Shortly after his father’s death, his gratitude turned to Lily who appeared in his world.
Lily met Tom in the Plaza Ballroom at a tea dance where the men sat on the right hand side of the room and the women sat on the left. It was 1939 just before the start of the Second World War. The women waited patiently to be asked to dance. Sometimes it could happen that you were left alone. You were known then as a ‘wall flower’. It was one of the worst things that could happen to you. You would be forced to sit and look at your lacy gloves and pray for the dance to end with an excruciating burning pain in your belly. That night Lily arrived with two girlfriends. She didn’t know Tom. She waited for the music to start. Those five minutes after the music started were magic. In the five minutes as she looked across the room, time seemed to move into eternity where nothing happened and yet everything happened. She felt as though in her head danced all of the stars in the Universe and in her heart swished all of the waves from every ocean.
Everything stopped when she spotted Dominic Green talking to Paddy Moran. Dominic had curly blonde hair and blue eyes. He was neither too tall nor too small. He had more of a kind of chunky stocky rugby player build which gave you a sense of confidence in his ability to defend you if necessary. His face was fiery red as though he was embarrassed or had been drinking. The latter wasn’t true as he was a Pioneer which meant that he had taken a vow not to take any alcoholic drink at all. He had kept to that vow. Lily thought that was a good sign in an Irishman – staying true to your vows. He was a great dancer and a little bit shy. All of the girls were dying for him to ask them to dance. Lily rolled up a piece of paper into a ball and threw it across the room. It bounced off Dominic’s head. He stopped his conversation with Paddy Moran and looked across the room at Lily, who waved at him and stuck her tongue out. The music started and Dominic squashed his cigarette butt under his shiny black shoe and headed straight across the room to ask Lily to dance.
“You’re a cheeky one.”
“There’s no point being shy. We’re only here once. Tell the Truth and shame the Devil. Sure you know you’re a gorgeous man and all the girls are falling at your feet.”
Lily swirled around into Dominic’s arms. Dominic whirled her across the floor into the quick step, the fox trot and tango. Then they had two cups of tea and a slice of madeira cake.
What should have happened next was that Dominic should have asked permission to walk Lily home. He didn’t. Lily waited as the music ended, tapping her feet on the floor, humming the words of the last song as coats were being put on and the hall began to slowly empty.
“Lily, I’m sorry but tonight I’m working the night shift at the ship yard. Would you mind Tom walking you home? He’s a good man. Not as good as I am mind you. I would like you to remember that.”
Tom mysteriously appeared at Dominic’s side. Lily felt her stomach sink. On the left stood Dominic with his curly blonde hair, his to-die-for blue eyes, his tailored black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie and the shiniest shoes that had ever been seen in Ireland. Beside him Tom with his long narrow face, straight nose, bushy eyebrows and an insignificant mouth. Although only nineteen his hair was already quite thin on top with a wide parting that you could drive a tram through. It is true that he had rather beautiful blue eyes – even more beautiful than Dominic’s – but they were hidden behind a pair of thick round black glasses which gave him a sense of being beautiful but at a distance. That night he wore a white crumpled shirt, black tie and a mottled green v-neck jumper, woollen trousers and brown boots ragged at the edges with one of the bootlaces trailing the floor.
Tom held out his hand to shake Lily’s.
“You’ve drawn the short straw tonight Tom.”
“Now, Lily I think that it is you who has drawn the short straw. Sure, I must be the luckiest man in Belfast.”
As Tom walked Lily home, he listened to her talk about her Grandmother Martha who played the harp and piano and who used to live in a small castle perched on a cliff edge in Donegal. “That’s when there was money in the family. It all disappeared and no-one knows where or how”.
“They don’t have an idea?”
“Well everyone says that it was Grandfather Dennis who played Poker and drank himself silly. He lost the castle in a poker game but won it back again by the end of the week. Martha locked him in his bedroom one night he came home drunk and she said that he tied the sheets together and climbed down onto the cliff face and they found him in a bar three hours later in his pyjamas and slippers.”
“I like his style.” Tom dropped his head and saw Lily’s dainty ankles wobbling on the cobbled street.
“Can I help?” He reached an arm towards her.
Lily stopped and looked at Tom.
“You’re a gentleman. Thank you.” She slipped her arm through his and nestled against his shoulder. “You’re a good listener Tom.”
“You’re a good talker. Together we’re a good pair don’t you think?” Tom squeezed Lily’s hand through the woollen glove. As Tom held Lily’s to say goodbye, he took a deep breath and asked, “Lily, will you come with me next Saturday to the Plaza?”
Lily looked straight into his eyes.
“What will Dominic say?”
“I hope he will say that he will be honoured to be Best Man.”
They were married on Saturday 2nd November 1940 at Holy Cross Church Ardoyne. The sun shone brightly through the stained glass windows as they exchanged vows. Dominic Green stood on Tom’s left as Best Man. A pregnant Catherine, Tom’s sister, stood on Lily’s right as Maid of Honour and Catherine’s husband Leo was an usher.
On Tom’s wedding day, Catherine was only newly married herself to Leo Wilson, a Protestant who worked in the shipyard in Belfast. Leo was five foot five, with auburn hair and hazel eyes. He looked everyone directly in the eye when he met them, shook hands and then he would hug them. Tom towered over him. Leo held out his hand. Tom caught it and they shook hands, their hands rising and falling between them like passionate waves in a turbulent sea. Leo smiled, his face wide open, hazel eyes twinkling into Tom’s. Then he dropped Tom’s hand and hugged Tom. His arms around Tom’s shoulders, his feet on tip toes, head pressed against Tom’s woollen jacket.
“Good to meet you Tom. Catherine told me all a
bout you.”
Tom patted his back, smiling at Catherine, over Leo’s shoulders.
On Friday 1st November 1940, Leo was having lunch in the shipyard when he heard the low drone of the Junker 107 as it disappeared into a thundery grey cloud, the swastika swallowed up by a billowing dragon-like breath. The nose emerged seconds later, two propellers, wings dipping to circle over the dockyard. He slowly chewed his sandwich without taking his eyes off the plane which hung in the air like a sleepy queen wasp searching for her nest.
A four month pregnant Catherine had made his lunch that morning. Leo watched, sipping his tea as Catherine cut the bread into triangles and placed two cheese and tomato sandwiches with a slice of apple pie into his lunch box. Her blonde hair curled in a Veronica Lake-like style to her shoulders. She placed the lunch box beside his jacket, lifted the stainless steel teapot, topping his cup up with hot tea.
“What will we call the twins?”
“You decide”.
“Maybe we should wait until they’re born. Everyone says it’s easier.”
“If we have a boy, I would like to call him Jonas.” Catherine ruffled Leo’s hair with her hand.
“Jonas?”
“Yes.”
Leo caught Catherine’s hand and kissed it.
“If we have a girl, let’s call her Maria.”
“Maria, it will be then.”
“What if we have two boys or two girls?” Leo sprawled back on the chair.
“We won’t.” Catherine shook her head. “I know we will have a boy and a girl.”
Later that morning, Leo found himself a quiet place in the shipyard, away from the clanging metal, the cursing and swearing. He watched the route of the mysterious lone aircraft tracing a circle in and out of the puffy cumulous clouds, placed the apple pie on the ground to his left, rough puff pastry with a sprinkling of caramelised sugar. The German plane turned towards him dropping even lower into Belfast harbour. The November sunlight twinkled on the rippling waves. Seconds later a huge block of concrete smashed onto the ground beside him. It whistled past his shoulder, plucking a strand of wool from his Aran jumper, before it buried itself in the cement ground, splintering at the edges, throwing up a small cloud of dust. He looked around. There was no-one to be seen. There was no-one to be heard – only silence. How did he not hear someone carrying a block of that size? There was no laughing, no-one sniggering and not even the sound of scurrying footsteps. The apple pie with its juicy cooking apples was squelched, and plastered against the red brick wall. A hollow clunking of metal thumped in the distance.
Leo gathered his coat from the ground, struggling to push his left arm into the woollen sleeve. It was cold away from the shelter of the wall where a weak November sun warmed him. The humid air with icy tentacles now touched his ankles, penetrating his thin woollen socks. He shivered, walking slowly, aligning his breathing with his footsteps to calm his racing heart. Outside the shipyard, Dan O’ Sullivan was leaning against the red brick wall with his famous pet lion on a lead. He let the lead out a foot or two and the lion snarled at Leo, raising its left paw into the air. Dan laughed a low cackling kind of laugh. He lengthened the lead by a few inches as he took a puff on his cigarette. Leo kept his eyes on the ground, didn’t quicken his pace but kept walking. The lion growled after him – tugging on the lead and scratching at the ground.
A week later as Leo hammered and shaped a metal panel the roar from over one hundred Henkel planes drowned the hiss of his blow torch. An air raid siren wailed. He flicked the blow torch off, turning to Sammy. “Come on Sammy. This is for real. Let’s head for the shelter.” Sammy McAfee dropped his hammer on the ground, his face white. He had already started to run before Leo finished his sentence. They joined twenty other men who were stumbling, running, sprinting. The Henkel’s were now flying low, directly overhead. Sammy panted, gasping as beads of sweat gathered around his balding head then rolling onto his cheeks. Leo saw a pilot staring straight ahead through a glass greenhouse nose. Anti-aircraft guns fired rhythmically into the sky. The first bomb dropped like a rugby ball, hitting the building in which Leo and Sammy had been working. Everything appeared to be in slow motion, including Leo’s breathing. It didn’t feel that he was running. More that he was a passenger in a body which was running. His feet pounded the concrete path, his arms moved rhythmically up and down and his legs continued to run when he heard machine gunfire stippling the concrete pavement in front of him. The second bomb dropped onto the ground six feet in front of Leo. The Henkel put its nose into the air and climbed noisily into the blue sky. The pilot looked down at Sammy and Leo, scattered bodies twisting and settling onto the ground.
Five months later on Easter Tuesday 15th April 1941 a lone reconnaissance Junker 107 circled over Belfast while in Windsor Park spectators watched Distillery beat Linfield 3-1. Everyone’s eyes were on the match. No-one knew that two hundred bombers had left Northern France for Belfast.
In the Royal Victoria Hospital, Catherine removed her wedding ring and diamond engagement ring and placed them in a small jewellery box which she hid in the bedside cabinet. An air raid siren wailed into life outside the hospital. Catherine lay back on the pillow. She placed the palms of both hands on her stomach and felt the babies pushing and stretching inside, pressing against her womb. She gasped. “What will happen to them?”
“They will be loved.” Sister Susan smiled, squeezing Catherine’s hand.
“If only Leo were still alive.” Catherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath as her body rippled in the aftermath of contraction. “I can no longer see his face when I close my eyes or hear his voice. He’s gone.” Catherine felt her throat tightening. She struggled to breathe as her body contracted again.
Sister Susan stroked Catherine’s hair. “You’ll see him in the babies.”
“It won’t be the same.” Catherine’s face twisted and tears rolled onto her lips which she licked as though she was in the desert and they were the only water available.
As Catherine writhed and pushed in the last stages of labour to give birth to twins, she didn’t see the night sky lit up with flares or the black outlines of Junker 88s, Dornier’s and Henkel’s flying in formation over Belfast. Bombs began to fall on the Waterworks. Had they made a mistake? Why were they bombing the Waterworks? 95,000 incendiaries later, with Belfast in flames and no water anywhere, everyone knew that it was no mistake. Mines parachuted silently onto the Antrim Road before exploding. In the confusion, in the Royal Victoria Hospital, Catherine gave birth to a boy and a girl. A fire alarm shrilled into life as Robert Magee delivered Jonas the second baby and cut the umbilical cord. Maria lay wrapped in a warm cotton blanket nestling quietly in Catherine’s arms. Catherine leaned forward on the pillow and whispered, “Sister Susan, would you hold the babies. Mr Magee, please would you be kind enough to pass me a glass of water?”
Susan sat on the bed beside Catherine holding the twins. Catherine took the tumbler of water from Mr Magee, poured a few drops over the head of Jonas, “Jonas, I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” She pressed a cross with her thumb onto his forehead. The water trickled over his dark black hair onto the sheets. She leant over kissing him on the forehead, before turning to Maria. “Maria, I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Maria’s fine blonde hair held the drops of water for a few seconds before they rolled onto the sheets. Sister Susan returned the babies to Catherine’s arms as the room shuddered. Catherine didn’t hear the bombs exploding as she looked into the eyes of Jonas and disappeared into a world without words or sounds.
Susan sighed, glancing at Mr Magee.
“Do what you have to do.” Catherine whispered without lifting her gaze from the twins.
Outside the Theatre, Mr Magee and Sister Susan ran along the narrow corridor, skidding on broken glass on their way to Ward 1.
Mr Magee took a deep intake of breath and shouted, “I’ll take Ward 1. Check Ward 2.”
“What happened to the emergency generator?” Susan heard moans and whimpers drifting along the corridor. She looked back to see if Mr Magee was in Ward 1. Yes. He must be. He was nowhere to be seen. She then walked slowly, touching the walls as though guided by Braille. She approached a T-junction.
“Now right”, she muttered to herself. She could run. The sounds of crying were stronger now. She looked through the windows on her right as incendiaries continued to float into the courtyard below. A fighter plane swooped low. Susan dived for the floor as machine gunfire shattered the windows. Shards of glass tinkled onto the marble floors; two triangular fragments exploded from the wooden window frames, piercing Susan’s back with arrow precision.
From Ward 2, a shadowy shape of a woman wearing a long white nightdress and blue slippers glided towards Susan. The woman stopped, touched the wall on her right, balancing before moving forward hesitantly. First bending over Susan’s crumpled body she knelt and took Susan’s pulse. There was no movement. She pulled herself up, holding the wall and stepping over Susan continued along the corridor.
Back in Theatre, Catherine breathed deeply as a bomb exploded nearby, rattling the metal bed. The lights went out. The blackness of the room fell like a blanket over the bed. The twins didn’t move. Catherine listened. She couldn’t see any shapes at all; only feel the warmth of Jonas and Maria in her arms. She leant over to assure herself of their breathing and then slowly rested her head against the pillow. She closed her eyes. Her body was gently throbbing. Her heart beat like a drum softened with a wool covering being rhythmically stroked. For the first time since Leo died, she felt a smile forming on her face, her lips opening and stretching towards her ears. Her body rippled with pleasure. She squeezed her arms tight to her body.